Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  To: jackkeating@hotmail.com

  Subject: Way too bizarre to fit into the subject box. Just read on …

  Hello, Jack

  You will be surprised to hear from me. It’s been, what, two months now? Hope all’s well with you in Boston. I know myself and the other Lovely Girls are always saying we’ll have to pop over to see you and do a bit of shopping, but I really mean it this time. To come over to see you, I mean, not just to shop.

  I’ve so much news to tell you and it’s all bad. So horrific, I will put it in bullet-point form, for easy digestion.

  1. You will remember the emotional car crash that was He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unmentioned? Well, the curse of Amelia strikes again. Not only is he getting married, but he and his fiancée are virtually my new next-door neighbours. As your mother used to say, me nerves are in flitters.

  2. I’ve been transferred on to the crappiest TV drama show in history, kind of like Ireland’s answer to Days of our Lives, and told to revamp it and double the audience numbers. This is akin to turning an episode of Cell Block H into The Shawshank Redemption. And while we’re on the subject of prison dramas, I could never understand why there weren’t more break-outs in Cell Block H. For God’s sake, all they had to do was kick down the shaky scenery. Oh dear, I’m rambling … As your mother also used to say, me brains are mince.

  3. So Caroline’s pregnant again, Jamie’s dating a different fella every night of the week, Rachel is Rachel and I’m on my own. The only avenue I have open to me is an old, old man who I really don’t fancy.

  4. Jack, it’s like this. When you’re chronically single and romantically unloved, something inside you starts to shrivel up. I’m slowly starting to despair of ever meeting anyone. In fact I really think I’ve more chance of winning the Eurolottery. I mean, do you realize how unbelievably slim the odds are? That I’ll walk into a club or a pub, meet someone, like the look of him, hope he likes me back, that he’ll be single and straight, that he’ll want to date me, will call when he says he’ll call, be a reasonably decent guy who won’t cheat, then, eventually, that he’ll make a commitment to me without my having to resort to any shit-or-get-off-the-pot tactics, which are just so humiliating on so many levels.

  5. So what do I do? Accept that this is it, this is my life? In fairness, the universe has sent me lots of other fantastic blessings, just not the one thing that I really, really want above everything else …

  6. Or you and I could resurrect the idea of our pact. I don’t mean to sound pushy or anything, but we’re both single and thirty-seven and I’m sure you have a string of girlfriends over in the Old Colonial (remember you used to call them Jack’s Angels and I used to say they should all have T-shirts printed?!), but, maybe, if you thought it was still an OK idea … can we at least talk about this …?

  7. Please???

  Twelve-forty-five. The wine has really hit me now and I’m semi-comatose. I press the ‘Send Later’ key and decide to hit the bed, get up bright and early and try and compose a less terrifying, needy, reeking-of-desperation email to send Jack. It feels good though to have draft one safely filed and out of the way; now all I have to do is rewrite from here. Something upbeat and confident, I think, rubbing my eyes sleepily. Kind of ‘Hi, Jack! Hey, if you’re still single, then next time you’re home, why don’t you and I give it a whirl? We’re always talking about it, why not go for it? What’s the worst that can happen?’ Except not as … direct.

  Oh shit, this could take another seventeen drafts.

  I yawn and stretch, then pad barefoot into the bathroom to go through the motions of taking off make-up, most of which has almost completely worn off by now anyway.

  Something makes me stop dead in my tracks.

  That was the ‘Send Later’ key I pressed, wasn’t it?

  Wasn’t it?

  I leg it back into the study, switch the computer back on and check my email account. No saved email. I’m starting to feel weak …

  With a trembling hand I click on ‘Sent Items’ and there it is, safely delivered …

  OK, now I want to throw up … It’s about seven in the evening in Boston now, and Jack Keating is reading my email …

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Treasure or Trash?

  It’s going to be so busy in work the following morning I know I’ll barely have time to go to the loo, so there’s nothing else for it. This is a damage-limitation exercise. There IS no other choice.

  From: amelialockwood@eircom.net

  To: jackkeating@hotmail.com

  Subject: Major bite of humble pie. Major.

  I think I may have accidentally sent you an email that I shouldn’t have, very late last night with more than a few glasses of vino in me. Please ignore. Long story. Will explain all later. Am v. sorry if I terrified you. Be assured it wasn’t intentional.

  Axxx

  OK, OK, OK, I think on the drive into work. At least this buys me a bit of time so I can hopefully think up some plausible excuse to get me out of this.

  So far, I’ve come up with three: (a) I’m on very heavy medication; (b) I only sent that email for a bet/joke/dare; or (c) the truth, i.e., I was drunk, I was lonely and what can I say? It sounded normal in my head.

  Jamie. I need Jamie. He’s absolutely brilliant at thinking up excuses. I glance at the clock in the car. Just seven a.m. on the dot. Probably isn’t even home from wherever he was last night yet, but no matter, I’ll call him in a few hours’ time. He’s usually up and about by the crack of lunch as Rachel always says.

  I park the car and head into the canteen for a badly needed max-strength coffee before I haul myself up to the office to start the day proper. I’m just at the till, about to pay, when a familiar voice from behind almost makes me jump out of my skin.

  ‘Good episode last night. It’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to stay in to watch Celtic Tigers.’

  Philip Burke, with a heaving plate of bacon, rashers and sausages on a tray in front of him and a side plate piled high with buttery toast. Great start to the day, just what I need. Thank you, universe.

  ‘Hi, Philip, how are you?’ I ask, trying to sound bright and breezy. Awkward pause. ‘Not on a diet then, I see.’

  Did I just say that to the head of television?

  ‘Not that you need to be on a diet … that’s not what I meant at all. You’re very …’ Very what? ‘… emm … trim. Just like Michelangelo’s David, if he was doing Atkins.’ Shut up Amelia. Shut up and run, while you still can.

  Thankfully he ignores my ramblings, but it’s my own bloody fault to begin with. Why do I always forget this man doesn’t do pleasantries?

  ‘Very well scripted,’ he says, paying the cashier. ‘Tight. The acting wasn’t too bad either. No long-drawn-out sighing before each line or looking directly into the camera, which certainly makes a change.’

  I pay for my coffee. ‘Thanks, I’m glad you thought so.’

  I look at him for a moment, but that’s it. You never can be sure with him whether a conversation is actually finished or not.

  I decide that it is and move off. ‘Well, have a good day, Philip.’

  ‘Yeah, one more thing. Just so you’re aware, that’s the last compliment you’ll get from me. I don’t do positive feedback. When the show’s doing well, you’ll hear nothing from me. But rest assured, if I’m not happy, then you’ll know all about it.’

  I don’t even attempt to answer this, I just leave. Unbelievable. The man is unbelievable. Not quite a sociopath, but only a degree or two away from it …

  I text Jamie: RING ME THE MINUTE U SURFACE. HAVE DONE SOMETHING STUPID. NOT UNUSUAL 4 ME BUT THIS IS REALLY BAD. NEED YR HELP. URGENT. AX

  Later that morning, I’m in the actors’ dressing rooms welcoming a new cast member on board, when Jamie texts back. AM IN WORK, BARELY IN LAND OF THE LIVING AFTER LAST PM. RING ME WHEN U CAN TALK. R U OK? SHOULD I BRING U VODKA? JX. PS MET A HOTTIE IN THE DRAGON BAR LAST NIGHT. HE’S MR ALTERNATIVE IRELAND. I’M NOT MES
SING.

  ‘Sorry about that, I have to head back to the office,’ I say to Sadie Smyth, who’s just been cast as Good Grief O’Keefe’s birth mother Mrs Hamilton, a new central character in the show. God love her, it’s her first day in studio today and she’s as nervous as a kitten. She’s a highly respected theatre actress, but hasn’t done a huge amount of TV and is white in the face with apprehension.

  I give her a warm smile and shake hands with her. ‘You’ll be brilliant, Sadie, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. You did an amazing audition and we’re very lucky to have you in the show. I know you’ll be fantastic in the part. Knock ’em dead.’

  ‘Thanks, Amelia,’ she says, gripping my hand tight.

  ‘And remember, if you’ve any problems, just come up to the office and find me, any time.’

  She laughed. ‘Wow. It’s been a long time since anyone I’ve worked for has been this nice to me.’

  Wish I could say the same, I think to myself, with Philip’s legendary rudeness not far from my thoughts. Extraordinary how he can have scaled the heights of the corporate ladder with absolutely no people skills whatsoever …

  I take the precaution of calling Jamie from the privacy of the conference room, which has pretty much become my office now, so I can fill him in properly.

  ‘Oh, Amelia,’ he says sadly. ‘Where is your impulse control? Have I taught you nothing?’

  ‘I was kind of hoping you’d say something like: “OK, so that’s the problem, now let’s figure out a way to solve it. Oh, and don’t fret yourself, Amelia, it’s not nearly as bad as you think.” ’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, it’s even worse. To tell an ordinary, normal guy that you’re single and panicking and now you’d like to hold him to a seventeen-year-old pact and get married to him is bad enough, but to a guy like Jack Keating? We’ll be lucky if he hasn’t run screaming across the border into Canada. He’s probably changed his name by now, in case you hop on a flight and come after him, wearing your Vera Wang and clutching a bouquet.’

  ‘Gee, thanks for the help. What a great spin doctor you’d have made.’

  ‘No need to get ratty. It’s not my fault if you broke one of my three golden commandments. Don’t get intexticated, don’t drink and dial, and never, ever get e-drunk and email when you’ve had a few over your e-limit.’

  ‘Jamie, they are not your three golden commandments. You’re always ringing people you fancy whenever you’ve had a few. The last night we were out, you drank five margaritas and made what I can only describe as an abusive phone call to your agent.’

  ‘Oh, who are you, my biographer? Besides, my agent needed that kick up the arse. If he doesn’t get one of his clients a decent job soon, he’ll have to go full time on the checkout in Tesco’s.’

  ‘Sorry. Well, all I can say is I’ve learned my lesson the way I seem to learn all my lessons in life. The hard way.’

  ‘Are you near your computer?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘OK. Forward the offending article on to me and I’ll forensically examine it for any evidence that’ll get you out of this. PMS is considered a defence in some states under federal law, you know.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart, I owe you big time,’ I say, logging on to my laptop and bringing up the emails. I can’t even bear to look at it again, so I send it straight on to Jamie. ‘OK. It’s sent. Just please don’t judge me when you read it.’

  ‘I have seen the inside of your bathroom cupboard, filthy bitch. We have no secrets.’

  ‘Oh shit, that reminds me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll have to call my cleaning lady. As if I didn’t have enough to do, I’m hosting a party for my class this Saturday and before you even ask, no, you can’t come.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask why not?’

  ‘Because you’re neither a single woman over thirty-five who’s actively pursuing a husband, nor are you an eligible straight man who’s in the marriage market.’

  ‘No, but I could be a really good party caterer for the night. I could certainly do with earning a few extra quid.’

  ‘Jamie, no offence, but you’ve never catered before in your life.’

  ‘How hard can it be to open a few trays of Marks and Spencer’s party packs? Come on, Amelia, I need the cash and you’re time poor. I’ll do a great job. Trust me.’

  ‘I have deodorant that I trust more than you.’

  ‘Relax. Have I ever let you down?’

  The day drags on. This isn’t helped by the fact that I keep checking my emails every chance I get between meetings, in case, just in case, Jack has got back to me.

  By three in the afternoon, mid-morning in Boston, still nothing.

  That’s it then. He’s read it, thinks I’m insane and I’ll probably never hear from him again, ever, as long as I live.

  The only emotional pension plan that I had going for me, and I had to go and blow it.

  Six p.m. Sadie Smyth has just given such a towering performance in the last scene she shot that I have to run on to the studio floor to congratulate her. Even up in the production office, people were clustered around TV monitors, glued to the screen. On the floor, the crew burst into spontaneous applause and Good Grief O’Keefe, who shared the big mother-and-child reunion scene with her, is quietly fuming in the corner looking (there’s no other word to describe it) pole-axed.

  ‘Can we shoot that again?’ she pleads with the floor manager. ‘I just wasn’t prepared for how emotionally she was going to play it. I know Sadie’s my birth mother and she’s explaining why she gave me up for adoption and everything, but did she have to burst into tears? It’s not like she’s dying of a tumour or anything.’

  If she’d come right out and said, ‘I do the tears on this show,’ her jealousy couldn’t have been more transparent.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, that is a wrap for today, see you all in the morning,’ the floor manager calls, completely ignoring her.

  ‘Sadie, you were terrific!’ I say and she gives me a huge bear hug.

  ‘Thanks, Amelia, for all your encouragement.’

  ‘Any time. Keep up the good work!’

  I can still hear the crew congratulating her as I leave the floor and go back to the office.

  ‘What an entrance, the audience are going to love her.’

  ‘What can I say? A star is born.’

  I check my emails for about the thousandth time that day. Still nothing. Then I check my voicemail. Four new messages.

  The first one’s from Jamie: ‘Oh, you poor misguided fool. I’m just home and I’ve read the email. Dear God, what were you drinking? Methylated spirits? I can’t believe you actually used the phrase “when you’re chronically single, something inside you starts to shrivel” without irony. Off the top of my head, the best thing I can suggest is that you tell him you’ve been sucked into a religious cult and are now going through a very painful deprogramming which is making you act like a crazy lady.’Beep.

  Jamie again: ‘Machine cut me off. Ring the second you get this. Don’t even bother playing the end of the message.’Beep.

  Rachel: ‘I heard what you did last night and I know you’re probably in a state but here’s my two cents’ worth. Ignore, ignore, ignore. Walk away from the problem and be thankful there’s the Atlantic Ocean between you and Jack Keating. Ring me when you’ve finished work and we’ll meet up to discuss further.’ Beep.

  Then, a warm, friendly voice I haven’t heard in a long, long time: ‘Hey, Amelia, howya doing? Thanks for your email, which I … emm … read … with … emmmm … well, it sure made an interesting read. Look, as it happens, I’m coming home for my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary next week, why don’t we meet up then?

  ‘Oh, it’s Jack here, by the way.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Social Event of the Year … Not

  In the end, I’m delighted I took Jamie up on his suggestion that he cater for the party. Although it’s Saturday, it’s still a filming
day on Celtic Tigers so it’s almost seven p.m. before I even get home.

  I’d never have had the time to do everything he’s done. The apartment looks immaculate. The wooden floors are gleaming; there are fresh long-stemmed lilies dotted about the place; scented candles glowing; the dining table is beautifully laid out with glasses and bottles of red wine, uncorked and breathing and just crying out to be drunk. Jamie emerges from the kitchen in his work uniform with an apron tied around his waist, like a French waiter.

  ‘Well, hi, honey,’ he says, hands on hips, camping it up, ‘how was your day at the office, dear? Don’t you feel like we’re in a role-reversal nineteen-fifties American sitcom, starring me as the stay-home housewife?’

  ‘Jamie, whatever you’re charging me, you’re worth far more. I can’t get over how fab the apartment looks!’

  ‘You may not say that when you see the bill. I spent like a wise guy.’

  ‘Well worth it. Just look at this place!’

  ‘Everything’s done. The white wine is chilling; I even bought a nice bottle of champagne for you and me, just to get us in the party mood.’

  ‘You’re a treasure. If I can dust down an old chestnut, if you were straight, I’d marry you.’

  ‘If I had five euro for every time I heard that. Oh, and I feng shui’d your bedroom for you too.’

  Jamie, I should tell you, once read a magazine article about feng shui which said that ninety per cent of it is just plain old-fashioned decluttering. The result now is he uses the phrase to be synonymous with the word ‘tidy’, i.e.: ‘I’d better go and feng shui all those dirty dishes out of the sink.’

  I’m over the moon. As would anyone be who’d seen the state of my bedroom this morning. ‘Jamie! You’re amazing! You should be a full-time party organizer!’

  ‘Well, there’s going to be nothing but single men here, who’s to say you won’t score? Oh, that’s unless your teacher has put you on some “rules” thing where you can’t sleep with a guy for at least three months.’