I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘You’re only using that as an example because you ended up dating the co-pilot,’ says Jo wearily. ‘You big rebounder.’

  ‘Don’t get narky with me just because I bounce back quickly. OK, rebound, if you will.’

  ‘Then there was the time you and I had flu,’ I remind Jo, ‘and Charlene came round with homemade vegetarian soup for the two of us. Remember?’

  ‘Cassie, you have a highly selective memory. She came round with her personal chef who rustled up the soup for us. While she sat on the edge of my bed slagging off my swollen glands and calling me, if memory serves, the Elephant Woman.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I repeat firmly, ‘you can’t deny it. The girl does have a heart of gold. What about all that money she gives to charity? Remember the time you were stuck for sponsorship so she completely financed the entire Amnesty team to run the city marathon? You were over the moon with her then. Not to mention the fact that Oxfam practically survive on all the designer clothes and bags and shoes she donates. And she’s never even worn most of the stuff.’

  ‘I wholeheartedly agree,’ says Marc with a C. ‘There are bag ladies who shop at Oxfam walking the streets in haute couture entirely because of Charlene. When the chips are down, there’s no one like her. And let’s face it, the high-maintenance carry-on just makes her all the more adorable. My love for her is just like my appendix scar. Ugly, but permanent.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ says Jo, still staring out of the window. ‘I just had some irritation/anger issues that I needed to express, that’s all. I do love the girl as well, you know. It’s just that, right now, I love her like a cold sore.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting so het up about anyway,’ he goes on. ‘This is hardly like the time you caught her wearing real fur.’

  Jo shoots a daggers look at him, clearly illuminated by the lights of a passing car. Animal fur and the people who wear it are strictly taboo subjects with her. At all times, always.

  ‘NOT REMOTELY funny,’ she practically growls at him.

  ‘Oops, sorry, hon.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK. All out of my system now. Don’t worry, guys, I’ll go in there and beam at them all and be perfectly false all night.’

  ‘I just have one thing to add and then I’ll shut up,’ says Marc with a C. ‘Now, I may not have been in a serious relationship for a long time, but I do read a lot of chicklit and I would confidently like to venture a prediction for what lies ahead.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Jo dully.

  ‘It’s little short of a racing certainty that when Jack Hamilton sees what our darling little Tipsy Queen has laid on for him, he’ll run for the hills and she’ll have a seizure. Mark my words: there will be bloodshed in the mansion before the night is out. On a carpeted area, possibly, you know, for added drama. What do you think, Cassie?’

  But I’m hardly listening to him as the taxi has just pulled through the enormous gates of Charlene’s house and my jaw has almost dropped. She’s had lanterns tastefully arranged all up the stone steps that lead to the front door and has dotted the immaculate front garden with, literally, dozens and dozens of twinkly fairy lights. I’m not joking; there are runways at Heathrow less brightly lit than this.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, stunned. I mean, we all knew Charlene always goes to trouble when she entertains, but bloody hell . . .

  ‘I’ll see your wow and I’ll raise you a wowee,’ says Marc with a C, equally knocked for six.

  The only one of us who’s acting completely normally is Jo, bless her. ‘Right then,’ she says as we pay the driver and hop out of the taxi. ‘How much do you dare me to go in there and ask the butler for a lump of cheese string and a can of Bulmers?’

  The house is buzzing. There’s a roaring fire lit in the huge marble hallway and Charlene’s housekeeper is busy circulating around guests, carrying a silver tray loaded down with champagne. No sign of our hostess, no sign of Jack and no sign of the awful Anna Regan (thank God) but as the three of us all shed coats and bags we unexpectedly bump into Charlene’s father.

  Shit.

  He’s obviously flown back at the last minute from his tax-exiled hillside paradise in Monaco to check up on his only child, something he’s prone to springing on her without any prior warning.

  Did I tell you about Charlene’s father? His whole life is almost like something you’d see on the Biography channel: the eldest of ten kids, he left school at fourteen to support his family, got a job as a window cleaner, worked his way up to the top, eventually buying the company, then bought a hardware company, then invented and patented a new type of water-resistant shower-curtain ring, and the rest is history. The kind of history you can read in the Financial Times, that is. In person, he’s tall, imposing and peers down at you through those very scary-looking half-moon glasses which, behind his back, we all reckon he doesn’t actually need at all, but only wears to intimidate people.

  That’s the other thing about him. Like a lot of business people who scale the heights, in manner he can be tough, uncompromising and cutting, occasionally to the point of rudeness. Particularly with Charlene. He gives her an unbelievably miserable time over just about everything: her chronic overspending, lack of career focus, lack of motivation, complete inability to live within a budget, you name it. Honestly, there are times when you really have to feel sorry for the poor girl.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ferguson.’ We all smile lamely at him, trying to act pleased to see him. Even though we’ve known him for so long, there’s no question of ever calling him by his first name, like everyone does with my dad. Trust me, you just wouldn’t dare.

  ‘Evening.’ He nods curtly before looking around in that cold-eyed, calculating way that he has. ‘So what do you all make of this? How much is tonight costing, is what I’d very much like to know. I come home to see Charlene and discover that not only has she lost a job which I had to pull a lot of strings to get for her, she’s also wantonly throwing my money down the toilet on pointless, extravagant soirées like this. You still working at Tattle?’ he fires at me, catching me off-guard.

  God, I feel like I’m a contestant on The Apprentice who’s about to be fired. ‘Emm . . . yes, Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘How much are you making then?’

  If it was anyone else, you’d tell them where to go for asking such a personal question, but Charlene’s dad makes all of us regress a bit and, right now, I’m stammering like the fifteen-year-old who once talked Charlene into climbing over the back wall late at night and going to a school disco to meet boys, when we were meant to be having an innocent sleepover at her house. When Mr Ferguson found out (we were caught on security camera, so he had actual videotaped evidence of our shenanigans), the consequences were terrible and, for a time, all contact between us was banned. Well, until my parents intervened and calmed him down a bit, that is. ‘Emm . . . well, my job isn’t really about money; I have enough, thank God,’ I stammer. ‘The way I see it, my column is more about helping people . . .’

  He just nods, a bit disapprovingly. Money, I should point out, is the beginning, middle and end of Mr Ferguson’s day and I think he can’t quite see the point of Jo and me and our total lack of ambition to go forth and earn six-figure salaries, like he was doing at our age. He turns to Jo. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Same answer,’ she shrugs. ‘Money is not a motivator for me either, I’m afraid. Never was, never will be.’

  God, Jo’s brave. She’ll be hitting him for a good tax-deductible donation to Amnesty International next.

  ‘So, making much in the fitness game?’ Mr Ferguson says to Marc with a C. ‘Boom industry at the moment. Boom economy. You should be doing well.’

  ‘Not enough to keep me in those,’ says Marc with a C, very cheekily indicating Mr Ferguson’s Salvatore Ferragamo shirt with the solid gold cufflinks. ‘Besides, my job is kind of more about meeting people, dating people, seeing sweaty guys work out in tight Lycra. It’s all about the perks, if you catch my drift.’

  Marc with a C, I sh
ould point out, hasn’t known Mr Ferguson as long as Jo and I have and is therefore that bit more fearless around him. ‘Now, would you all excuse me if I run to the bathroom?’ he throws in for good measure. ‘I’ve spotted a cute guy and you know me! I can never flirt on a full bladder.’

  ‘Hey, I’ll come with you!’ says Jo, dying to make her escape, and the pair of them scarper, practically leaving a trail of dust in their wake. Luckily, I’m rescued by Mr Ferguson’s long-term girlfriend, Marilyn, who spots me and immediately comes over, giving me a big warm hug.

  ‘Hey, Cassie, I caught you on the TV the other day – you were so fab! I see huge, and by that I really mean huge, things for you, honey. You’re so televisual.’

  ‘Wow, thanks, Marilyn,’ I say, gratefully hugging her right back.

  I’ve always liked Marilyn. She’s maybe fortyish, but closer in age to us than to Mr Ferguson; an ex-model (most of his girlfriends are) who now works as a highly successful casting director on movies and commercials.

  She’s actually lovely to be around but it’s very hard on Charlene, as you can imagine, not helped by the fact that Mr Ferguson keeps holding Marilyn up as a role model of the perfect career girl who’s gone out there and made something of herself, whilst being fiercely critical of Charlene for her general ‘lack of direction in life’, as he sees it. Charlene, who’s a great one for using humour as a defence mechanism whenever she’s really hurting, has retaliated by nicknaming Marilyn ‘the Diva in a D-cup’. She also claims (a bit unfairly) that Marilyn both looks and dresses like a drag queen and she keeps saying, ‘So who knew Mae West had children?’ at the top of her voice whenever she’s around. Honest to God, this family would make the Osbournes look sane and functional.

  ‘So what about this guy that Charlene’s seeing, then?’ Marilyn asks me, grabbing my arm and thankfully steering me well away from Mr Ferguson. ‘Jack something, isn’t it? Come on, Cassie, spill the beans. What’s he like? Have you met him?’

  OK, here we go. Just stay nice and calm. Cool and dignified win the day. And loyalty towards my friend, of course.

  Oh yeah, and please remember to stop blushing and being so bloody adolescent; you’re behaving like a schoolgirl with a full-blown crush every time Jack’s name is even mentioned, you big eejit.

  ‘Yup, he’s . . . that is, he seems . . . emm . . . lovely. Big hot-shot producer. I think Charlene really, really likes him.’

  That sounded OK, didn’t it? As if I’m really happy for Charlene and that I hope things work out for her, romance-wise? Which, of course, I do, just with the right person, that’s all . . .

  ‘Hmm, so I see,’ says Marilyn, looking around and taking everything in: the perfect flower arrangements; the trays of champagne; the formidable guests; everything. No kidding, this would make the court of Versailles look like a free-for-all. ‘So, are you getting any flashes about this guy?’ she asks me straight out and I immediately go bright red.

  ‘Well . . . emm . . . you see, Charlene always feels it’s bad luck for me to tell her if . . . you know, if I have any feelings about guys she’s involved with.’

  ‘None at all? Absolutely nothing?’ says Marilyn, looking at me keenly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me stating the obvious, but that’s not really like you, now is it?’

  And then, suddenly, I get one. Clear as crystal. Except it’s not about Charlene. At least, not directly. Oh my God.

  I see Marilyn and Mr Ferguson sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. I’m not sure why or what exactly is going on, but there’s a real feeling of tense nervousness practically hopping off the pair of them. Then I see an older, twinkly-eyed doctor opening the surgery door and calling them both inside . . .

  Now I see Marilyn looking very white-faced and clinging on to Mr Ferguson’s hand, almost in a vice-grip, as they go into the surgery. He doesn’t look too good either. On the surface he’s as cool as ever, but I can see that he’s sweating and twiddling with his cufflinks anxiously.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ the doctor says gently, closing the door behind them.

  Oh God, now the feeling of sheer terror I’m picking up from the pair of them is almost making me weak . . .

  ‘Well now, Marilyn,’says the doctor, sitting in his swivel chair behind his desk and pulling out a huge sheaf of notes. ‘Your test results have just come back from the lab. Have it all here, bloods, everything.’

  There’s a horrible pause and poor Marilyn honestly looks as if she might pass out.

  ‘Oh, nothing to worry about, all good news,’ says the doctor. ‘Congratulations,’ he says warmly to both of them, stretching across his desk to shake each of them by the hand. ‘You’re about to become parents.’

  ‘Cassie, what is it?’ says Marilyn, looking at me with real concern. ‘What are you seeing? You’ve gone as white as a sheet, you poor thing. Here, have a seat.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s absolutely fine, honestly,’ I say, taking a very welcome glug of champagne from my glass.

  ‘Did you just get a flash? Ooh . . . I bet it was something about Charlene’s new fella. Am I right?’

  Bloody hell. What do I tell her? Would this be good news or bad news? Good news for Marilyn, of course, but for Charlene and her already strained relations with her father . . . I’m feeling, well, to put it mildly, this would sure as hell take her a lot of getting used to . . .

  Oh shit, here is a classic example of the moral and ethical dilemmas faced on a daily basis by anyone with a sixth sense. To tell or not to tell, that is the question.

  Phew. I’m saved from having to say anything at all by the arrival of our hostess, looking absolutely breathtaking in the Vivienne Westwood basque worn with a huge, neo-Victorian, full-length, voluminous black skirt. I’m not joking; there are so many ruffles and frills all over it that I’m almost afraid if she stands near the fire, she’ll go up like a torch.

  Anyway, you get the picture; Charlene is looking a million dollars tonight. Apart from her expression, that is, which, to put it mildly, would stop a clock.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing,’ I say, kissing her. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘No,’ she says in a tiny voice and I can immediately see that she’s on the verge of tears. ‘Will you do something for me? Would you find Jo and meet me in the library? I really, badly need a private word with you guys and if I go searching for Jo, Dad will only collar me and demand to know in front of everyone how much my outfit cost. Dire emergency.’

  Five minutes later, the three of us are alone in the library, which is just to the left of the entrance hall. It’s a fab room, brand spanking new, but made to look old, and covered with shelf after shelf of leather-bound first editions. None of which Charlene has ever read, of course. In fact, we slag her something rotten about the fact that the only reading she ever does in her custom-built library is to occasionally glance through Tattle magazine, counting up how many people she knows on the society pages versus how many times she appears herself.

  ‘So what’s up?’ I ask her, half dreading the answer. ‘Is it your dad?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jo sympathetically, ‘what a bummer, him just turning up tonight of all nights. Will there be hell to pay when he finds out how much all this is costing him?’ Jo’s actually being very gentle to Charlene, almost as if she’s on a guilt trip for having given out about her in the taxi earlier. But then, the sight of Mr Ferguson tends to have that effect on all of us.

  ‘Least of my worries. Right now, this is what’s upsetting me,’ Charlene almost wails, shoving her mobile phone under our noses. There’s a short, curt text message.

  HI. AM STILL DELAYED AT CHANNEL SEVEN. PRODUCTION MEETING ONGOING. SORRY TO LET U DOWN. ENJOY UR PIZZA AND I’LL TRY MY BEST TO SEE YOU LATER. JACK.

  So now he mightn’t be coming at all, my mind races. He mightn’t turn up. Tonight could just be about bearable . . .

  ‘So,’ says Charlene. ‘Any bright ideas? Apart from the fact that there’ll be hell to pay from Dad in the morning, now all of my friend
s have gathered here to meet my new boyfriend, who may or may not even arrive. Any second now, Anna Regan could waltz in here, flashing her Tiffany-cut engagement ring under my nose, and here I am, dateless, hopeless and furious.’

  ‘Well, I guess this is what happens when you’re not straight with people,’ says Jo coolly. ‘If you’d just been upfront with Jack in the first place and told him what he was in for, then he’d either have chickened out or shown up on time.’

  ‘Y.P.B.?’ says Charlene, really starting to get upset now.

  ‘Y.P.B.? What does that mean?’ Jo asks.

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘My point is, he’d have given you a straight yes or no answer and at least you wouldn’t be in this mess. Charlene, get a grip, will you? I’ve never seen you like this before.’

  ‘Not pretty, is it?’

  Oh dear. Now the tears have started. It was only ever a matter of time before this happened, I know, but you should just see her. The girl looks – there’s no other word for it – crumpled.

  ‘All I wanted was for him to meet you. My real friends, I mean. You guys. And I went to so much trouble—’ She breaks off, genuinely upset, and Jo and I look at each other. ‘And he won’t even return my calls. What is the problem with me? Why am I so fundamentally undateable? Or is Dad right and am I just a useless, pointless member of society?’

  This is the thing about Charlene. One minute, she’s completely exasperating, driving you up the walls; the next, she’s so tiny and vulnerable and upset that, well, you just want to hug her. Which we both do.

  ‘OK, OK, the way I see it, this is not necessarily a mess,’ I interject, bravely trying to introduce a positive note.