‘So what are you suggesting? That I become a nun?’
‘No, sweetie, you’d never be able to get your roots retouched.’
‘And I wouldn’t mind but Anna Regan’s engagement party is looming like a giant iceberg in the shipping lane of my life, may she gag on a length of Cath Kidston ribbon.’
God, at times like this, I really wish Jo was here. She’d give Charlene all the tough love, relationship perspective and hard-headed advice she needs. And there’s a chance Charlene might actually pay attention to her. Frankly, I’m beginning to feel as if I might as well be talking to the wall for all the progress I’m making in calming her down a bit or making her see sense.
Anyway, hours later, Marc with a C and I end up dragging a very drunk Charlene into a taxi and somehow getting her back to our house and into our kitchen, still in one piece. Marc with a C even manages to find a bottle of Baileys at the back of a cupboard, which is only ever produced in cases of dire emergency, and pours out a full, home-measured, tumbler-sized glass for her.
It’s late, well after ten, before Jo eventually does get home and boy am I delighted to see her. ‘Welcome to an episode of The Jerry Springer Show, broadcasting live from our kitchen,’ I say, going out to the front door to let her in. We hug, both utterly exhausted.
‘Is this my destiny?’ Charlene is wailing from inside, clearly audible even though the kitchen door is shut tight. ‘To live out a life of loveless, hopeless spinsterhood?’
‘That bad, huh?’ says Jo, taking off her coat and scarf and dumping a wad of files on the hall table.
‘Listen for yourself.’
‘And to think I can’t even go to Harvey Nicks and charge myself happy, as I normally would. You know how much spending soothes my battered soul?’ Charlene is bawling from inside, plastered and almost bordering on hysteria by now.
‘Mmm,’ says Marc with a C, hiccupping, completely and utterly smashed.
‘I wish . . . do you know what I wish? I wish that I could just leave my body and become emotionally dead,’ Charlene continues their duologue of pain. ‘I mean, how much easier would life be?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ sighs Jo wearily. ‘Things sure have changed here on Walton’s mountain. So come on, Cassie, where do you stand on this, the biggest overreaction to the greatest non-relationship of the century?’
I just look at her, not sure what to say. Not even sure what I think. It’s as if I haven’t even allowed myself to think the thought.
‘OK, let me offer a Jack Hamilton-related thought,’ Jo says, cool as you like. ‘You like him, he seems to like you. You’re single and now, guess what, so is he. There was one insuperable barrier between you which has now, conveniently, been removed.’
‘Jo! Number one, she just broke up with him and number two, will you shut up? She’s just inside. She’ll hear you!’
‘I haven’t finished. So here’s the biggie, here’s what you have to go figure. When is it OK to date a friend’s ex? And in a target-poor environment, with so many hot women and so few single men to date them, what is the statute of limitations on dating a friend’s ex anyway?’ She’s warming to her theme and might even have started one of her great debates about this topic when the kitchen door bursts open and there’s Charlene, swaying in the door frame.
‘What are you two in cahoots about here?’
‘Knitting patterns, what do you think?’ says Jo, cool as a fish’s fart. ‘Is that Baileys you pair are drinking? Bloody hell, bad sign. That stuff only gets dragged out when you’re really, really locked.’
Charlene ignores that. ‘Girlies, my dearest friends, a thought has just struck me,’ she says, swaying so much I actually think she might be in danger of falling over. ‘I’ve just thought of the absolute, perfect shove-this-up-your-ass-Jack-Hamilton revenge guy for me to go out with next. Staring me in the face. Dunno why I didn’t think of him before.’
Oh no, now I’m starting to get a sick feeling in my stomach.
‘Oliver,’ she says brightly. ‘Remember? From yesterday,’ she adds, as if I could ever forget him, the oily, smarmy git. ‘Come on, Cassie, I know I didn’t exactly take pains to get to know him, but that can easily be rectified. Can you find out discreetly if he’s seeing someone? I mean, he’s blond, overbearing and a pain in the arse. Just my type, if you ask me.’
Chapter Thirteen
THE TAROT DECK
THE KNIGHT OF SWORDS CARD, INVERTED
A good-looking GUY, über-confident and ready for action. He’s ambitious, single-minded and capable of ruthlessness to get exactly what he wants. You know, the type of man who’d be perfect in politics. He’s also quite attractive to women and is well able to make them swoon over him. Half the time, he barely even notices, though, he’s too focused on climbing the next rung of the career ladder. This is a man who stops for nothing and for no one.
If the card is inverted, then the querient must be extra wary, particularly if she is female. Protect yourself, and if your heart and your head start screaming that you actually like this guy then mark these words: remember the card’s warning and run very, very fast in the opposite direction . . .
‘HI, IS THAT Cassandra? Am I really through to you?’
‘Yes, go right ahead. What’s your name?’
‘Ehh, tell you what, seeing as how this is live TV, why don’t you just call me . . . emm . . . Jane. Although I stress my actual name is something considerably more exotic.’ South Dublin accent. Nasal twang.
‘OK, Jane, go right ahead.’
Well, fair play to her, I’m thinking. At least she didn’t bother to lie.
I can hardly believe they’ve invited me back so soon, so much has happened since I was here last. But here I am, over-made-up, primped and preened with my hair curled from here to France, sitting on the Breakfast Club canary-yellow sofa, match-fit and ready for action.
Long story, but basically the make-up guy with orange fake tan on his face, Damien, who I met on my first day here, is just back from a few days’ holiday in Greece, where he met someone really cute and interesting and foreign, with biceps like a hod-carrier, or so it seems. Anyway, he was particularly anxious to tell me the whole story, because he’d just come through a rotten break-up and apparently I predicted a happy outcome for him, so he said if he put me in rollers and backcombed my hair a bit, then we could prolong our chat. We had a great aul’ gossip and a laugh. The only tiny drawback of having sat in a make-up chair for so long is that now my hair is so absurdly sculpted, it looks a bit like a six-year-old’s drawing of a ski slope.
Anyway, back to work. This is, I think, the fifth call of the morning and I’m getting flashes all over the place. I feel great, I feel confident and really on top of my game. And no sign of Jack so far, which always helps.
Well, which always helps if I want to see anything and actually do what I’m being paid for, that is.
And Charlene was way too wrecked and hungover after the excesses of last night even to think about physically leaving the house and coming into Channel Seven with me this morning, which is helping even more considerably.
With a bit of luck, she wasn’t serious about making a play for Oily Oliver. It was just drink talking, that’s all. She probably won’t even remember. When she sobers up, that is.
‘Solpadeine? That’s all you have, Solpadeine?’ she growled at me as she fished through our bathroom cabinet at the crack of dawn this morning with a pink furry sleep mask on her forehead that says ‘Total Princess’. (What else?) I was trying to get organized for work and instead of rolling over for her second sleep, as she normally would, she followed me into the bathroom in search of pain relief.
‘Trust me, just take two,’ I said, whispering, so as not to wake Jo. ‘You only got to bed about an hour ago so your hangover mightn’t even have kicked in yet. And keep your voice down.’
‘Why are you shouting at me?’ she wailed at me.
‘SHH!’
‘There, you’re doing it again. Rul
e one in the ten commandments of being a friend. Thou shalt have something stronger than these’ – she waved the Solpadeine threateningly under my nose – ‘in your medicine cabinet for guests who may have over-imbibed just the teeniest bit the previous night. Jesus, I might as well eat a box of Tic Tacs.’
‘Will you please shut up,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Jo may not have superpowers but she can still hear you. Now, if you have a problem with what’s in our bathroom, I suggest you take it up with your pharmacist.’
Anyway, back to studio.
‘Hello, hello, hello, anyone there? Cassandra? Can you hear me OK?’ Jane is saying and I can hear the wind whistling down her mobile phone, as if she’s calling me from . . . a rooftop? Could that be right?
‘Yes, I can just about hear you, go ahead.’ I have to stop myself from saying, ‘I’m listening,’ like a radio phone-in shrink. Like Doctor Ruth.
‘Right. Now, I had to pretend to everyone in the office that I was going outside for a cigarette break. So if I hang up suddenly, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ve lost interest in whatever you say, it just means that someone else came out here and I don’t want them to know that I’m speaking to you.’
OK, a direct woman. Fine, this I can handle. ‘So what’s bothering you, Jane?’
‘Can I ask you a question? Do you ever get fed up with women ringing you to moan about men? Or maybe you’re businesslike about it and look on it much the way I would. Single women and their relationship dilemmas are probably what’s keeping you in Prada dresses and Hermès handbags, whilst me and all the rest of humanity have to suffer the indignity of going on waiting lists to get our paws on anything “must have”, in the true A-list sense of the word. I mean, honestly, waiting for handbags. How Soviet.’
I look across the sofa to Mary and Mary looks back to me and we both smile weakly at the camera. There’s no answer to that one – well, at least nothing that won’t insult half the nation.
‘I’m more of an M and S woman myself,’ says Mary, a bit feebly.
‘And the only label I’m wearing today is drip dry,’ I add, trailing off lamely. God, this one is beginning to sound almost . . . rude.
‘OK, Cassandra, time is money so I’ll cut straight to the chase. Three essential details I can give you about my character, whilst observing the need to protect my own privacy. One. I work as an investment banker in the Financial Services Centre and am therefore both rich and eligible. Two. I’m a size eight by inclination rather than by girth, but my therapist tells me I would still be considered very attractive by men, if a little high-maintenance. Three. I recently celebrated a very significant birthday, which I won’t elaborate on, at least not over the national airwaves.’
Forty, I think. You just turned forty.
‘And the man that I’ve been seeing came to the dinner party I was hosting for a small, very select group of friends, clients and well-wishers and he presented me with – now wait for it –nothing. Big Fat Nothing. My therapist says that any guy who has the sheer brass neck to turn up at my dinner party empty-handed, knowing full well what day it was and knowing the potential embarrassment this would cause, has clearly lost all interest in me. And I wouldn’t mind, but the financial director of Deutsche Bank was there to witness my humiliation. Anyway, the theory seems to be that if a so-called boyfriend ignores either Valentine’s Day or your birthday for whatever pathetic reason, then get out at once.’
OK, now I’m beginning to see a potential problem ahead with this caller.
‘So, to distil my query down to its bare essentials. As a banker I would instinctively always weigh up investment versus return. Having invested three full months in this relationship, apart from some particularly non-memorable meals out and some frankly boring evenings in, my return has been, in short, niggardly. So, when do I decide to cut my losses and move on?’
Potentially a huge problem.
‘I should say that, ordinarily, Cassandra, I would be the last person alive ever to debase myself by phoning a psychic on some housewives’ choice TV show. Is that middle-aged frumpy one still presenting it? God, has that woman ever met a flowery-patterned dress she didn’t like?’
Now I can sense poor Mary’s feathers starting to ruffle. And, honestly, would you blame her?
‘It’s just that I’ve heard some of the girls in my office reading your column and giving quite glowing reports of you, Cassandra. Mind you, none of them is actual office staff – well, apart from one receptionist who seems to do nothing all day except read OK magazine and surf the net. No, I’m referring to the canteen staff and the cleaners. You know, as you say in television, lowest-common-denominator types. But I suppose they’re your target market really, are they not?’
OK, here it is. Not only is being psychic not something that’s on tap, twenty-four/seven, there’s something else. Something that’s a little harder to put into words. There are rare occasions, very rare I hasten to add, where someone will come to me looking for advice or wanting a particular question answered and I can’t do it, I just can’t. I can be polite about it and put my complete failure to see anything down to any number of things – that I’m having a bad day, say, or I’m just a bit fuzzy about what lies ahead – but it’s really all just a little white lie to cover up the awful, painful truth: if I take a strong dislike to someone, I can’t see a blessed thing for them. Absolutely nothing.
Now, as I say, thankfully this doesn’t happen too often, but I’m only human and I’m unable to work around negativity. Simple as that. Thankfully it hasn’t happened to me in a long, long time, but by God it’s happening this morning . . .
‘Cassandra?’ says Bossy Cow, her voice ringing around the studio floor, almost squeaky with impatience. ‘Are you still there? Hello? Earth to Cassandra?’
OK, now I actually want to smack her. How dare she speak to me or anyone like this? Even patient, kind-hearted Mary is starting to make who-exactly-does-this-one-think-she-is? faces across the comfy sofa at me.
Right, deep breath. Invoke my emergency escape clause. ‘Jane, I’m very sorry about that.’
‘I’ve heard of a ten-second delay in live broadcasting, but never one that drags on for a full minute. I’m going to need an answer here, Cassandra. I’m out on a blustery rooftop in my good Versace silk shirt, freezing my ass off, and it’s starting to drizzle.’
‘Jane? I hate to tell you, but I’m afraid I can’t help. I can’t see anything. Sorry, but there it is.’
There. Said it. Did that sound firm and clear, without a trace of the unspoken ‘because I’ve taken an instant dislike to you and I couldn’t really give a shite about you or your love life, I’m just thankful that I don’t know you socially, or, worse, that I have the misfortune to work for you’? I hope it did but I’m afraid not.
Mary is looking at me in shock and so, I notice, is the floor manager. There’s a horrible pause. Then Jane’s voice reverberates around the studio. ‘Nothing? Did you say you can’t see anything?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘Not a wedding ring, not even an engagement ring? A pregnancy? Even an unplanned one?’
‘Jane, I can’t help you. I’m sorry but that’s all there is to it.’ I glance imploringly over to our floor manager, hoping he’ll cut to a commercial break, but Jane’s not done with me yet, or so it seems.
‘Look, Cassandra, I contacted you in good faith, mainly because of the positive word of mouth I’ve heard about you, but how can you sit there and have the CHEEK to refer to yourself as some kind of twenty-first century soothsayer, when— Oh hi, James!’ My God, in a nanosecond her tone has totally changed from snarl to simper. No kidding, this one is wasted in the Financial Services Centre when her true vocation is clearly onstage in the Abbey Theatre. ‘Yes, just came outside for a quick puff! So how are you? You look absoluuuuutely terrific, have you been working out?’ Then a beep-beep sound. Then she’s gone.
She hung up on me. I do not believe it. The rude cow just hung up.
This time there’s an embarrassed pause, but Mary’s on the ball, and thank God one of us is.
‘Stay with us, we’ll be right back with more from Cassandra after the break,’ she says smiling to camera. ‘Don’t go away!’ And we’re out.
‘Everything OK?’ says the floor manager, coming over to me, finger on his headpiece as if he’s just been talking to the production box. ‘Jack says if you want to leave it at that for today, there’s no problem. He says to tell you we have a particularly gripping outdoor piece on an environmentalist who lives in a self-contained eco-friendly pod that we can cut to, so we’re not stuck for time.’
Great, now Jack thinks I’ve totally lost it. An eco-friendly what?
‘Sorry, what’s that?’ the floor manager asks, talking into his earpiece. ‘Jack is asking if you’d like him to come on to the floor, just to see that you’re OK.’
‘NO! Sorry, I mean, no, no, please tell him not to bother. I mean . . . emm . . . I’m grand, could you tell him I’ll see him later, if that’s OK.’
‘No prob, he just wants to make sure everything’s fine with you,’ he says, relaying the message back to his headset.
‘Thanks. Promise, I’ll be grand for the next call.’
‘No worries.’ Then he comes right over to the sofa I’m perched on and whispers to me. ‘You know, I may not be psychic, but if you ask me, I think Jack likes you. Normally you can’t drag him out of that production box during a transmission for love nor money.’
I try not to blush, reminding myself that I am (a) a grown adult with (b) a camera pointing directly into my face which he can see me on.
‘Well, that Jane one wasn’t a very pleasant lady at all, was she?’ says Mary, still smarting from the ‘frump’ comment, poor thing.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘Cassie, can I ask you something? Did you see something really awful in store for her? Is that why you decided to say nothing again, love? Did you not want to upset her, live to the nation? Very nice of you, I’m sure. I’d gladly have taken that little madam down a peg or two. Imagine her calling me middle-aged. And I wouldn’t mind but I’m only forty-seven. Since when is that middle-aged, I’d like to know?’
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 24