I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Shh. You won’t tell anyone, will you? My secret would be out and I’d be ruined.’ OK, now my head is starting to spin a bit from all the wine I’ve drunk. Will I tell him or will I not? Ah, what the hell.

  ‘Not a word. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘There’s this guy and, oh Valentine, I just fancy him so much. I’m seriously warm for his form, as Marc with a C would say. Anyway, the thing is, I’ve discovered through a highly embarrassing process of trial and error that whenever he’s within a ten-foot radius of me, I’m about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Can’t see a bloody thing. Nothing.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Lucky you found out. So do you just avoid him when you’re doing your column?’

  ‘The column, believe me, is the doddley part of my working day. The hard part is when I’m on TV.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because that’s where he works. Can you believe it?’

  ‘So what do you do when you’re out at Channel Seven? If this man is around, I mean?’

  ‘What I always do. Wing it. Hope for the best.’

  ‘Ah now, come on, Cassie, you can’t leave me in the dark like this. I’m not letting you off the hook till you tell me who he is. A cameraman, maybe? Or somebody famous, someone I might know? A newsreader? That fella that does the National Lottery? The girls at home are all mad about him.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’ I giggle, thinking: bit late for any kind of discretion now.

  ‘Well, he’ll be a lucky man, whoever he is. A gorgeous girl like you? Sure, all you have to do is pick and choose.’

  Oh, isn’t Valentine just adorable? Lucky, lucky Danish girl.

  ‘I wish my life was that straightforward, I really do. But there’re . . . Well, let’s just say that there are complications about this guy. He kind of falls into the untouchable category.’

  ‘Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey.’ And I can immediately see what he’s thinking. The fella I fancy is married. With a large family. And I’m the worst kind of wannabe home-wrecker.

  ‘Valentine, I promise, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not the case. Honestly.’

  ‘Right, grand. Sure, I was only thinking that if the Channel Seven guy isn’t for you, there’s a fella just come in the door who hasn’t stopped staring over at you.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Someone who recognizes me from TV, maybe? Ooh, how cool is that? I’ve always fancied being recognized, maybe even asked for my autograph . . . Hmm . . .

  ‘There, he’s coming over.’

  I don’t believe it. Serves me right for being so bloody indiscreet. My karma really is instant. It’s Jack, with Lisa, the stage manager, who’s looking so young I’m almost wondering how they let her in without ID. She spots a guy at the bar, waves and goes straight over to him. Then I barely have time to gather my thoughts before Jack’s standing in front of me, looking yummy, as usual, in jeans and a chunky cable-knit sweater in deep green, exactly the same colour as his eyes.

  Stop your bloody drooling, Cassie. For once in you life, can’t you just act cool?

  ‘Hi, Cassie, great to see you!’

  ‘Emm . . . hi there . . . emm . . . Jack.’

  Brilliant, Cassie. My, what an incredibly gifted orator you are.

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’ he says, hugging me warmly. ‘Didn’t know you were a stand-up comedy fan.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were either.’

  ‘That’s a pal of mine up there,’ he says, looking up at the stage and indicating the Rowan Atkinson lookalike. ‘Jim Keane. We were in college together.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I came here with Valentine’ – Oh no! That makes it sound as if he’s my date. Back pedal, fast, very fast – ‘who’s just started work at Tattle magazine. Only today, in fact. Ooh, he rang up the Breakfast Club on Monday, do you remember?’

  ‘Ah, you’re that Valentine!’ says Jack, shaking him warmly by the hand. ‘How could I ever forget that call? Hey, you’ll have to call out to our production office at Channel Seven sometime. There must be at least two dozen messages waiting there for you. All from women, all wanting dates, no less.’

  ‘You work at Channel Seven, do you?’ says Valentine, all innocence. ‘Maybe you know this mysterious fella Cassie’s been telling me about? You know, the one who makes her lose her gift whenever he’s around?’

  ‘What was that?’ says Jack, all ears.

  Shit. Now, I may be a bit tipsy, but the bit of my brain that’s relatively sober is screaming at me MASSIVE damage limitation required – now. ‘Oh, don’t mind him, he’s only messing. Valentine, come on, your round.’

  Brilliant, get him up to the bar. Just get him away and then I’ll come up with something . . . anything . . .

  Valentine, however, shows absolutely no inclination to budge. ‘Do you see, I was only asking Cassie if there was anyone special in her life, and she was telling me there is someone, a guy that works on the TV show who she can’t go near for some mysterious reason—’

  ‘Valentine, I really can’t tell you how much I’m just gagging for that glass of wine,’ I almost snap at him in a shut-up-for-the-love-of-God tone of voice. He may be a lovely, warm-hearted man but bloody hell, tact is not one of his more obvious qualities. However, I continue to glare at him and it seems to work.

  ‘Oh right so, on the way, and what’ll you have, Jack?’ he asks, eventually taking the hint.

  ‘Guinness would be great, thanks.’

  He heads for the bar, leaving Jack and me alone. We sit down in the booth and I immediately make a valiant effort to try to get off this highly embarrassing topic.

  ‘So, emm . . . you’re here with Lisa?’ Oh shit, did that sound as if I’m suspicious that there’s something going on? Because I’m fairly sure there isn’t. No, scrap that, I know there isn’t.

  ‘Yes, she wanted to come with me. To meet her boyfriend.’ He points up the word slightly as if to say, ‘I am here on my own, actually.’

  As am I. OK, change the subject.

  ‘So, that guy onstage is a friend of yours, then? He’s hysterical. So funny. Kind of reminds me of—’

  Jack’s having none of it, though. ‘So you have a crush on someone out at Channel Seven?’ He looks down at me in that twinkly-eyed way he has when he’s teasing. ‘Anyone I might know?’

  My stomach starts to flip and . . . oh shit, I’m really in trouble here. He’s sitting close to me, so close I can smell that yummy aftershave he always wears.

  You’re going to have to say something, Cassie. You can’t just sit here, mute for the rest of the night . . .

  ‘Oh, pay no attention to Valentine, he’s just trying to embarrass me, that’s all. You see, I tried to fix him up with my best friend Jo earlier. You remember Jo?’

  ‘Yes, I remember Jo.’

  ‘With zero per cent success, so then we got here and I had a flash about – do you see that girl over there at the bar?’

  ‘Certainly do.’

  ‘I had a flash that they’d end up together, for now at least, because you see the thing about Valentine is that there’re going to be literally hundreds of dates ahead of him – for the foreseeable future, that is—’

  ‘Emm, Cassie?’ he interrupts gently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hate to cut you off mid-ramble—’

  ‘I wasn’t rambling.’

  ‘Yes you were. Grade A rambling. Answer the question. Who’s this guy who’s taken your fancy at Channel Seven?’ He’s smiling down at me now, almost as if he’s daring me to answer him.

  ‘Oh look, they’re asking for us to shout up more suggestions at the stage,’ I almost stutter.

  ‘You are so great at changing the subject.’

  ‘Was not.’

  ‘Was too. OK then. Have it your way. If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to guess. Doubt that it’s Oliver—’

  ‘No bloody way!’

  ‘Besides, based on what I saw this morning,
I think he might be, shall we say, involved elsewhere.’

  Then he did see Charlene throwing herself at him. Oh God, this is just so embarrassing. I glance back over to the bar to see if there’s any sign of Valentine getting back with those drinks, but he’s too busy chatting up Danish girl.

  Jack doesn’t let up though; it’s almost as if he’s having great crack with this.

  ‘And for some reason, you can’t go near this guy.’

  ‘You know, you’re being very rude to your friend up on stage. You should really concentrate on the gig.’

  ‘He’ll understand. How often do I get you all to myself?’

  Oh my God, did he really just say that?

  ‘I’m just idly wondering here . . .’

  ‘Where are our drinks? Isn’t Valentine taking ages?’

  ‘. . . if the reason this guy is so out of bounds might just be that . . .’

  I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.

  ‘. . . he briefly dated a friend of yours.’

  We look at each other for what seems like a long, long time.

  He breaks the silence. ‘Cassie, for the record, my so-called involvement with your friend consisted of one night, where, yes, I admit I did kiss her, but she was falling-over drunk, couldn’t get a taxi so she came back to my place, where I put her on the sofa and let her sleep it off. Then she kept calling and calling so I met her for a quick drink and then, shortly after that, I realized that, nice as Charlene is, I couldn’t be involved with her any more.’

  ‘Why?’ I’m on the edge of my seat. No pressure or anything, but my entire future happiness could depend on the next sentence that comes out of his mouth.

  ‘Because it’s not right to be with someone when you fancy their best friend, now is it?’

  Oh my God. I can’t speak, I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Cassie, I don’t want you to think badly of me. I promise you, I didn’t string Charlene along, whatever you might think. I tried to finish things with her on at least two occasions. Firstly, when she invited me to her house for a pizza after work, I thought: This is perfect, I’ll talk to her, explain that I’d prefer it if we were just friends. But when I got there, I found she was having a formal sit-down dinner for what felt like about two hundred very scary-looking people.’

  I shudder, just remembering that awful night too . . .

  ‘Then a couple of days later she called out to Channel Seven and I thought: Right, this is the perfect time. I’m not someone who can just have these God-awful break-up conversations over the phone. So I took her for a drink, but it turned out she had a family crisis going on, so what could I do? I was stymied, there was nothing else for me to do but postpone the inevitable. You know, there’s never a good time to say these things, but if something’s not right, it’s not right.’

  His hand is so close to mine now, so close we’re almost touching. It’s driving me nuts. The physical attraction I’m feeling for him right now is so unbelievably overwhelming . . .

  Think of Charlene, think of Charlene. There are rules about this sort of moral dilemma . . .

  But it doesn’t work. Maybe I’m too drunk, but when Charlene comes into my head, all I can think about is that awful row we had today and how furious I was – still am – with her.

  ‘Cassie?’ he asks gently, looking directly at me.

  He’s moved in even closer. And I’m not imagining it.

  ‘Do you think it would be OK if you and I, sometime, in the future I mean, when – you know – when everyone’s moved on a bit . . . And just so you’re clear, by everyone, I mean Charlene. Anyway, my question is, would it be OK if I . . .?’

  He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I look up at him; he smiles down, and we kiss.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE THREE OF SWORDS CARD

  Oh, Not Good. A time of hugely intense emotion, pain and distress. Can often symbolize a separation of some kind from a loved one. A tough time, involving friction, dispute and a lot of malicious gossip. This period will be nothing short of torment while it lasts, deeply painful for all three people concerned.

  That’s the thing about this card, you see. It almost always involves a triangle . . .

  IN THE END, it’s like Chinese whispers. Awful, awful, beyond awful . . . I wake up and have to stare at the ceiling for ages before last night all comes flooding back to me. OK, it’s not so bad. As they say on all those TV shows set in the White House, you know, like The West Wing, I have spin control. All I did was kiss Jack, that’s it.

  At least I think that’s it. Shit, why did I have to drink so much? My hangover is already starting to kick in and I’m not kidding, it feels as if a troupe of Irish dancers are doing Riverdance inside my brain. That and the fact that my mouth is as dry as parchment.

  No, no, hang on, this mightn’t be too bad. I remember Jack putting me into the back of a taxi – good. Then I remember him hopping into the taxi beside me – OK, maybe not so good. Then I remember the taxi taking me home – good. Then I distinctly remember not inviting Jack in – better than good, excellent. I am a model of virtue and discipline. Practically nun-like, you might say. Yes, just keep telling myself that.

  The situation may yet be salvageable. I mean, I’m not so much of an old trollop that I spent the night with him. And one drunken snog doesn’t exactly make me Mata Hari, now does it?

  The only thing that’s making me feel, if possible, worse than the hangover I’m nursing is the one, unavoidable hurdle that lies ahead. Oh God, the very thought of it is making my tummy churn so much that I have to concentrate really, really hard on not getting sick when suddenly my mobile phone rings.

  Shit. Can’t find it.

  I spill the contents of my handbag out on to the bedroom floor and eventually, yes, there it is, under a mound of lipstick, hairbrushes and yellow Post-it stickers with predictions for the magazine scribbled all over them.

  Oh, thank God. It’s Jo.

  ‘Hey, hon, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeeee . . . no.’

  ‘Oohkaaaaay,’ she says in that drawn-out way she has when she can sense there’s something up. Told you she could sound you out quicker than a sniffer dog at Dublin Airport. Any day. ‘Something to do with last night, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I can’t tell her over the phone, just can’t. Mainly because I already know precisely what she’s going to say, in her role as the group’s moral barometer. And I know what’s ahead deep down myself, except I’m just trying to postpone the inevitable, that’s all. Until my head stops thumping, at least.

  I have to tell Charlene.

  Everything, in glorious Technicolor. I know it’s unavoidable, I know it’s just a question of getting it over with and that’s all there is to it. I just need to talk things over with Jo first, that’s all. She’ll help me to think straight, put all this into perspective and – who knows? – maybe even come up with a few good lines for the speech I’m going to have to deliver to Charlene at some point during the day.

  ‘So, how soon can you meet me?’

  ‘Oh, this sounds like an emergency.’

  ‘If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. Advice needed. Rapidly.’

  ‘OK, how about Browns in half an hour?’

  ‘Bless and double bless you.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You sound brutal. Never even heard you coming home last night. It must have been all hours.’

  ‘Trust me, it’s better if I tell you face to face. You’re less likely to judge me.’

  ‘I could never judge you,’ she says and I can almost hear the worry in her voice. God love her, now she’s probably thinking either (a) I caused a hit-and-run accident or (b) in a sudden blood rush to the head, I held up a late-night cashpoint on my way home.

  ‘See you in half an hour, hon,’ I say, deliberately hanging up, knowing full well that if I don’t, she’ll only wheedle it out of me anyway.

  The house is stone-dead qu
iet, which is fantastic; it means Charlene’s out. I glance at the clock on my phone. It can’t be half-eleven, can it? Bloody hell, how long was I asleep for?

  I’m just about to jump into the shower, in the vain hope that it’ll clear my head, when I notice there’s an unread text message on my phone. From Jack, sent at three a.m. this morning.

  HEY SLEEPING BEAUTY. HOPE U ENJOYED TONIGHT AS MUCH AS I DID. WILL CALL U AFTER WORK TOMORROW. DINNER MAYBE? JXXX

  Oh God, my heart does a somersault. He wants to see me again. Socially, as a date, I mean, a proper date, outside of work. Thank God he doesn’t regret last night, at least. I don’t know what I’d do otherwise, but one thing is for certain: this isn’t someone who I can write off and say I never fancied him anyway. No use invoking the catchphrase here; it just won’t work. Not this time. For once in my life, I have absolutely no idea what lies ahead; all I know for certain is that, as far as Jack is concerned, my catchphrase is completely and utterly defunct.

  You know, maybe, just maybe, everything will be OK. I know it’s asking a lot, but who’s to say Charlene won’t be completely cool about this? Maybe she’ll even be happy for me. Yes, I know I’ve transgressed an unwritten rule of friendship by snogging the face off her ex not two days after they broke up, but, you know, miracles do happen, don’t they? And she did ask Oliver out only yesterday, didn’t she? OK, so he’s clearly a rebounder and this is the same Oliver who I haven’t had a single good word to say about pretty much since I met him . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll be doing well if she doesn’t rip out one of my ovaries.

  I have a lightning-quick shower, get dressed, lash on a bit of make-up and am out of the door fifteen minutes later, walking as fast as my throbbing head will allow to the coffee shop where I’m meeting Jo.

  The important thing here, I remind myself, is to be completely straight and upfront with Charlene. I mean, if the boot were on the other foot, if she’d had a fling with my ex, yes, of course I’d be . . . a bit taken aback, naturally, but the two things I’d appreciate most of all on her part would be (a) honesty and (b) directness. A quick coffee/strategy meeting with Jo, then I’ll call her and come and meet her wherever she is. Get it over and done with early – well, relatively early in the day. Not to mention while I’m still a bit anaesthetized with last night’s alcohol.