I smile at him, grab my bag and the two of us slip out, unnoticed.
I’m not being rude, you understand, it’s just that I don’t know if I’d be up for anyone coming over to commiserate with me. For being such an out-and-out failure, I mean. I’m so close to tears that really the best thing all round is for me to put as much distance between myself and Channel Seven as is physically possible.
Marc with a C links me as we head down the corridor, past TV reception and on out into the car park. It’s pitch dark and freezing cold and there’re fireworks going off everywhere.
‘Wouldn’t this be romantic, if only you and I were an item?’ he says as we stroll companionably towards where I parked my car. ‘My God, did you see the way that Valentine guy was throwing himself at Charlene? There are baboons out there with more subtle dating rituals.’
‘Now, now, don’t get narky just because it’s Halloween and you and I are dateless,’ I say, and then a flash comes. ‘Joe! That’s it!’
God, that really did come out of nowhere.
‘What, what? Joe who? Is that the name of the next guy I’ll date? Do you see it?’
‘No.’ I smile. ‘It’s the name of the guy that Jo—’
‘Ahh, I get it, Joe and Jo. How original,’ he says. ‘Greenpeace man. Now don’t think me gossipy, but did you get close enough to smell him? Dear God! I thought: Has this man ever met a clove of garlic he didn’t like? Anyway, he and our Jo will be a match made in eco-warrior heaven. Well, cheer up, babes, at least you and I have each other to console on the long winter nights ahead. Sure you’ll be OK?’
‘Mmm, and thank you again, so much,’ I say, reaching up to hug him. ‘I’m going home, hot bath, straight to bed and tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . .’
‘. . . is another day, Miss Scarlett,’ he says in a truly awful Southern accent.
I’m just about to open the door when another car pulls up right beside mine, beeping the horn at me. It’s so dark, I can hardly see who it is, but the beeping keeps up and I keep squinting, and then . . .
The door opens and out steps Jack.
Marc with a C almost falls over. ‘A deus ex machina!’ he says theatrically. ‘Love, love, love it! Well, I’ll be tactful and leave you two in peace but, Cassie dear, I will expect a text with updates every hour on the hour.’
He practically skips back inside, leaving Jack and me alone.
There’s a long pause as we just look at each other. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been crying and am all red-eyed and tear-streaked. But, thank Christ, at least I’m not dressed as Alice in Wonderland any more.
He breaks the silence. ‘I liked the Disney look on you, Cassie. You were adorable.’
I can’t help laughing, but it’s a laughter-through-tears type thing. ‘You saw it then. You witnessed my public downfall. All Oliver was short of doing was putting me in medieval stocks and getting the studio audience to throw rotten tomatoes at me.’ I’m doing my best to make light of it, to sound bright and breezy, but it’s not working. The tears I’ve been holding back start to flow and before I know where I am or what’s happening, he’s folded me in his arms and is hugging me tight.
‘Shh, shh, come on, Cassie, it wasn’t your fault.’
I try to say ‘Of course it bloody was, who else’s fault could it possibly be?’ but I think it might have come out as ‘Waaaaahhhhh! I’m such a miserable failure!’
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he says, not letting me go. (And I’m not letting him go either.)
‘I was the one who told you that Oliver Hall was a widely respected journalist. I may even have used the word trusted, but I’m kind of hoping you won’t bring that up. At times like this, a good memory is unforgivable. If it’s any consolation, one of the reasons I jumped in my car and came around here was to punch the bastard in the jaw for putting you through that. It was unforgivable, unethical and, I’m telling you right now, he’ll pay.’
‘One of the reasons?’
‘And to see if my star was OK, of course.’
I smile, still feeling a bit wobbly. But so glad he’s here.
‘Listen to me, Cassie,’ he says, taking me by the shoulders and looking me straight in the eye. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Over my dead body will I allow that documentary to be broadcast. Small comfort, I know, but it’s the least I can do.’
‘Thanks,’ is all I can say, in a tiny voice.
‘You’re not to worry, Cassie. The nightmare ends here.’
‘I haven’t lost my slot then? I’m not fired?’
‘You daft lass, why would you be fired? You’re one of our biggest assets and don’t you forget it.’
He grins at me and I do my best to smile back and there’s another awkward moment. He’s just being professional. That’s the only reason he came round here.
This is not the end of the world. Oliver, the unctuous git, can do me no more harm, I’ve still managed to hang on to my slot, so this is all good then, isn’t it?
Yeah. A happy ending, I suppose.
It just doesn’t really feel like one, that’s all.
Come on, Cassie, you can’t have everything. You’ve got your friend back and that’s worth its weight in gold.
A loud firework goes off in the background and I nearly jump out of my skin and he laughs at me. It’s one of those Catherine wheels, multicoloured, and it’s just stunning. We both stare up at the sky, side by side, in silence.
This is getting awkward. Say something, Cassie, say anything. Just try not to sound like a gibbering eejit.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say eventually.
‘For what?’
‘Coming here. Making everything better. Being the human equivalent of six Valium. Calming me down.’
He slips his arm around my waist which makes me freeze inwardly, thinking, Aghhh! His arm is around my waist!
‘Cassie, I’m suddenly very aware that we’re in a car park. It’s just that I can think of better places where you and I can talk, can’t you?’
Half an hour later, we’re tucked in the corner of a tiny, gorgeous Italian trattoria in Temple Bar, where Jack is obviously a regular, because we’re treated like minor royalty when we arrive. The tables are cosy and intimate, covered in red-and-white gingham tablecloths, with candles stuck in bottles. You get the picture. It’s snug and romantic and Dean Martin is singing ‘That’s Amore’ in the background and it’s exactly what I need right now.
Jack orders a bottle of red wine and a yummy, comforting plate of pasta for both of us and I don’t put up any arguments. After everything that’s happened, this is like the perfect end to the most miserable day.
We talk and talk for what seems like a very short time, but we must have been there for hours because in no time they’re putting chairs on top of tables and locking up. We’re the last two customers here.
I tell him all about Charlene and her about-turn and Valentine and the flash I had and maybe it’s because I’m actually a bit squiffy now, but . . .
‘So, any flashes about me?’ he asks, leaning forward and playing with my hand.
And I tell him. Everything. All about how I can’t see a bloody thing when he’s around, and he roars laughing and says they’ll have to have a barring order on him next time I’m doing the Breakfast Club and then, before I know how it even happened, he leans in and kisses me.
And I kiss him back and it’s wonderful.
‘So,’ he says, gently playing with my hair, ‘here we are.’
‘Mmm,’ I murmur, moving in as close to him as I can get, considering we’re in a public place.
‘Now, I may not be psychic like you,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘But go on, have a guess what I think your future holds.’
Oh dear. Never a flash when you need one. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I whisper back at him, kissing his cheek and snuggling into him. ‘But I can’t wait to find out.’
Dear Cassandra,
First of all, congratulations on finally getting your own TV show. I’m thrilled for
you; it’s about time. I saw a stunning picture of you at your show’s launch party in Tattle magazine and you looked a million dollars. Is it true that you’re dating the producer, Jack Hamilton? I saw a photo of you both and you look like such a cool couple. Come to think of it, I also saw you together at that dizzy socialite’s engagement party in the Four Seasons a while back – Charlene something or other, isn’t it? The one who’s getting married to the columnist from Valentine’s Day.
See? What can I say? I get my hair done a lot and am always abreast of what’s happening in the world of Tattle.
Sorry, I digress . . .
Anyway, here’s my question. Nothing but happy people beaming out at me from all the glossies – when, oh when, will it be my turn?
No pressure, Cassandra, but you are like this beacon of hope for single gals like me. I cannot do any more bad dates. I’m so tired of my friends saying to me, ‘But how do you meet all of these headcases/losers/weirdos?’
The answer is simple. I answer their ads.
My dating history can pretty much be summarized as follows: the triumph of optimism over experience. But you did it and I’m happy for you and I know I can too. Come on, Cassandra, I know you won’t let me down! You’ve found someone lovely and so too can all your readers!
All I need to know is . . . when, oh when, will it be my turn?
Yours, in everlasting hope . . .
THE END
About the Author
Claudia Carroll was born in Dublin, where she still lives, along with several imaginary boyfriends. She has worked extensively as an actress on the Irish stage, but is probably best known for her role as TV’s Nicola Prendergast in the long-running RTE soap opera, Fair City, a character she describes as ‘the horrible old cow everyone loves to hate’.
Her most recent novel, Remind Me Again Why I Need A Man has been optioned by Twentieth Century Fox as a TV series. Claudia isn’t married and the book’s title comes from a phrase she finds herself using quite a bit. Similarly, ‘I Never Fancied Him Anyway’, is something she often finds herself saying, particularly after a really lousy date.
Also by Claudia Carroll
HE LOVES ME NOT . . . HE LOVES ME
THE LAST OF THE GREAT ROMANTICS
REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I NEED A MAN
TRANSWORLD IRELAND
An imprint of The Random House Group Limited
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I NEVER FANCIED HIM ANYWAY
A TRANSWORLD IRELAND BOOK: 97801848270077
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781407039954
First published in Great Britain
in 2007 by Bantam Press
Published in 2008 by Transworld Ireland
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2007
Claudia Carroll has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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