‘That the guests tonight appear . . .’
‘Yeah?’ Now I’m thinking: What, naked?
‘In fancy dress.’
‘What?’
‘It’s only for a laugh, that’s all. All the other guests have agreed to it. Oliver Hall has already nabbed a Captain Jack Sparrow costume for himself. You should see him. He’s upstairs in make-up prancing around the place like he’s Johnny Depp.’
My jaw drops to my collarbone and I look at her in total shock, which poor Lisa misinterprets. I’m honestly not a bit bothered about going on in costume, but Oliver? What the hell is he doing here?
‘Oliver Hall? He’s going on tonight as well?’
‘Yeah. But look, Cassie, if the costume thing is a problem for you . . .’
‘No, no, not at all. Emm, I don’t want to appear nosey or anything, but can I ask you what Oliver’s going on to talk about?’
‘He’s going on with you.’
‘WHAT?’ OK, now I think I might just need a brandy.
‘Didn’t anyone talk to you about this, Cassie?’
‘Well, no,’ I say, racking my brains to think. Did anyone call me or email me and did I just forget, like I normally do with anything really important?
No, no, I know I’ve had a lot on my mind, but I’m fairly sure that they didn’t.
Lisa checks the show’s running order on a clipboard she’s carrying. ‘Yup. There’s an environmentalist on first, then you and Oliver up next, then we go to a commercial break.’
Jesus, I need to sit down. ‘But, Lisa, to talk about what? I thought I was just here to have a chat about Halloween and, I dunno, maybe it would be a bit like on the Breakfast Club, where people ring in and . . . you know . . .’ I trail off lamely. The unspoken part of my sentence is ‘and I’ll just be able to wing it like I normally do.’ Shit, here I am about to go on live television, completely and utterly unprepared. Serves me right for spending the last few days going around in a complete and utter daze.
You roaring bloody eejit, Cassie, you are about to get your comeuppance and boy, do you deserve it.
‘OK, stay cool,’ says Lisa, popping a chewing gum into her mouth. ‘I’ll find the producer and see if I can find out a bit more for you. Relax, you’ll be grand. For God’s sake, you’re Cassandra. Everyone knows you’re brilliant.’
Yeah, everyone except me, I’m thinking. Oh, sweet baby Jesus and the orphans.
An hour later I’m ready to go on, feeling as sick as a parrot and within an inch of sacrificing my name and reputation (if I still have one, that is) by committing the most unprofessional act of all and running away.
It’s sorely tempting. By the time I get down to wardrobe, the only two remaining costumes are Marie Antoinette or Alice from Alice in Wonderland. I try both of them on but Marie Antoinette’s corset is making me weak and light-headed and, given that there’s a good chance I might pass out anyway, I opt for the far safer bet of Alice. Blue hairband, big white starched apron with a bow, the full Monty. I look ludicrous. Marc with a C and Jo will crack up when I appear in this, and who could blame them? But for the moment that’s the least of my worries.
I’m pacing up and down in the dressing room, all made up with big red rosy cheeks that make me look (if possible) even dafter, when Lisa knocks on the door.
‘You’re on,’ she says. ‘Feeling OK?’
‘It’ll all be over in ten minutes,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘Tell me it’ll be all over in ten minutes and just keep telling me that and I’ll be grand.’
‘Cassie, you of all people have nothing to worry about. You’re an old hand at this by now. To be honest with you, I’m much more worried about Oliver.’
I look at her in disbelief as we walk down the corridor towards the studio door.
‘Yeah, he’s acting like he’s Steven Spielberg or someone,’ she says. ‘Well, you know the way he goes on. He’s prepared a video clip to show and everything. God knows what’s in it, though. Anyway, the producer says to tell you that there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. There might just be a bit of a debate about whether or not psychics and fortune-tellers are for real or, you know, if they’re all just chancers out to make a quick buck.’
For a second, I think I might just faint. Or throw up. One or the other.
‘Oh, not that you are,’ she adds hastily. ‘I’m only telling you what the producer said. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. You just do what you do on the Breakfast Club and I’m sure you’ll win everyone over.’
Suddenly, after dismal days of hardly getting any flashes at all, now I get the strongest gut instinct I’ve had in a long, long time not to go on the show.
RUN, my inner voice is saying. Get out of there. Say whatever you have to say, make any excuse you like, just do not, repeat, DO NOT under any circumstances go through with this.
‘Lisa, do you think I might just—’
‘Are you OK?’ she asks again, opening the studio door and ushering me inside. ‘Do you need me to get you some water?’
‘No, it’s just that . . .’
‘Let me get your radio mike put on and I’ll be right back to you. I reckon you’re on in about four minutes.’
Shit, shit, shit. No way out, then.
OK, nothing for it but to put on a brave face and remember, whatever happens, it’ll all be over fast.
Bloody hell, why couldn’t they have put me in a costume with a mask, so at least no one would see my face and hopefully my on-air humiliation would be kept to a minimum? Lisa and I are standing just behind the Late Night Talk show set, and have to whisper now, as the last guest is just wrapping up. A sound man who I don’t recognize bounds over to clip a tiny microphone on to the apron of my horrendous Alice costume, then suddenly a voice from behind me makes me jump out of my skin.
‘Lost a white rabbit then, have you, Alice?’
I’d know that faux-American accent anywhere. I turn around to see Oliver, looking, if possible, even more ludicrous than I do, in a Pirates of the Caribbean outfit, sword in scabbard, Rastafarian wig, the works.
‘Hi, Oliver,’ I whisper, not even bothering to sound polite or, God help me, pleased to see him.
‘All set then?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Well then,’ the smarmy git says, before disappearing around to where we’re supposed to make our entrance from, ‘may the best man win.’
Did he just say ‘may the best man win’? What is this, the world heavyweight championships? God Almighty, what have I let myself in for?
There’s nothing for it, I have to wait beside him for our cue to go on. The doorway in the set is narrow and small so I practically have to stand on top of him, trying desperately to look as dignified as I can, considering I have a big blue hairband on my head and a boob-flattening apron so wide it’s practically hitting off the sides of the scenery.
I can’t see what’s going on out front, but I can hear perfectly. The presenter, a former stand-up comic called Ricky James, is busy wrapping up the previous item.
‘So, best of luck with the sponsored sit-in for Greenpeace. Wow! A seventy-two-hour-long protest! And remember, anyone who wants to go along and lend their support, he’ll be shivering his tush off in Temple Bar from eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Good luck from all of us here. Please put your hands together for . . .’
A thunderous round of applause drowns out his name and a split second later Greenpeace man walks right past me, on his way out. Very tall. Blond. The type that you’d swear just stepped off a Viking warship. Oh dear, now, of all times, I feel a flash coming on.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ I can hear Ricky saying, loud and clear, ‘given the night that’s in it, we have a Late Night Talk special coming up. Will you please give a warm welcome to Oliver Hall, a man who needs no introduction. Many of you will know Oliver for his stunning and insightful investigative exposures over the years . . .’
Ricky James is still introducing us and . . . Oh my God, I don’t believe
this.
‘Cassandra, wake up, we’re about to go on,’ Oliver is hissing at me.
There’s Greenpeace man staging his sit-in in town, and – there’s no mistaking it – I can see Jo, standing right beside him, almost holding vigil with him. They’re both clutching on to candles, smiling at each other. I have the strongest feeling this man could be for her. He could really be a contender – a keeper. Finally, my best friend has met her elusive D.S.M. . . .
‘Cassandra? Earth to Cassandra?’
‘What? Oh, sorry. I was, emm, a bit distracted.’
‘By the way, Charlene is here. Just thought you’d like to know.’
‘What did you just say?’
‘Yeah. I invited her and she came to support me.’
He did that on purpose. I know it. Bloody bastard waited until the nanosecond before we went on before he mentioned it, knowing right well it would throw me.
Don’t let him, Cassie, whatever you do, do not let him . . .
Ricky’s still doing the introductions. ‘And he’s appearing tonight with someone new to television but already a familiar face to audiences thanks to her regular slot on the Breakfast Club. Please give a warm Late Night Talk welcome to Oliver Hall and Cassandra!’
Shit.
A bit disorientated, I follow Oliver out on to the front of the set. The lights are so glaring, they make me blink and I’m aware of thunderous applause and a lot of laughter, probably at our ridiculous costumes as much as anything else.
‘Thank you so much for joining us, you’re both very welcome,’ Ricky James is saying, shaking my hand. He’s wearing a Spiderman costume and looks just as daft as Oliver and I do. Which I suppose is something.
Next thing I know, I’m plonked on a very uncomfortable leather swivel chair beside git-face. I smile and I think I mutter something, but all the time I’m looking out into the audience to see if there’s any sign of Jo. Or Marc with a C. Or Valentine – just a friendly face. But no joy. The lights shining in my face are too bright, far brighter than they ever are on the Breakfast Club, and I can’t see a bloody thing.
Ricky’s sitting behind a desk, still chatting away. I’d better pay attention. Plenty of time later to tell Jo what I saw.
‘. . . two diametrically opposed sides of the coin here, ladies and gentlemen. Cassandra, who as I’m sure you’ll all know is probably the most famous psychic in the country at this stage, and Oliver Hall, scourge of many a global corporation and, may I say, thorn in the side of many an unsuspecting personality. So, Cassandra, let’s start with you.’
I’ve been drifting and almost jump when I hear my name.
‘You have a sixth sense, you believe in the unseen and make your living out of giving messages of hope to I’m sure many thousands of readers and viewers at this stage.’
‘Emm, yes, Ricky, that’s right. At least, I hope it is.’
Now they’re all looking at me as if I’m expected to elaborate, but I’m too busy thinking: Was there a question buried in there?
He keeps on going. ‘And you get accurate results?’
‘Well, it’s very simple, I just tell people what I see and – that’s it, really.’ Bugger it, why am I so unprepared? ‘It’s not as if I keep a score sheet or anything,’ I add lamely, trying to make a joke, but I’m sure I look beyond pathetic.
There’s an awful silence and I’m horribly aware of a camera pointing right at me.
Then Ricky turns to the audience. ‘So, how many people here tonight have ever visited a psychic or a fortune-teller? Can we have a show of hands?’
I do my best to peer out into the darkness, but it’s a waste of time. The lights are just too bright.
‘And, of all those people, how many felt that it helped them? Or did any of you feel you were being ripped off?’
I’m still squinting like Mr Magoo and still nothing. Then I hear a woman’s voice from the audience.
‘Ehh, hello, Ricky? Can I just say that I went to a guy in the George’s Street arcade a few years ago and he told me I’d break up with my boyfriend – and guess what? I’m married to him now. Two kids and everything.’
‘So lucky you didn’t listen, then,’ Ricky is saying.
Laughter, then another voice.
‘Well, can I just say that I’ve actually written to Cassandra twice in the last few weeks and I never even got a reply.’
Oh, now that’s unfair, I’m thinking. I do my level best to get around to everyone who writes to me, but if you only saw the sheer volume of letters I get . . .
‘Anyone who reads their horoscope needs their head looked into,’ I can hear a man’s voice saying.
Another woman’s voice. ‘Well, Ricky, I went to a fortune-teller on my holidays and she said I’d move house, which I did. She also said there’d be a number seven on the door, which there wasn’t, but I suppose you can’t really have everything, can you?’
Then an older woman from somewhere says, ‘I went to one who charged me fifty euro to tell me I’d cross water. I mean, how useless is that? Sure, I have to cross the river Liffey every day just to get into work.’
Then Ricky turns to me. ‘So, Cassandra, anything you’d like to say at this point?’
Shit. What exactly does he want me to come out with? Am I expected to justify myself here?
Say something, say something and try to sound as if I’ve actually done some preparation for this medieval torture . . .
‘Ricky, it’s like this,’ I begin, doing my best to sound intelligent, but then remembering that I’m dressed up as a Disney character. Nothing for it but to smile and try to look as if I’m here for the laugh. ‘It’s not like I have a job description or anything. All I’m here to do is help people. Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been getting these flashes. I see things and then I tell people what I see. Simple as that. Haven’t had any complaints so far.’
There’s a tiny wave of applause from the audience and I instinctively know that Jo started it.
‘So do you see me winning a TV award for presenting this show?’ Ricky asks cheekily.
‘ ’Fraid not. As I always say, being a psychic isn’t something that’s on tap, twenty-four hours a day. Oh, and it doesn’t work for Lottery numbers either. Unfortunately.’
A polite ripple of laughter.
‘So, given that you want to help people who come to you, the question is, how do you know that you are actually making a difference?’
What do I say to that? ‘Well, Ricky, I don’t, that’s the thing. We’re not dealing with an exact science here.’ Another awful pause and I’m still aware of the camera pointing right at me. Then something Jack once said to me comes back to me. Thank God. ‘As someone once said to me, for those who believe, no explanation is necessary, for those who don’t, no explanation is possible.’
Ricky looks at me with an is-that-it? expression on his face and all I can think is, I’ve just made a show of myself, live, on national television. Why couldn’t I have talked about some of the success stories I’ve had over the years? Why couldn’t I have told him that, to my knowledge, I’ve never once been wrong? Serves me bloody right for just drifting in here in a daze, without doing my homework.
Grin and bear it, Cassie, it can’t go on for much longer.
‘Right then,’ Ricky says slowly, ‘so maybe if we could turn to you, Oliver. I understand you have some thoughts on this subject?’ No sooner has he moved off me than I’m filled with smart-alec indignation at all the things I could have said, should have said. Anyway, too late now, for the moment, at least.
‘Yes, thanks, Ricky,’ Oliver says, checking to see which camera he’s on and then beaming into it. Slick. Practised. Professional.
Smarmy git that he is.
‘Ever since I returned to Ireland, I’ve been fascinated with the whole psychic phenomenon that seems to be sweeping the country. Never before have we, as a nation, been so anxious to turn to astrology, palmistry and clairvoyants, to look for answers about what the future holds f
or us. Perhaps it’s because we’re not attending church as diligently as our parents’ generation once did. Perhaps we’re subconsciously searching for something to fill the spiritual void in our lives, as it were. Man is a spiritual being and, historically, has always looked to the sky for guidance. The Romans had their soothsayers; in today’s society, we turn to people like Cassandra.’
He gets a big round of applause and I’m left thinking: Why didn’t I say that? He sounded so intelligent and prepared.
Bastard.
‘And I understand you’re putting together a documentary on this very subject, aren’t you?’ Ricky asks him.
‘Yes, indeed. In fact, I’ve been following Cassandra for the past while, with her permission, naturally, just to see first hand what these so-called mystics do for a living. I think it’ll make for very interesting viewing.’ Then he turns to address the audience directly. ‘Anyone like to see a clip from it?’
A couple of ‘yeah, go ons’ from the audience.
‘I can’t hear you,’ says Oliver, whipping the crowd up and sounding like the ringmaster at a circus. ‘Are you sure you all want to see a clip?’
‘Yes! Show it! Go on, then!’ comes from the audience.
‘OK, let’s roll it,’ says Oliver, sitting smugly back into his chair. ‘Let’s let our wonderful audience judge for themselves if there’s anything credible in the whole psychic phenomenon.’
Jesus, the man has the nerve of a matador. The studio lights dim a bit and everyone turns to the screen behind us.
OK, the sensible part of my brain thinks, this could just be my salvation. I mean, yes, Oliver was trailing around the past while, driving me nuts more than anything else, but everything was fine, wasn’t it? I mean, I was getting my flashes, doing my thing, all successfully, wasn’t I? So what’s to be worried about?
And more importantly, why do I feel as if I want to pass out?
Oh shit. Now I feel a flash coming on. An awful one.
It’s me, still in my stupid-looking Alice costume and – I don’t believe this – I’m back in my dressing room, bawling crying, really howling to the four walls . . .
No time to dwell on it, though. I’m pulled out of it by the sound of my own voice.
I Never Fancied Him Anyway Page 31