I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Goodness me,’ says Sir Bob, ‘bathroom fragrances, what on earth can that be?’

  ‘Posh word for air freshener?’ says Sandra helpfully.

  ‘Or toilet bleach?’ I offer.

  ‘Then I’ve to go to speed dating at eight,’ says Valentine, wading through yet more gilt-edged invites, ‘and I’m supposed to be at the Comedy Cellar at eleven to see a comedy improvisation troupe or something. Apparently the girls that perform in it are all single too. Honest to God, lads, I don’t know how I’ll last the pace. And Ireland are playing Cyprus tonight and all, so I’ll have to fit that in somewhere too. Jaypurs, I’ll be lucky if I’m still standing by the end of the night.’

  ‘Soccer? Really, how interesting,’ says Sir Bob, smiling politely but (I sense) losing all interest in the conversation.

  ‘Piranha in the tank!’ Lucy squeals as a text message comes through from the receptionist at her desk outside by the lift to let us know the Dragon Lady is on her way in. ‘Quick, back to work!’

  We all scatter to the four winds and poor Valentine is left looking a bit lost.

  ‘I’ll explain to you later,’ I whisper, plonking down at my desk and whipping off my jacket to make it look as if I’ve been hard at work for ages. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just our editor on her way in. She’ll probably go easy on you ’cos it’s your first day.’ I almost have to laugh at how bewildered he looks.

  ‘Piranha in the tank?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yeah, it’s our code word for “Get back to your desk and look as if you’re actually doing something for a change.” Kind of like those early-warning systems they have in military bases. Of course, normally she would send ahead her team of flying monkeys.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Valentine! I’m messing!’ Aw, I’m thinking, you should just see him. He looks so adorably cute when he’s thrown in at the deep end like this: one of those guys who just brings out the nurturing side in women. Honestly, all you want to do is bring him home and feed him a big meat and potato dinner.

  Anyway, in bursts the Dragon Lady, in a very fetching bright red Chanel-type jacket, the first time I think I’ve ever seen her actually wearing a colour and not head-to-toe in black. She spots him instantly with that radar she has and is over like a bullet.

  ‘You must be Valentine. Come this way,’ she says, walking right past him without stopping. He looks imploringly at me and I make a face that he should follow her into her inner office/lair of the she-wolf/ torture chamber, and off he goes, with every female eye in the office following after him.

  The oestrogen level in the office drops considerably the minute he’s out of sight, and the silence helps me think. OK, so I know I saw tons of single women all hurling themselves at Valentine like brickbats and, yes, that’s still most definitely on the cards. For the foreseeable future. In the short term. But I can’t help wondering if, further down the line, he might just turn out to be a nice fella for our Jo . . . Mmm, the plot thickens . . .

  Anyway. To work. You should just see the amount of letters waiting for me. And not only that, but there’s a yellow Post-it sticker from the lads down in the dispatch department that says, ‘Cassandra, this represents only about 40 per cent of the letters that arrived for you. Can’t fit the rest of them on your desk.’

  Bloody hell. That’s not even including the emails. Ho hum, that’s the power of television for you.

  Right, concentrate. OK, computer on. I will remember that I’m a serious focused working professional and will resist the temptation to check out my favourite website: www.lastminuteholidays.com

  I do not believe this. Fifty-seven emails waiting for me. Fifty-seven. I seriously do not get paid enough and will definitely ask the Dragon Lady for a pay rise next time I’m feeling (a) kamikaze enough or (b) am just slaughtered drunk and will do just about anything.

  I randomly click on one from my mum, which was just sent this morning.

  From: mothership@hotmail.com

  To: Cassandra@tattlemagazine.com

  Subject: Opening night!

  Hello darling,

  You were great on the telly this morning; although I had my heart in my throat when you told that rude caller you couldn’t see anything. Margaret was here and she said it served her right. By the way, she says to tell you the operation on her veins was 100% successful and to thank you so much for telling her she’d be grand. She’s here beside me now telling me you were dead right, the surgeon was a Pisces with dark eyes and from Ghana.

  Anyway, love, just to remind you that the opening night of the musical society show is the weekend after next, on Sunday. I’ll put you down for four tickets, for you and all your friends. It’s The Sound of Music this year, you’ll remember, and I’m playing two parts, third nun and elegant lady at the von Trapps’ party. We had to get a professional singer to play Maria, you know yourself, because unfortunately that character holds the whole show together really, and you’ve no idea how difficult it is to find someone who not only looks right but who can sing and dance AND act. Triple threat, as our director Mrs Nugent says.

  Margaret feels very strongly about this, though, because she IS a trained soprano and feels she would have been absolutely perfect in the part. Sure, under stage lights and in that hall where the front row is miles away from you, anyone can look early twenties if you ask me.

  Anyway, I’m going back to make the costumes. The nuns’ habits are a doddle but we’re having a nightmare with the Nazi uniforms. Much love to our little princess and I’ll see you at the show!

  Mum xxx

  Thank God she emailed to remind me. I had totally forgotten. Memo to self: be less scatty and remember to prioritize family commitments.

  Then another email catches my eye but for very different reasons.

  From: thenationalghostconvention@aol.com

  To: Cassandra@tattlemagazine.com

  Subject: Guest speaker

  Dear Cassandra,

  Firstly please excuse my writing to you care of the magazine you work for, but unfortunately I didn’t know how else to contact you. As a like-minded person, it is my great pleasure to invite you to our inaugural ‘Ghost Convention’, this Halloween, October 31.

  At this point I have to stop and rub my eyes in disbelief. There’s a National Ghost Convention?

  We’ve chosen the eerie Kilmainham Jail in Dublin as the ideal venue because of the number of reported sightings, which have included nineteenth-century prisoners and guards mingling with the tourists. In what promises to be a highly ‘spirited’ affair, guest speakers – including witches, wizards, psychics such as yourself and academics – will gather we hope to swap ghost stories and, as the song lyric goes, ‘break on through to the other side.’

  We’re particularly excited as, to mark our convention, we have been asked to nominate a guest for a Halloween special on television. The Late Night Talk show, to be exact. Dear Cassandra, we would be deeply honoured if you would consider appearing on our behalf. You already have such a wonderful television profile, which would be a huge asset to us.

  May I add on a personal note that through your highly successful Breakfast Club appearances you have done a huge amount to dispel once and for all the myth that psychics and clairvoyants are mere charlatans, unscrupulously cashing in on a gullible public, hungry for answers. Gone for ever is the image of a gnarled spinster cradling a cat with one hand whilst stirring a cauldron with the other, casting wicked spells, when we have a beautiful, glowing young lady such as yourself speaking such sense and wisdom about all things spiritual and making such accurate predictions on television every week.

  As I always say, spirits are our next-door neighbours. We are all going where they are some day and, in my experience, they’re never here to cause us harm. In fact, invariably the opposite is the case.

  Many thanks again, Cassandra, and I look forward to hearing from you,

  Richard Bryan

  Acting President, the National Ghost Convention

 
; Wow. I immediately click on the ‘Reply’ key to accept the invitation. The convention sounds fun, somewhere full of, as he says, like-minded people. And then to be asked to go on Late Night Talk? Way-hey, what an honour!

  Late Night Talk, I should explain, is a hugely popular chat show, very prestigious, almost like a national institution. It’s completely unique as a programme because, in the space of a single show, you could have Bill Clinton plugging his new book, followed by a hot movie star, followed by a debate about the rise in the price of stamps in which the audience are allowed to join in and, well, things can get very heated. You get the picture.

  Put it this way, my mother will be boasting about this to Margaret and the entire cast of The Sound of Music from now till opening night.

  And yes, he did give me a sweet compliment in his email but somehow the picture I’m getting of Richard Bryan is . . . yup, there he is, I see him. Seventies, but looks trim and fit, white-haired with deep blue eyes.

  Oh shit, is that him I’m seeing or Ian McKellan as Gandalf in Lord of the Rings? Nope, definitely Richard.

  I don’t even have to make a decision. I email back my acceptance, adding how thrilled I am that they’d want me to represent them on Late Night Talk, and make a mental note to try not to forget about it.

  In no time, poor old Valentine’s back, looking, there’s no other word for it, pole-axed.

  ‘So? How’d it go?’ I ask encouragingly as he plonks down at the desk beside mine.

  ‘Well now, Amanda is a very . . . how would I put this in a gentlemanly way? . . . a very highly strung woman, no doubt about that.’

  Should have seen her before she found love in her own locker room, I’m thinking. This is the new, improved, fluffy-bunny, cuddly Dragon Lady that you just met. But I say nothing aloud.

  ‘Anyway, she wants to call my column “Valentine’s Day”. Does that sound all right to you, Cassandra?’

  ‘Please, call me Cassie.’

  ‘She said she wanted it to be like Sex and the City except from a guy’s point of view, and I’m not joking, I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Sure, I didn’t know what to say to her, I’ve never sat through a single episode of Sex and the City in my life. The lads back home would give me a right slagging, so they would.’

  ‘Relax, I have the DVD box set at home. I’ll lend them all to you.’

  ‘Ah, you’re just great, so you are. Then she said something about trying to get an insight into the psyche of the single male on the prowl around the city. Jaypurs, you’d swear we were all animals or something. Apparently there’s some village in Cumbria where there were so few single women that the local fellas all got together to advertise, to get girls to go and live there, like. So she wants me to write about where I’m from as if that’s the way things are down there too and that’s why I was driven to the city, looking for love. But that’s not true, Cassie. The girls down home are all brilliant, so they are, just none of them were right for me, that’s all. I couldn’t go making stuff up for my column, it wouldn’t be fair. I told her that and she laughed at my innocence and said journalists make stuff up all the time. So I said she was kidding me and she said that with the possible exception of Dominick Dunne on Vanity Fair, they were all scum.’

  ‘Vintage Dragon Lady, I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘I was nearly afraid to say “Who’s Dominick Dunne?” and “What’s Vanity Fair?” Then she asked me if I ever read the gossip pages in the papers and magazines, so I’d have an idea who was who when I’m out and about, you know yourself. I said, “Gossip pages? First thing I throw out with my Sunday papers so I can get to the sports section that bit quicker.” Couldn’t help myself, Cassie. The words were just out of my mouth.’

  I laugh. I love that he has a sense of humour and I think I know someone else who might appreciate it too. ‘You just be true to yourself, Valentine, and you won’t go far wrong. Trust me.’

  Then out of nowhere, I get a flash about him.

  Yup, there he is. I’m seeing scores of women, all vying for his phone number, with him dating one after another until he’s completely fed up and worn out from playing the field and he eventually settles down with the right one. I can’t see who she is, but I do see him in a morning suit, top hat and tails, on his way to church . . . Ooh, I can even see a headline: ‘IRELAND’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR TO TIE THE KNOT TODAY.’ There’s a phalanx of press photographers following him too, all dying to get a glimpse of his bride-to-be. As am I, I just can’t bloody well see her . . .

  ‘Cassie, all I’m looking for is a lovely lady that’ll be happy to be with me, that’s all.’

  OK, Jo, my dearest, oldest friend, I think tonight might just be your lucky night.

  Why not? It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I mean, stranger things have happened. Plus, this has the added bonus of distracting attention away from the blazing row/ screaming match that’s hovering like a storm cloud over me and the Tipsy Queen.

  ‘Valentine, did you say you wanted to see the big Ireland match on TV tonight? Because you know you’re more than welcome to come round to our house and watch it from there.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE LOVERS CARD

  Probably The Single most powerful card in the whole deck. If you’re unattached, you’re now being guided towards that special someone who’s destined to leave an indelible mark on your heart for ever. This card could herald you finally hooking up with your soulmate. Yes, him, the one you’ve been waiting for, the one true love of your life. So you’d just better make sure that you’re ready, baby.

  If you’re already in a relationship or if the object of your affections is for some reason out of bounds, then the overwhelming attraction that’s coming to you may cause trouble. Big trouble. That’s the downside of drawing the lovers’ card. It may in time bring great happiness into your life, but for the short term, it means you’re going to have to choose.

  So what’s it to be? Do you choose love over fidelity? Duty? Or perhaps even friendship?

  LUCKILY FOR ME, Valentine decided to go to the launch he was invited to at the Clarence Hotel after work, the one for toilet bleach or aromatherapy loo rolls or whatever it was. Off he went, lamb to the slaughter, while I slipped him our address and went on ahead to prepare the way.

  Now, I have to tread carefully here. There is no surer way to guarantee that any set-up will fall dramatically flat on its face than if you let either party involved know that they are, in actual fact, being set up. This requires stealth, tact and diplomacy worthy of the United Nations Security Council.

  OK. I have it. Brilliant. I’ll go down the faux-casual route of, ‘Oh yeah, Jo, by the way, there’s a new guy from the office who’s popping over later to watch the match, if that’s cool with you.’ Yep, that sounds good to me. Perfectly plausible. If questioned any further (Jo can be nosier than a sniffer dog if she senses there’s any mischief afoot; honestly, she’d give Jane Tennison from Prime Suspect a right run for her money), I’ll just play the card of, ‘Oh, but I felt so sorry for him, the poor guy, its his first night in the city and he doesn’t really know anyone.’

  Yes, bingo. Jo is known far and wide to be a great collector of waifs and strays; she’s always taking people into the house that she meets through Amnesty and who have nowhere else to stay.

  The main thing is for me to be very cool and calm about the whole thing, play it all down and hopefully she won’t suspect a thing. Oh yes, and at all costs avoid eye contact with her, otherwise I’ll start to blush and she’ll cop on instantly, or worse, ask me straight out if this is a set-up, in which case I’ll start stammering and coming out with all sorts of inconsequential shit and Jo will see through me quicker than an envelope with a transparent window. I am the worst liar alive.

  Anyway, I get home, fish about in my bag for door keys and, as usual, walk right into a kitchen-sink drama. A Tennessee Williams play without the hot sun and lack of air conditioning and bottles
of bourbon floating around a villa in the Deep South. Jo and Charlene are sitting at our kitchen table, having a mature, adult, balanced discussion about the whole Oliver situation.

  Well, more correctly, Jo is attempting to have an adult discussion; Charlene is just flicking through the pages of this week’s Hello magazine.

  ‘Wouldn’t my life be so much simpler if I’d been dating a footballer?’ muses Charlene. ‘You know, like the WAGs. All I’d have to do would be trade in Jack Hamilton for someone further up the premiership. Easy-peasy, really.’

  ‘Hi, hon,’ says Jo as I come into our toasty warm kitchen and stick the kettle on.

  ‘Hi, girlies.’

  Charlene blanks me for about three seconds, then caves. ‘OK, OK, I’ll just be the bigger person here,’ she says, shoving the magazine away from her. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in work today, but I’m not sorry that I asked Oliver out. There. I hope the air is all nice and cleared. So, anyway, what do you think about my new date, Jo?’ she asks and I swear to God, I almost think she’s trying to goad me. ‘Do you approve? Don’t worry, if your answer is no, I won’t be upset.’

  ‘OK then, my answer’s no.’

  ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?!’ she almost wails.

  I just roll my eyes and try very, very hard to conceal my irritation.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m with Cassie on this one. Of course I’m glad you took a few minutes to mourn Jack, but from what I’ve heard, your behaviour this morning was a disgrace. Or, to put it in crude terms, make a sentence out of the following words: Shit on own doorstep don’t ever. You could easily go after someone else, Charlene. You’re not that ugly. Are you honestly telling me that this famous Oliver is the only single, available guy for miles around—’

  ‘I think I can die peacefully without ever hearing the end of that sentence, Josephine. Look, I’ll only say this once, because frankly I’m getting tired of constantly having to defend my actions all the time in this house, but you are both aware of the pressure I’m under to find my life-partner.’