I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘I have a vague recollection of you mentioning that somewhere before,’ I say firmly. And if that sounds a bit rude, I’m not really all that sorry. I’m still furious with her and I just can’t help myself.

  ‘So, I like good-looking men,’ she goes on, and by now I swear to God I’m actually beginning to feel a vein pulsing in my forehead. ‘I don’t particularly care whether they were born good-looking or not, once they are now. Why are you both frowning at me? Those lines don’t go away, you know.’

  Right, that’s it. I don’t think I can take much more. I have to say something or else I’ll end up screaming at her. ‘Charlene, two things. First of all, I like my job and I’d really like it if the producer and production team, who, let’s remember, are in fact all working professionals, didn’t have to witness you parading one fella under another one’s nose with no other end in sight than to stir up a bit of jealousy. It’s childish, it’s embarrassing, it’s stupid and, trust me, as a tactic it’s doomed to fail.’

  ‘Oh please, who made you such a wise woman? What, have you bypassed being a mere psychic and now suddenly you’re like this . . . shaman or something?’

  I have to keep talking, I just have to, or I swear to God, I’ll smack her. ‘Number two, Oliver? Does it really have to be Oliver?’

  She’s gone back to her magazine now. ‘Just so you’re aware, Cassie, I’m tuning you out. So you can stand there and pretend you’re talking to your imaginary boyfriend. Ooh, look, here’s an article about Wayne Rooney and his family. Reminds me of all your ex-boyfriends. A who’s who of uglyville. To these guys, every day is Halloween.’

  ‘What is it about Oliver, anyway?’ Jo asks, ignoring Charlene and looking at me keenly.

  ‘Can’t put my finger on it yet. But, don’t worry, I will. There’s something . . . I just have a horrible feeling. I didn’t pick up anything from him initially, then on the day of the clearing he was just plain irritating, but now . . . now I’m feeling a huge negative energy practically hopping off him. I can’t see what, at least not yet, but I think there’s something really bad.’

  ‘Are you even listening to this?’ Jo challenges Charlene, but, nose in her magazine, of course she isn’t. Honestly, the girl has the attention span of a malarial fruit-fly.

  ‘No, sorry, I’m too busy reading about George Clooney. I don’t know about you pair, but he’s kind of beginning to bug me. I’m getting sick of all this “Oh, the political weight of the whole Northern hemisphere is on my shoulders while simultaneously every woman in the world wants to shag me.”’

  ‘All I can tell you, Jo,’ I say, ‘is that if Oliver came with sound effects, there’d be thunderclaps and sinister laughter following him around the place.’

  ‘Well, I for one am listening to you,’ says Jo, bless her. ‘I’m all ears. Your instincts have never in all the years I’ve known you been wrong, not once. You’ve never been anything other than straight and direct about these things. About anything, in fact.’

  Then the doorbell rings.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Shit, I nearly forgot. Well, I don’t have to be straight and direct about absolutely every teeny little thing, now do I? ‘You see, well, funny story actually, there’s this guy from work and he’s new and – by the way, he’s called Valentine and the thing is I said he could come over. To watch a soccer match here, that’s all. Honestly, that’s it, no other reason at all. Of course, that’s if no one minds. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Charlene just ignores me but I swear it’s physically possible to see Jo putting two and two together.

  ‘Valentine. Hmm. Unusual name. Not an easy name to forget. So, let me just apply my mind to this. Now, this is just a wild guess, but by any chance could this possibly be the same Valentine who rang you on the Breakfast Club because he can’t get a girlfriend?’

  ‘Ehh . . .’

  ‘So he’s a single guy then, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

  ‘Emm . . . is he? Honestly can’t say for sure. Righty-ho, I’d better go and let him in.’ Told you I was a crap liar.

  Anyway, in comes Valentine, looking very sharp and snazzy in a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt that he’s changed into. I make the introductions and start to open a bottle of wine he’s (very thoughtfully) brought. The girls are perfectly polite and they all shake hands and I’m madly trying to pick up any chemistry that might be going on, but no joy. Well, apart from Charlene giving him this quick once-over, up-and-down look that she does, immediately making snap assessments about him and his character based solely on his clothes, haircut, shoes, the fact that he walked here, the type of wine that he brought and his accent. Personality doesn’t even begin to come into it with her, until a guy has passed all of these initial tests. I don’t care, though. In fact, the way I’m feeling right now she doesn’t deserve a sweetie like Valentine.

  He’s just going to sit down when Jo reminds him the match is about to begin so they both head into our living room.

  ‘I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,’ says Charlene, slipping on a crisp white apron like Bree in Desperate Housewives. (God knows where she dug it up from, it certainly doesn’t belong to anyone in this house.) ‘I made vegetarian risotto tonight.’ She smiles up at Valentine, who’s being perfectly polite back to both of them but, oh shit, I can’t for the life of me pick up anything else.

  ‘Well, not so much made it,’ Charlene warbles on, ‘as took it out of the supermarket carton. And it’s just all so idiot-proof, you know. As soon as the oven bell goes off, it’s done.’

  ‘Why don’t you just trust to the smoke detector, like you normally do?’ is Jo’s parting shot as she and Valentine head off. ‘Or else you could pour some warm sauce over a leather boot; it’ll end up tasting exactly the same.’

  I was going to leave them on their own, but then (a) Charlene and I are pretty much a cat fight waiting to happen and I really am in no condition to be in a confined space anywhere near her, especially with all the sharp knives lying around the kitchen, and then (b) Marc with a C arrives and, on hearing that I’ve invited a handsome man round, immediately starts pumping me for info before going into the living room to get a good look at him.

  ‘So he’s called Valentine, hmm?’ he says to me in the hall as I hang up his jacket. ‘Well, I for one am just so thrilled you’ve introduced a new male into our little circle of love and dysfunction. You have no idea the constant pressure it is for me being the only guy in the group. That and the fact that I’m by far the best-looking.’

  Right. All thoughts of leaving the would-be set-up pair alone have effectively flown out the window, so I join them, bringing the bottle of wine with me, pouring a glass for everyone and a particularly large one for myself. Something tells me it’s going to be a long, long night.

  It’s almost half-time, the score is one-all and Valentine is way too engrossed in the match to even cop on that Marc with a C is actually flirting with him.

  ‘I ate a full-fat profiterole before I went to bed last night,’ he says, about two seconds after they’re introduced. ‘Then I spent the entire night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, just waiting for my impending heart attack. So you’ll excuse me if I look as if I’m in need of a blood transfusion. I’m approximately twenty five per cent better-looking than this normally.’

  I know, I know, you’d think he was completely and utterly wasting his time, but then Marc with a C is always telling us that in the parallel universe he lives in, the only difference between a gay man and a straight man is three pints and two shorts. You have to hand it to Marc with a C; if nothing else, he really is a tryer.

  Anyway, at half-time (or the interval as Charlene, who has now joined the boys, keeps calling it) I manage to collar Jo on her own in the kitchen to see if there is any white smoke.

  ‘Cassie, are you trying to set me up?’ she asks me straight out, direct as ever.

  ‘Emm, well, would it be a problem if I were?’ No point in lying, I’m just too bad at it.


  ‘Look, Cassie, I appreciate what you’re doing, I really do, but he’s not for me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you haven’t given him a proper chance. What’s wrong with him?’ Shit, so much for my skills as a matchmaker. I thought his all-round, unaffected, good-guy loveliness would win the day with her. I honestly did.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. He’s . . .’

  ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘When I asked him who he would vote for in the next election, he claimed he wanted to vote for both guys because they both seem “nice”.’

  Right. Not a good idea to say this to Jo. At least, not unless you want your teeth metaphorically kicked in. ‘Fine, so he may not be politically minded like you, but, you know, that’s just a detail. Look on it as a possible hard edge which could be gradually sanded down over time.’

  ‘If I were interested, which, sorry, babe, I’m just not. Nice try, though. Better luck next time. So, are you OK?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You looked ready to put a knife through the Tipsy Queen earlier.’

  I sigh so deeply it almost causes me pain and Jo pats my arm understandingly.

  ‘That’s the thing about her, I guess,’ she says. ‘Much and all as we love her, she is always, always driving one of us up the walls. And it’s the perpetual role of the other one to say, “But she is our mate,” which I’m dutifully saying to you now. Don’t worry, it’ll be your turn to say it right back to me soon enough. And I’ll remind you of how you’re feeling tonight and please God we’ll all be able to laugh.’

  ‘He’s sweet, but, let’s face it, kind of boring,’ is Charlene’s verdict on Valentine when she eventually joins us in the kitchen, probably afraid we’re talking about her behind her back. Which we were. ‘Now, he does have his own business, I found out, so that made me perk up a bit, because I thought, ooh, we could have a possible ATM on our hands here.’

  ‘A possible what?’ says Jo.

  ‘Automatic telling machine, idiot. But then I made the mistake of asking him about it. What a yawn-fest. He went on about how his company makes tyres for the wheels of Boeing 747s. I just tuned out. M.E.G.O. Bigtime.’

  This is Charlene-speak for ‘my eyes glaze over’, which she uses whenever she finds a guy boring. I, however, am still simmering with anger at her. I can’t answer the girl, I can’t look at her, I can barely be in the same room as her. I help myself to another large glass of wine and knock it back in one go.

  She continues to drive me nuts over dinner, giving Valentine her whole back history in the lead-up to the row with her father, by way of a Judy Garland biography. ‘After my mum died, I felt so unloved at the age of fifteen that I almost turned to drink and drugs to help me cope. Have you ever felt that desolate and unwanted, Valentine?’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ he says kindly. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Now there’s a depression hanging cloud-like over the table and, as ever when Charlene talks about her childhood, none of us really knows what to say. It’s like the ultimate conversational trump card, nothing can top it, so instead we all just sit there in morose silence.

  The clink-clink of knives and forks is driving me nuts. I am a bit squiffy by now and am perfectly happy to try and change the subject. ‘Newsflash,’ I say, suddenly remembering what happened in work earlier.

  ‘Ooh, I love a good newsflash,’ says Marc with a C. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to go on Late Night Talk. For a Halloween special.’

  They all give me a spontaneous round of applause. Well, all of them except for Charlene, that is.

  ‘How fabulous for you,’ is all she says. ‘I can’t wait to tell Oliver next time we talk.’

  This shuts me up. I mean, does she really have to keep dropping his name into the conversation at every available opportunity? I need to get more alcohol into me or else there will be bloodshed.

  There’s another bottle of wine in the fridge, which I open and pour everyone, myself included, a very large glass.

  Thankfully, after a while, things brighten up around the table a bit; Valentine is the perfect guest, laughing at everyone’s jokes and banter, even though half the time he doesn’t know who we’re talking about.

  ‘Lovely meal,’ he says appreciatively to Charlene.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ says Marc with a C. ‘You know, I’m sure our little domestic goddess here spent hours slaving over the take-out menu.’

  ‘Now, now, thin ice,’ she says, waving her finger at him.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, what else did you achieve today, sweetie?’

  ‘Well, the milk in our fridge is now good cheese.’

  They all roar laughing. I’m the only one who doesn’t. Jo cops it, just as we’re clearing up. ‘You OK, hon?’

  ‘Our dearest Cassandra is in a snot with me, I think,’ Charlene smiles sweetly at Valentine. ‘It’s kind of a long story, but basically she doesn’t approve of who I’m dating. And somehow, in this house, that makes me la crème de la scum.’

  ‘I don’t think Valentine is really interested in this,’ I say in a firm don’t-push-me-do-you-have-any-idea-how-close-I-am-to-exploding tone of voice.

  ‘And the mortal sin I committed,’ she goes on, blithely ignoring the daggers look I’m giving her, ‘is that I went straight from seeing one guy to another. I know, I know, it beggars belief.’

  ‘I often go straight from one date to another,’ says Marc with a C, probably under the impression he is lightening the mood. ‘I like to keep all my balls up in the air, if you’re with me.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Charlene says, looking right at me now, knowing full well the effect she’s having. ‘I guess some of us find it easier than others to find boyfriends. Why are you looking at me like that, Cassie? Are you hearing voices in your head? ’Cos if you are, let me tell you something, none of them have dress sense.’

  Right, that’s it, gloves off. I honestly think I’ll have to be held back and obviously so do the others because they’re both in like Flynn to diffuse this.

  ‘Back off right now, Charlene,’ says Jo warningly, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘Ooh, and we’ll have a saucer of milk for table five,’ says Marc with a C, eyes lit up, but then he loves a good ding-dong. Gives him a chance to exercise his legendary conflict-resolution skills.

  It’s Valentine to the rescue, though. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what. I have to go to some Comedy Cellar now, sure don’t ask me why, but, the thing is, why don’t you come with me, Cassie? I’m not going to know a sinner there. I’d love the moral support.’

  Brilliant idea. Love it. Anything that gets me out of this house and away from the Tipsy Queen is fine by me. ‘Gimme two secs to ring a taxi and lash on a bit of lipstick, in that order.’

  There’s a half-drunk glass of wine on the table in front of me. I knock it back in one.

  Oh dear. I don’t quite realize how much I’ve had to drink until the crisp, cold October night air hits me.

  ‘You all right?’ says Valentine as we bounce around the back of the taxi on our merry way into town.

  ‘Fine, fine. I’m just sorry you had to witness that little scene, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t be worrying. Sure, I grew up with three sisters, which was kind of like being a permanent ringmaster on The Jerry Springer Show.’

  He doesn’t ask me any more, perfect gentleman that he is, which suits me just fine.

  A great night out, a bit of a laugh and maybe even a few more drinks is just what the doctor ordered right now. A bit of uncomplicated fun, that’s all.

  ‘The Comedy Cellar’ is actually a misnomer, as it’s basically just a room at the back of a pub in the city centre. It’s packed and buzzy as we arrive (a bit late) and the comedy improv is in full swing. God, this is the perfect antidote to the tense evening I’ve had so far. There’s a brilliant crowd, all heckling and boozing and shouting up suggestions at the comedy troupe onstage.

  ‘Can we have
a location for this sketch?’ says a tall thin comedian from the stage, who kind of looks like a young Rowan Atkinson.

  ‘A toilet cubicle!’ some wag from the audience shouts back.

  ‘OK,’ says the Rowan Atkinson lookalike. ‘So then I’m an Academy Award winner who doesn’t speak English and all the others think I’m an illegal immigrant who’s set up my own country with my own flag and claimed diplomatic immunity inside . . . a toilet cubicle.’

  The crowd roar and cheer and, as Valentine and I find an empty booth at the back of the club, the sketch gets under way.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ says Valentine. ‘Another glass of wine?’

  ‘Mmm, love one,’ I say and I’m just about to insist that I pay, because he invited me, when a tall, very pretty, dark-haired girl over by the bar catches my eye. I can see her looking over at us, or more particularly, in Valentine’s direction. Out of nowhere I get a flash.

  She’s not Irish, she’s . . . Danish? Could that be right? A student, I think. Something to do with computers. Ohhh, she won’t be going home alone tonight and that’s for sure. I think of all the hordes of women wanting to date our Valentine, she’s first up . . .

  ‘Cassie? Are you all right?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just – do you see that girl over by the bar? Long, dark hair, leather jacket?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Nothing, I just think this might be your lucky night, that’s all. Go. Flirt. Have fun. Ask her to sit over here with us, if you like.’

  ‘Jaypurs, that is something else, the way you can see things that haven’t even happened yet. Unbelievable.’

  ‘Why thank you very much, I’ll be here all week,’ I say, messing and dropping a theatrical bow. God, I must be drunk.

  ‘And can you do it all the time? On demand, kind of thing?’

  ‘Hmm, not on demand, no. Sometimes it can even be a bit tricky. I have to be relaxed and open and I really have to concentrate, which for me can be a bit of a problem. Oh, and one other absolute requirement. The most important one of all, probably.’