I Never Fancied Him Anyway

by Claudia Carroll

  I’m late and I’m running now when another text comes through on my mobile. I nearly drop my handbag in my rush to find my phone, I’m so convinced that it’s Jack again. Serves me right for being cocky. It’s Jo.

  WAS JUST LEAVING AMNESTY WHEN CHARLENE CALLED IN. SHE KNOWS. EVERYTHING. SHE’S COMING WITH ME TO MEET U. FOREWARNED IS FOREARMED.

  Oh shit.

  It’s only much, much later that I get a chance to figure out the chain/trail of shame. Piecing it together roughly, it appears to have proceeded something along these lines.

  Location: the Channel Seven make-up room

  Time: 7.30 a.m. this morning approximately

  LISA TO DAMIEN, THE MAKE-UP GUY: Hot gossip from last night! Now I’m not one to blather out of turn, but I was at the Comedy Cellar last night and I did happen to see our executive producer kissing the face off our resident psychic.

  Time: 7.35 a.m. approx.

  DAMIEN TO MARY (as he’s lashing on her foundation): Ooh, do you wanna know what I heard? Jack and Cassie are going out with each other. For definite. They were seen together and everything. Apparently, this has been going on for ages. You heard it here first, baby.

  Time: 8 a.m. approx.

  MARY TO THE FLOOR MANAGER: Just while you’re talking to Jack there on your headphones, will you congratulate him for me? I’m over the moon that he’s moving in with that lovely young girl. I’m very fond of Cassie. You can tell him I totally approve.

  Time: 8.05 a.m. approx.

  FLOOR MANAGER TO OLIVER (during a commercial break): Nice piece of stuff Jack’s been seeing all this time. Lovely legs. I always wondered how she landed such a prime slot for herself so fast and with no telly experience or anything. Now we know, I suppose.

  Time: about 30 minutes ago, but then I’m only guessing

  OLIVER (traitorous git that he is) TO CHARLENE: Well, your ex didn’t exactly let the grass grow under his feet . . . madly in love with your flatmate . . . all over the station, etc. etc.

  Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.

  By the time I get to Browns, they’re both in there at a quiet table at the back of the shop, which could turn out to be very handy in the event of bloodshed.

  Charlene is looking very red-eyed. Bad sign.

  I decide to speak first, on the principle that attack is the best form of defence. ‘OK, Charlene, straight off, I want you to know that I am so, so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am, but you have to let me explain—’

  She doesn’t let me get to the end of my sentence. ‘You’re sorry that I found out, you mean?’

  ‘Will you let her finish?’ Jo says to Charlene. I’m so grateful she’s here. At times like this, having a referee is always handy.

  ‘Well, (a) I was drunk and (b) it was only a snog. That’s it. I was back home, alone and in bed by . . . well, I can’t remember when exactly, you were both long gone to sleep, but that’s all it was. I promise you.’

  Charlene starts to sniffle. ‘Jack could have been the love of my life, you know.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ says Jo, but she’s actually being gentle. Trying to lighten things up a bit, bless her. ‘You said that about each and every one of Westlife.’

  ‘So you’re taking Cassie’s side in this? Oh well, there’s a surprise.’

  Now I swear I can practically see the hackles on the back of Jo’s neck slowly, very slowly, beginning to rise. ‘You know, maybe you need to grow up here a bit. Two single people got together last night. So what? Is it really such a big deal? As they say in the States, build a bridge and get over it.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Josephine. How do you think I feel? I had to hear this about fifth-hand from Oliver. Everyone at Channel Seven seems to know all about it, but not me.’

  ‘Look,’ I say, trying to calm things down. ‘I know it’s terrible the way that you found out, but honestly, I only woke up half an hour ago. Of course I was going to tell you. It’s hardly my fault if events took over, now is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not my fault if you’ve broken an unwritten rule of friendship. Stay away from your girlfriend’s exes.’

  There’s a silence. That’s kind of the ultimate bring-down and she has me there.

  ‘Now, in all fairness,’ says Jo, a bit more calmly now, ‘it’s not as if you haven’t moved on yourself. If I can just jog your sieve-like memory, what about Oliver?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffs, ‘my rebound guy. You know what really upsets me more that anything else, Cassie? Only yesterday, you were picking a fight with me, demanding to know if he was the only guy in town I could have gone after. They were your exact words. So here we are, twenty-four hours later; same question back to you.’

  OK, if I didn’t feel bad enough before this, I really do now.

  She plays her advantage to the fullest. ‘There you were, up on the moral high ground, like some kind of ethical watchdog, telling me how I could and couldn’t behave and then you go out last night and . . .’

  She trails off, thank God, and she doesn’t even know the half of it. How is she to know the way I’ve felt about Jack pretty much since the night they met? When I clearly saw that I would fall for this guy and I didn’t tell her?

  Guilt sucks, it really does. I will fry in hell for this, and that’s if I’m lucky and God’s in a good mood on Judgement Day. Oh, and Charlene’s started to cry now, just to make me feel worse.

  ‘The image of you two together is, like, seared on my retina for ever,’ she says, dabbing her eyes. ‘How could you, Cassie? I thought you were my friend?’

  ‘Come on,’ says Jo after a long pause and a concerned look over in my direction. ‘This is bad enough without the emotional guilt thrown in. You have a chance to be the bigger person here, Charlene. Can’t you just accept that this has happened, put it behind you and move on? This conversation demeans everyone.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, getting up abruptly. ‘Just so you’re aware, Cassandra, you have now officially become top of my list of enemies, bypassing George Bush Junior and that incredibly lucky cow who married Russell Crowe.’

  ‘Charlene, sit down, please, let’s be adults here,’ I say, half aware that everyone in the restaurant is now looking over at this highly entertaining side-show.

  ‘Forget it,’ she says, pulling on her coat, and for a split second I think she’s going to throw her half-drunk cappuccino over me in a Bette Davis-style diva gesture. ‘I think you’re aware of my personal motto. Forgive and remember.’ And out she goes.

  I slump back into the chair, shaking, actually shaking.

  ‘Are you OK?’ says Jo, squeezing my hand.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Tantrums and tiaras, that’s all that’s wrong with her. She’ll get over it.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Her behaviour is completely irrational, you do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Cassie? Are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just thinking about . . .’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s just . . . I like him, Jo, I really do. And I don’t know, but I think he might, just conceivably might, feel the same way about me. And that this could, for once in my life, you know, actually be something. This could have legs. He could be a keeper.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful news,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘I’ve never heard you say that about anyone before and I’m thrilled for you, I really am.’

  ‘Except that I think we both know how Charlene is going to see it. Jack versus her. A twenty-year friendship versus a potential lover. No matter which way you look at it, one thing is for certain. She’s going to make me choose.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE TAROT DECK

  THE JUSTICE CARD

  Ok. Who Among us hasn’t heartily wished that they could turn the clock back, at some point in their lives? This card symbolizes that it’s time to make amends. Speak your mind, clear your conscience and if you feel an apology is warranted
, offer one immediately. If it’s accepted, all will be well, harmony will be restored and the past can be put to rest.

  If not, you’re going to hell anyway. You might as well dance . . .

  NEEDLESS TO SAY, I’m beyond useless when I do eventually get into work. Can’t see a thing. Nothing.

  I spend the guts of a full hour with one letter in my hand, madly trying to pick up something with absolutely no joy. And it’s a great letter too, one I’d normally be able to deal with in no time. One I’d really enjoy giving out advice to, as well.

  Dear Cassandra,

  I am stuck in such a rut and desperately need your help. The problem is that the last few relationships I’ve had have all involved men whom I always seem to meet when they’re in the throes of a crisis. Example: the last guy was going through a very messy, painful divorce, two small kids, you know yourself. Awful, just awful. So what did I do? Picked him up, put him back together again and made him all better.

  And then he left me. It’s as if they see me as some kind of emotional fixer, but the minute they’re good as new and ready to go out and face the world again, they don’t want to know me because, let’s face it, I knew them when they were broken. I’m a reminder of bad times. In some warped way, I symbolize the past and now, of course, they hate their past. Do you ever see the pattern breaking, Cassandra? I so don’t want to be alone. Happily married to the right guy is what I want, if it’s not asking too much.

  Please, please help me.

  Lost and lonely in Dublin. xxx

  The Dragon Lady’s not here, so the office is noisy and buzzy, but even tuning out all the normal high-jinks and gossip doesn’t work. And there’s no sign of Valentine, the one person I’d actually have loved to talk last night over with. Probably still with Danish girl. Oh well.

  At about five-ish, I throw in the towel and decide to call it a day.

  ‘All right, old thing?’ Sir Bob asks me as I gather up my things. ‘Not at all like you to be so quiet. And if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking most dreadfully pale.’

  ‘Late night last night, that’s all,’ I say, doing my best to laugh it off. ‘I’ll be back on form soon enough, don’t you worry about me.’

  He escorts me to the lift, thorough gentleman that he is, says nothing, asks nothing, just presses the ground-floor button for me and waves me off.

  Probably thinks I have ‘women’s problems’, as he’d most likely say.

  It’s already pitch dark and as I’m walking home, desperately trying to clear my head and decide what in the name of God I’m going to do, Marc with a C texts – one of his why-leave-a-brief-message-when-a-radio-play-will-do-instead-type texts.

  AM WITH CHARLENE. JUST TO LET U KNOW THAT SHE’S MOVED OUT OF YR HOUSE AND BACK INTO HER OWN. DIDN’T WANT U TO GO HOME AND THINK YOU’D BEEN BURGLED. SHE’S V UP AND DOWN BUT AM TALKING TO HER, WORKING ON HER AND V. HOPEFUL SHE’LL COME ROUND EVENTUALLY. LIKE IN A YEAR OR SO. ANYWAY, I STILL LOVE U, MXXXX

  Bloody hell.

  There’s a taxi with the light on just driving past me. I don’t even hesitate, I barely even pause to weigh up whether this is a good idea or a bad idea. I hail it down and jump in. My phone beeps again as another text comes through.

  This time it’s Jack. Again.

  LET ME KNOW UR OK. THAT DINNER INVITE IS STILL OPEN. J.X.

  P.S. U AND ME R THE TALK OF CHANNEL SEVEN, SO IT SEEMS!

  ‘Where to, love?’ the driver asks me.

  I don’t even think about it, just give him Charlene’s address. I can’t contact Jack, at least not just yet, so I switch my phone off. I have to do this first. Get it over with. It won’t be pleasant or easy, but it would be on my conscience if I didn’t.

  For the first time in my life, I’m actually nervous walking up the long driveway to Charlene’s house/mansion. Marilyn’s car is parked there, but there’s no sign of Mr Ferguson’s. Phew.

  Marilyn lets me in and is so warm and welcoming, I’m left thinking: Does she even know what happened? That, in the space of twelve hours, I’ve been demoted from best friend to spawn of Satan?

  Hard to know. On one hand, Charlene can’t abide the sight of Marilyn, but on the other, whenever she’s going through a crisis, everyone, and by that I really do mean everyone, right down to her eyebrow-waxing lady, knows.

  ‘Hey, am I allowed to say congratulations?’ I ask as Marilyn takes my coat.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, blushing very prettily. ‘Thanks so much, Cassie. It was a bit of a shock, but I think – well, I hope that, in time, Charlene might, you know, come around to the idea. She’s just upstairs in her room, with Marc with a C, if you want to go on up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I gulp, dreading it.

  ‘Cassie, do you mind if I say something?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘The thing is, it really was a terrible row between Charlene and her dad, but you know, there’s nothing I’d love more than for us all to build bridges. Maybe she and I will never have the friendship you all do, but, well, I’d like her to know that I’ll always be here for her. I know this is hard for her, I really do, but there’s nothing that would give me more happiness than for her to be involved with this baby. Is that asking too much, do you think?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m really over the moon for you,’ I say, hugging her warmly, really meaning it. Wow. Lucky little spirit to be born to such a fab mother, I’m thinking. And it looks as if Charlene might, in time, come round to the whole idea, given that she’s physically moved back here, so . . . well, it’s an ill wind and all that.

  Of course, the main reason she’s back home again is because she can’t bear to share the same airspace as me, but that’s what I’m here to deal with. I hope. Anyway, I’m on my way upstairs, just thinking about how lovely Marilyn is and how lucky Charlene is that her father isn’t marrying some gold-digging horror story, as he could so easily have done. OK, so maybe she and her father will never see eye to eye, but at the very least Marilyn is a good soul and Charlene’ll always have her in her corner.

  ‘Hey,’ says Marilyn, interrupting my happy thoughts about her. ‘Any flashes on whether it’s a boy or a girl? I’m only asking, because, for Charlene’s sake, I think a boy might be that bit easier for her to come to terms with.’

  I don’t even have to think about it. I get an instant flash. Wow again.

  It’s Mr Ferguson and Marilyn, standing in a church, at the baby’s christening. They’re both beaming with pride, gazing down at this tiny bundle, swathed in oceans of Chantilly lace.

  ‘Will the godparents step forward, please?’ an elderly priest asks the congregation.

  This is a minor miracle. The godfather, who I don’t recognize, steps up to the font and beside him, looking strangely pleased and even proud to be godmother, is Charlene.

  ‘By what name do you wish the child to be known?’ asks the priest.

  Marilyn looks adoringly down at her little bundle, then back up again. ‘James Henry Charles.’ She smiles and I’d swear I can almost see her winking at Charlene . . .

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ says Marilyn, correctly gauging the look on my face.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not telling.’

  ‘Ah, go on.’

  ‘Nope. My lips are sealed. But you are going to be so happy.’

  She goes back into the drawing room, delighted with life, and I head upstairs, feeling a little bit more confident now. This mightn’t be so bad. I mean, Charlene’s had all day to get her head around what happened. OK, so she did move out, which could be interpreted as a bad sign, but then I am here, I have made an effort to at least try and find some middle ground. To show that I do actually value our years of friendship.

  Above a fella. Yes, even a fella as divine as Jack.

  Right, just hold that thought, Cassie.

  I knock gingerly on her dressing-room door.

  I have to wait for ages before Marc with a C eventually opens it. ‘Hey, honey,’ he whispers, kissing me. ‘Thanks fo
r coming.’

  ‘Why the low voice?’ You’d swear there was either (a) an invalid or (b) someone just out of an intensive-care unit in the room with him.

  ‘Who is it?’ I can hear Charlene asking from her bedroom, which is a kind of inner sanctum through a big French double door.

  Deep breath. ‘It’s me.’

  There’s a pause and now I can hear her getting out of bed.

  ‘You must prepare yourself for a shock,’ whispers Marc with a C in that respectful tone of voice people use whenever there’s been a bereavement. ‘I’m not kidding, she has Macy Grey hair.’

  Charlene appears at the doorway, wearing her comfy pink fleecy pyjamas which I happen to know she only ever wears when she’s in the throes of a crisis. She looks at me in deep disgust, that same disdainful sneer she reserves for women who wear last season’s lip colour.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says. ‘I thought it might have been Jo. You remember Jo? My friend who didn’t run off with my ex a day after we broke up?’

  ‘How are you?’ I ask, ignoring the jibe and deliberately keeping my voice cool.

  ‘Do you really want to know how I am? Because I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Charlene, look—’ I say, but Marc with a C interrupts me.

  ‘Can I just say one thing? If we were all French, there’d be no problem.’

  Bless him, I think he’s trying to lighten the mood, but some instinct tells me to just keep on talking while I still have the chance. ‘Charlene, I hated the way we left things today, but I really have to tell you—’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ she says. ‘Don’t Hallmark make sorry-I-ran-off-with-your-ex-boyfriend cards?’

  ‘Come on, sweetie, let her finish,’ says Marc with a C.

  OK, this will be awful, but I’m going to try to get it all over with in one sentence. ‘I think – I honestly feel that . . . Well, look, here it is. I think that I might have feelings for Jack, I really do, and I’m not certain but I think that he might have them for me as well and – the thing is, this has been on my mind all day – I really feel the right thing to do is to be completely straight with you. It wasn’t a fling. At least I don’t think that it was. He has asked me out and I think I’d like to take him up on it. But obviously not if it’s going to upset you or mean the end of our friendship. And I want to know where you stand on this.’