My question is this, O mighty Cassandra who everyone I know reads and raves about. When, when, oh when, will the curse be broken?
Yours in single-woman solidarity,
Amy Lennox, officially the unluckiest woman in Ireland
THE OFFICE IS deadly quiet and I’m really able to concentrate. It’s not quiet because I’m at my desk at some ungodly hour of the morning, you understand, it’s just that the Dragon Lady is in residence and the place is a humming hive of activity. Until lunchtime that is, when, with a bit of luck, she’ll bugger off for a few hours and let us all get back to messing, chatting and having a bit of crack like we normally do.
Lately, the Dragon Lady has taken to having very long lunches and the highly overactive Tattle magazine rumour mill has it that she’s seeing someone. Romantically, that is. All very new, all very hush-hush, but everyone keeps turning to me wanting gory details, as if I’m some kind of psychic private detective. I, however, have decided for once in my life that discretion is the better part of valour and that I’ve a far better chance of hanging on to my job by keeping my mouth shut. Plus, it’s never really a good idea to ‘out’ your boss before he or she is ready, really, now is it?
Sir Bob wafts in and instantly cops on that she’s here. Mind you, the stone-cold silence is a bit of a giveaway. Normally at this hour of the morning we’d all be fruitfully employed watching TV, reading out each other’s horoscopes and having our mid-morning contest to see who can eat a doughnut without actually licking their lips.
‘Have some rather juicy gossip from last night, my dear,’ he says to me in a low voice, drifting past my desk, ‘but I’ll tell you when we have a chance for a proper natter. My goodness me, the effect that dreadful Dragon Lady has on this establishment. Really, we should consider hoisting a flag outside the building so we can all be warned when she’s in residence. Just as the royal standard is flown whenever Her Majesty is at Buckingham Palace, you know.’
I don’t actually have the first clue what he’s talking about, but I nod and smile anyway out of politeness and mentally remind myself to tell him about my adventures with Obnoxious Oliver when, suddenly, without warning, I get a flash.
Ooh, for once it’s a lovely one. This is the kind of news I adore giving people.
It’s Amy, the lady from the letter, and she’s hand in hand with a guy on a beach . . . somewhere in Ireland, I think, because it’s freezing cold and drizzling rain . . . but the sense of love and romance I’m getting is just palpable. Then – yes! He’s producing a ring box from his jacket pocket . . . she’s looking stunned . . . Oh my God, this is it, he’s proposing! And the funny thing is, I feel they know each other from a long, long time ago . . . I don’t believe it! He’s one of her exes. But not the guy she wrote to me about, a different one, from her distant past. And I feel he loved her doing a Henry Higgins number on him, as she calls it, and missed her all the long years they were apart and now he wants to spend the rest of his life with her . . .
There’s nothing like a storybook ending, is there? Can’t beat it. Only wish I was heading for one myself. I’m just about to scribble down my notes while it’s all fresh in my head when I get a scary sense that someone’s standing over my shoulder.
Oh shit.
The Dragon Lady. Looking very smart, actually, in a black trouser suit; I’d almost swear she was wearing tinted moisturizer and are they heels she has on?
‘Cassandra, remember I asked you to get me the contact details of that guy who phoned into your Breakfast Club slot?’
There’s never a preamble or, God forbid, a hello, good morning, how are you, with her, just straight to the point, direct as a missile.
‘Emm, ehh . . .’ I mumble, like a schoolkid who hasn’t done her homework, all the time thinking, What the hell is she talking about? Bugger, bugger, bugger . . . Then I remember. Valentine. The guy who phoned into the Breakfast Club because he couldn’t get a date. Who I got flashes of being pursued by scores of gorgeous women, a bit like in a Benny Hill high-speed chase sequence. Who I predicted would get his own column.
OK, so I didn’t exactly see that it was with Tattle magazine but, bloody hell, I was close enough. I really will have to start writing things down.
‘It’s on my “to do” list, emm’ – shit, why can I never remember her real name? – ‘Amanda.’ I smile, as brightly and confidently as I can. ‘I’m just going to work my way through all of these,’ I add, indicating the huge mound of unopened letters all marked ‘Cassandra. Tattle Magazine’, as if to remind her that I haven’t exactly been sitting here scratching my head all morning. ‘And then I’m straight on to it.’
‘I want it done by the time I get back,’ she says in such a tone that you can almost hear the unspoken ‘dear’. She must be in pretty good form, though. Time was you’d have had the head chewed off you and found yourself threatened with the back of the dole queue for less, far, far less. ‘Well, carry on, then,’ she says, rapping her fingers on my pile of letters as she moves away.
Well, I’ll be. She’s even had a manicure.
OK, nothing for it then. I pick up the phone and dial directly through to the Breakfast Club’s production office. Half-eleven. Great, they’ll be off the air and, with a bit of luck, someone, somewhere will still have Valentine’s contact details. His last name, for instance, would be a start.
The phone rings. ‘Good morning, the Breakfast Club, Lisa speaking.’
‘Hi, Lisa, it’s Cassie here.’
‘Cassie! Oh my GAWD! It’s total serendipity that you’re ringing just now! Wait till I tell you – Oh, do you have time for this? What the hell, I’ll just tell you anyway while I have you there. So, I was in Lillie’s Bordello till five a.m. this morning, came straight from there into work, and I met the most gorgeous guy. He’s a quantity surveyor or something really boring like that, but hey, nobody’s perfect, as I always say. Anyway, do you see anything in my future? With this fella, I mean? ’Cos I’ve been single for so long that I’m almost starting to wonder if dating is any different now and’ – sounding a bit muffled now, as if she’s put her hand over the receiver – ‘no Jack, I’m talking to her, go away. This is important, you know, how often do I meet a nice suitable fella? OK, all right then, but don’t hang up, you’re to put Cassie straight back on to me. I’m in the throes of a dilemma here, I’ll have you know.’
I barely even have time to take a deep breath before he’s on the phone.
‘Hi, Cassie, how are you? Did you get my text message?’ He sounds relaxed, at ease, much less stressed out than last time we spoke.
‘Hi . . . yeah . . . yes, I did.’
‘So how did you survive a day’s shoot with Oliver, then? Prime Ministers have been reduced to gibbering wrecks. Bill Clinton has never been the same since, so they say.’
I giggle. ‘It was . . . emm . . . It went well, but I don’t know that Oliver got quite what he was looking for. The woman who owns the house we visited was a bit reluctant to have it filmed, you see.’ The truth actually is, Oliver ended up not shooting anything at all. He stayed on after I left, chatting away to Liz and Louise, but that was about the height of it.
‘You didn’t answer my question. Did you survive?’
‘Oliver was a bit . . . emm . . . how do I phrase this . . .’
‘It’s OK, you can tell me.’
Shit, what do I answer here? They could be best of friends for all I know. ‘He’s . . . well . . . he’s very work focused, isn’t he? I think he wanted it to be a little more . . . dramatic than it turned out to be.’
‘Say no more. I get the impression he was looking for something along the lines of Scary Movie all right. But as long as you’re happy about him filming you for his documentary, that’s my main concern. He’s asked to use some footage from the Breakfast Club and I just wanted to ask you if you’re OK with that.’
There’s a pause and I’m thinking, He’s so sweet. I’m rarely asked how I feel about anything. People are always telling me
how they feel about everything, but no one ever asks me. This is all new, very new.
‘The thing is, Oliver is a very trusted reporter. He’s a pro, Cassie. I think the piece is in pretty safe hands. Just say the word and I’ll tell him you’re fine with it and that he can continue with his documentary. Your wish is my command.’
I can’t help smiling. God, I could stay all day on the phone to this guy. He’s just so easy to chat to. It’s a struggle, but, as ever, I have to keep reminding myself that he’s unavailable, untouchable.
But that’s OK. I don’t fancy him anyway.
I never fancied him anyway . . .
No. No use. My multi-purpose catchphrase just won’t work with this guy.
‘So how’s your day?’ he asks, making me feel as if he’s all the time in the world to chat.
Bugger, I almost forgot. ‘Jack, can I ask a favour?’
‘The answer is yes, what is the question?’
‘Remember Valentine? The guy who phoned in?’
‘Do I remember him? I don’t think the phone lines here have stopped hopping since. All women looking for blind dates with him. Clever bastard, whoever he is, if you ask me.’
‘My editor wants his contact number, if you’d have it.’
‘By when?’
‘By . . . emm . . . last Tuesday.’
There’s a pause and I swear I can practically feel him grinning. ‘Cassie, were you supposed to do this ages ago and you forgot?’
‘Ehh . . . well, maybe. I am a very busy lady, I’ll have you know,’ I say primly. ‘Just listen to this.’ I pick up a bunch of letters, hold them to the phone and flick my fingers through them. ‘They won’t answer themselves, you know.’
He whistles. ‘Very impressive. And your deadline is when?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Don’t worry, busy lady, I’ll get Lisa on to it for you. By the way, I’ve a meeting later with the Director General to try and wheedle a bigger production budget out of him, so any psychic predictions on the outcome would be greatly appreciated . . . Oh, here we go, here comes trouble, she’s back. Lisa, I’m talking to her. Your turn to go away.’ There’s a muffled hand-over-the-receiver sound. ‘What? Downstairs?’ I’d swear I can almost hear him sigh. ‘OK, I’m on the way. Cassie, you still there?’
‘Yeah, are you OK?’
‘Looks like Charlene is waiting to see me downstairs. Look, I’ll talk to you again. I really have to go.’ He puts me back on to Lisa and is gone. And his tone completely changed too.
Much later in the afternoon, I get a message from Marc with a C, whose text messages sometimes run the length of one-act radio plays, as you’ll see.
S.O.S. CHARLENE HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN DUMPED BY JACK. WE’RE IN RON BLACK’S BAR GETTING V. DRUNK. A STICKY-FLOORED DIVE BAR, I KNOW, BUT SHE WANTS TO AVOID MEETING ANYONE SHE KNOWS, NATCH. UR PRESENCE ISN’T SO MUCH URGENTLY REQUIRED AS DEMANDED. OH AND PLEASE BRING CASH. WE R SMASHED BROKE. SORRY. XXX
Shit.
Even though it hardly comes as a surprise, I still really feel for her. Anyway. Charlene is my friend and she’s hurting and I should be there for her. I abandon my desk and the groaning pile of letters that’s waiting for next week’s column and I’m there in ten minutes.
The bar is dark and a bit dingy, but I immediately spot the pair of them, sitting on bar stools with a line of tequila shots in front of them, like in a saloon in the Wild West. No kidding, all this scene is missing is tinny piano music playing in the background, gunshots going off every few minutes and a blowsy chorus girl straight from Central Casting, with a name like Lottie-May, saying, ‘Come up and see me sometime.’
‘Hi, baby, thanks for coming,’ says Charlene dully as I hug them both.
‘So, how are you?’
‘How am I? OK, part of me is crushed. Part of me is in mourning. But most of me is drunk. I have to face up to the sad fact that even Pamela Anderson makes better choices about her men than I do.’
‘I have a new nickname for Jack Hamilton,’ says Marc with a C, slurring his words slightly, but then he’s super-fit, on a macrobiotic diet and therefore rubbish at holding his alcohol. ‘Assanova. Whaddya think, Cassie? Do you like it? We’ve decided we all hate him now, although . . . ooh . . . I’ve just had a rare thought. Maybe he’s gay. Or questioning. Did that ever occur to you?’
‘Definitely not gay, sorry to disappoint,’ I say, hauling myself up on to an incredibly uncomfortable bar stool beside them and ordering another round. ‘Where’s Jo?’
‘Working late, on her way.’
‘Will one of you please tell me’ – Charlene’s starting to blubber a bit. ‘Why do I have this tendency/habit/ compulsion to ruin my fabulous life?’
‘Oh, come on, sweetie,’ says Marc with a C. ‘You have to admit that it was, at best, a blocked U-bend of a relationship. May I point out that you have spent the last few days bashing a square peg into a round hole. Fruitless and pointless. Don’t throw good time after bad, baby. You’re not getting any younger.’
‘Shut up,’ she snaps miserably at him. ‘Don’t you know the old adage: people in last year’s Helmut Lang shouldn’t throw stones.’
‘Come on, hon,’ I say, putting my arm around her comfortingly. ‘We’ve all been there and we’re all here for you. But remember you’re not mourning the loss of a boyfriend, you’re mourning the loss of how you thought your life would be. You have to stop beating yourself up. If it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be.’
What I really mean is, yes, it’s awful, yes, it’s painful, but trust me, even if she and Jack had actually been a proper item, it would never, ever in a million years have worked out. Lovely and fanciable and all that Jack is, Charlene is looking for someone who will plonk her on top of a pedestal and idolize her. No, scrap that, she actively needs someone who’ll worship the ground she walks on. And ground her. And give her the one thing she craves more than anything, which the rest of us completely take for granted: a normal family life.
‘Agreed,’ says Marc with a C, taking another slug of tequila. ‘What you’re putting yourself through right now is like a brand-new form of torture the Geneva Convention should look at.’
‘Do you know what he said to me?’ says Charlene. ‘That I was a lovely person but we were fundamentally unsuited.’
‘Ugh, snap,’ says Marc with a C. ‘I got that speech too, about three . . . no, four exes ago. Bastard dropped me quicker than ten kilos of excess flab.’
‘Remind me again who that was?’ I ask, genuinely puzzled. In my defence, though, it’s very hard to keep up with all of Marc with a C’s ex files.
‘Oh you remember, sweetie, he was in a band. Said he couldn’t commit to me because he wanted to stay focused on the music.’
‘Lousy excuse.’
‘I know. I heard the music.’
‘Can you please stop making this all about you?’ Charlene snaps at him. ‘Why does every little thing always have to be about you?’
I’m about to point out the irony of that statement to her, when I catch her looking at me funnily.
‘Hang on, I just had a horrible thought. You don’t think that Jack has met someone else, do you, Cassie?’
Thank God I’m not drinking because I’d have spluttered it out. Luckily enough, though, she doesn’t let me answer.
‘Because I’d scratch the bloody bitch’s eyes out and that’s not a threat. The only thing that’s making this misery bearable is that while we both agreed we would officially part, we would still remain completely committed to each other. OK, so he didn’t exactly agree and I may not have put it exactly like that, but one thing’s for certain: I’m going to have a man on my arm to flash in front of him faster than a Britney Spears divorce.’
‘Writ me baby one more time,’ sings Marc with a C.
‘Come on, guys, I need a man here and I need him now. What are my options?’
A long pause.
‘Well, there’s a speed-dating night at the gym next Saturday,’ Marc w
ith a C says helpfully.
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll just choose to pretend that I never heard you or your crap lonely heart suggestions. Do you even realize how much is wrong with that sentence? For God’s sake, speed dating? Why can’t I just meet someone the way normal people do? Through friends?’
‘What’s so awful about being on your own for a bit?’ I ask hopefully. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it lately, what with your father and Marilyn, I mean—’
‘Subject change imminent,’ Marc with a C interrupts. ‘But our fabulously tactless friend here does make a point of sorts, Charlene. I mean, ricocheting from one guy to another is just going to look like a pathetic attempt to bolster up your shattered self-esteem.’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 23