Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘It mightn’t be so bad,’ I say. ‘I called his direct line at the hospital earlier and the ward sister said he’s definitely on the night shift tonight. She said she’d give him the message and get him to call as soon as he gets a break.’

  Rachel arches an elegantly plucked eyebrow. I swear she can do it even better than Roger Moore. She doesn’t need to say anything, her message is plain.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say, ‘I shouldn’t have called him at work, but oh, Rachel, the whole thing is driving me mental. I’ve already left about five messages for him at his house and he’s ignored every one of them. Am I still going out with him or is it all off? That’s all I want to know. I can handle being dumped, I’ve been there before and will be again. What’s killing me is the not knowing.’

  Silence from Rachel.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I say, ‘but I just need to give it this one last chance. If he doesn’t call me back tonight, then that’s it. Finito.’

  Midnight. We’re on to our second bottle of wine and still no call.

  The phone is sitting on the table between us, actively not ringing.

  ‘Which would you prefer to have?’ Rachel asks, slurring her words only a tiny bit. ‘A bionic arm or a bionic leg? Just say if you had to choose.’

  ‘Jamie could do with a bionic leg,’ I reply. ‘They should hurry up and invent them.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s still a bit Sir Limps-a-lot, isn’t he?’

  ‘Naaaa, he’s loving all the attention. Ever since he started physio, he’s turned into a grade A hypochondriac. I can’t stop him from going to doctors, healers, herbalists, acupuncturists, you name it. He says it’s great to be able to talk about himself in a surgery for a full hour uninterrupted. He woke me up the other night because he had chest pains and he thought he was having a heart attack, but it turned out to be a packet of Revels he ate before he went to bed.’

  Rachel nearly chokes on her wine she’s guffawing so much and I have to thump her on the back. ‘Wine went up my nose. Sorry.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I just miss all this so much,’ she says. ‘The messing and the crack and the staying up all night talking about fellas. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Dublin.’

  ‘Dublin misses you.’

  ‘Everything’s changing,’ she says, suddenly serious. ‘Caroline’s getting married, I’m living in Paris …’

  ‘Some things are still the same. I’m still single. There are some things you can always rely on. It was ever thus and probably always will be.’

  And still the deafening sound of the phone not ringing …

  Two a.m. Now the tears have started.

  ‘He couldn’t have not got six messages in a row,’ I sob drunkenly.

  ‘Well, sweetie, if I can just dust down an old chestnut, what a shithead and I hope he dies roaring for a priest.’

  ‘You know, maybe he’s just really, really busy tonight and he hasn’t had time to call … yet.’

  Rachel just does her eyebrow thing and lights up another fag.

  ‘I know, you’re right,’ I say, despondently. ‘I would have had more respect for him if he’d just told me to fuck off.’

  Four a.m. Rachel’s fast asleep now, stretched out on the sofa like an elegant Persian cat … And still no call.

  I stay up a bit longer though.

  Waiting, waiting, waiting …

  Anyway. Back to the present.

  After work next day, I go home, kick off my shoes and get straight down to business.

  Tracking down Mr Non-Closure turns out to be the easiest one yet. I didn’t mention it, but in the ten years since we dated, he’s actually become quite famous. He’s now a consultant cardiologist and is always in the papers, giving advice on things like ‘Why the Atkins diet is keeping coronary bypass surgeons in business’ or ‘A forty-minute cardiovascular workout every day plus a half glass of red wine and you’ll never end up on my table’.

  Best of all, he’s still working in St Vincent’s Hospital, which makes my job as easy as pie. Brave as you like, I pick up the phone and ask to be put through to his direct line.

  His secretary answers. ‘Dr Allen’s office, may I help you?’

  I ask if I can speak to Johnny, fully expecting to be told that he’s not available. And I’m right.

  ‘He’s actually in theatre at the moment, but I’m expecting him back to his rooms in about an hour’s time. Can I get him to return your call?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ I say, trying not to sound like I’m ringing up to arrange an angiogram. I tell her it’s a personal call, leave my name and number and say that I’ll be at that number for the rest of the evening.

  Phew. Apart from asking out Philip Burke, which is another day’s work, that’s pretty much this week’s homework taken care of.

  I’m just about to pour a nice glass of Sancerre when there’s a buzz at my apartment door. ‘Who is it?’ I ask a bit gingerly, just in case it’s He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken. But, thank God, it’s Rachel.

  ‘Just on my way home and I thought I’d pop by to catch up with you. Is that the blissful sound of a bottle of vino being opened that I hear?’

  Just the treat I need. I buzz her in and an hour later we’re both stretched out on the sofa, with an empty pizza box and a half-drunk bottle of wine in front of us. ‘It’s such a treat for me to have a conversation with one of the Lovely Girls that doesn’t involve slagging me rotten over Gormless Gordon,’ she says, lighting a fag. ‘The most ill-judged one-night stand of the century. I swear, if Jamie dares bring up the subject one more time, over twenty years of friendship will count for naught. There will be bloodshed. It’s bad enough that the Gormless gobshite is practically stalking me outside the shop at this stage. If this goes on, I may have to change my mobile phone number.’

  ‘We’ve all made fools of ourselves in the name of love,’ I say. Then I fill her in on Mr Non-Closure and she roars laughing.

  ‘Can you just believe how needy and pathetic I was back then?’ I snort. ‘Waiting in on a guy to call me who clearly had no interest in me? I don’t know what Dr Johnny was in, but it certainly wasn’t my face.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She laughs. ‘We’d no finesse in those days.’

  ‘Or pride.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Half-eight. What time did you ring the hospital?’

  ‘Sevenish.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘He’s probably really busy. You know the way surgeons work,’ she says. ‘I’m sure he’ll ring back in an hour or so.’

  ‘Yeah, course he will.’

  But he doesn’t.

  Eleven p.m. and still no call.

  Midnight …

  ‘He was probably exhausted after operating and went straight home,’ I try to convince myself. ‘Bet he’ll ring tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, course he will,’ says Rachel, yawning. ‘Keep me in the loop, won’t you?’

  But he never calls.

  Not the next day, nor the one after and now I’m starting to run out of excuses for him. It seems the twenty-first century way of being dumped/ignored isn’t all that different from the last century, is it?

  Plus ça change …

  Chapter Thirty

  A Rush of Blood to the Head

  So far, so good. I’m well on track to have all my homework done for Ira’s class this week and with a bit of luck to oust Mags from her lofty position as the class golden girl. OK, so Mr Non-Closure never called me back, which is hardly my fault, is it? But at least I did make the call.

  And then Tim Singed-Underwear only spoke to me so he could pitch an idea for a documentary series, but that’s hardly my fault either, is it?

  However, I still have one major obstacle to negotiate before I dare cross the threshold of that classroom: Philip Burke.

  Since the last class I’ve found myself actually looking around for him in the canteen, the car park,
in a lift or just walking down a corridor, but no joy.

  I kind of have a speech rehearsed in my head to say to him. Now, it may not exactly be worthy of Prince Hamlet of Denmark, but it’s the best I can come up with, given that (a) I don’t even fancy him and (b) I’m only doing this because I have to.

  ‘Oh, hi, Philip, haven’t seen you for ages!’ (This to be delivered in a casual, throwaway manner.) ‘Are you free over the next few days? We should have a drink and a chat.’ You may not think it, but this particular piece of doggerel actually went through several rough drafts in my head before I even got this far.

  Anyway. As my mother would say: Ah sure, it’ll fecking well do.

  Then, however, fate takes over in a way I could never have predicted …

  I’m rushing into the production office to grab a bunch of scripts I need for a meeting with our script editor when an ashen-faced Suzy stops me in my tracks. ‘Oh, Amelia, I was just coming to look for you. Philip Burke rang and says you’re to drop whatever it is you’re doing and get straight up to his office now. That it’s urgent.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  She looks petrified, like a rabbit caught in the headlamps and I don’t blame her one bit. There are only two reasons why anyone gets called upstairs to that office. Either to be hired or fired.

  I deliberately play it cool in front of poor old Suzy, who’s probably thinking that Celtic Tigers is for the chop and that she’ll be out of a job by the end of the week. Not for nothing is Philip called ‘The Axeman’ behind his back.

  ‘Right. I better get this over with then,’ I say crisply.

  ‘Oh shit, Amelia, I can’t lose this job. I just got a mortgage! And a cat!’

  ‘Shhh, shhh, calm down. Let’s just see what he has to say first, will we? And we’ll take the rest from there. OK?’

  I give her a big, confident, encouraging smile, go back outside, get into the lift and … here comes the panic … I almost have a palpitation.

  Thank God I have Rescue Remedy in my bag. I don’t even bother with the dropper thingy; I just unscrew the lid and knock it all back in one gulp.

  OK, I can think of two reasons why he needs to see me so urgently. One: he’s axing Celtic Tigers. After all my hard work. After my turning the show around. Not blowing my own trumpet, but our ratings have gone up by 150% since I came on board, and we’re now attracting an audience of 800,000. The sponsors are thrilled and the advertisers are queuing up. Yes, OK, I know we’re still shy of the one million target he set me, but my six-month deadline isn’t up yet. We’re getting there. That’s the point and if he pulls the plug now …

  Then a second reason strikes me. He’s not going to axe Celtic Tigers, just me. I’m for the chop. I haven’t met my target yet, he’s not happy with my performance and now he’s firing me.

  My mind races ahead in double-quick time and by the time I get out of the lift, I’m playing out a scenario in my head. I’m up in court and the judge is saying to me, ‘So, Miss Lockwood. You, the plaintiff, are taking this case against the head of television on the grounds of unfair dismissal and all you have to say in your defence is that you think it’s personal? Because he asked you on a date and you refused? Do you really think this man capable of such bitterness? Do you really believe that you could inspire such levels of vengeance from a spurned would-be lover? Do you think you’re that good-looking or something?’

  Either way, I think, rapping on the heavy oak door of his office, what a bastard.

  I go in all guns blazing, but he doesn’t even look up at me. The lunchtime news is coming up and he’s glued to the flat-screen TV beside his desk. ‘Amelia. There you are,’ he says. ‘Just wanted to—’

  I don’t even give him the chance to get his sentence out. ‘Philip, can I just say that we have all put in a huge amount of work on the show and to pull it now or to terminate my contract would be a supreme act of … well … well … you’d be mad. You’d be off your head.’

  He turns to look at me as if I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic. ‘Is that why you think I wanted to see you? To fire you?’

  ‘You mean you’re not?’

  Shit. That means the show is for the scrapheap …

  ‘No, you’re not fired.’

  ‘Then what about Celtic Tigers?

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Are you going to axe it?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because …’ I stop myself from saying, ‘Because it’s the kind of thing that you would do. It’s what you’re famous for. Even the stray dogs hanging round the back of the canteen know that your nickname is The Axeman.’

  ‘Amelia, the reason I asked you up here is because there’s something coming up on the news that I want you to see.’

  ‘On the news?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That you want me to see.’

  ‘Yes. Please don’t feel you have to repeat everything I say. You’re starting to remind me of Geoffrey Rush in Shine.’

  It’s a Philip Burkeism, but I let it pass because (a) I’m so relieved that everything’s OK and (b) I’m dying to know what it is.

  I don’t have long to wait.

  The lunchtime news comes on, the dun-dun-dun-dun theme is blaring and the announcer reads out the headlines. ‘Peace talks continue in the North … A post office is raided in South Dublin … The annual shin-kicking contest opens in Listowel … A monkey at the zoo gives birth to twins …’

  ‘Slow news day,’ I say, remembering back to my time in current affairs when I’d dread days like this.

  Philip waves his hand imperiously for me to shut up.

  And then it comes.

  ‘And on a lighter note, it’s just been announced that the flagship drama series Celtic Tigers has been nominated in the best entertainment category at the prestigious annual television awards ceremony to be held next week. The show’s producer, Amelia Lockwood, credited with its recent meteoric rise in popularity, is also nominated in the best producer category. The ceremony will be televised live from the Four Seasons Hotel in Dublin.’

  Philip zaps the TV off and turns to me. ‘So, what do you think of that?’

  I’m stunned, shocked, bewitched, bothered and bewildered … you name it, I’m feeling it.

  ‘Amelia? Do you want to sit down? Are you all right?’

  ‘Is this a joke?’ is all I can say. ‘Am I on candid camera?’

  ‘No. I put your name forward for this a few days ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ I still don’t know which I’m more shocked at. That he would do that, or that I’m not fired.

  ‘Jeez, don’t lose the run of yourself thanking me or anything.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, thanks. I just … well, I can’t believe this.’

  ‘You deserve it. You’re a bloody good producer. Keep this up and you could end up doing my job in a few years.’

  ‘I’m lost for words. This is unbelievable.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already said that.’

  ‘Thank you so much … This is … Oh my God!’

  ‘You’re welcome. Is that it, then?’

  ‘Ehh … yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Right, well, you’d better go back to spending the licence payers’ money then.’

  Another Philip Burkeish way of dismissing me, which is fine because I’m dying to get out of there. I need to walk around the block a few times. I need to sit down. I need a brandy.

  Shit!

  I need to ask him out.

  ‘Emm … Philip?’

  ‘Yup?’ It’s as though I’ve already left the room. His head is buried in a pile of boring-looking financial returns and he doesn’t even look up.

  OK, I say to myself sternly. See the image of my headless groom and just go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? The one good thing I will say about Philip is that he’s as batty as I am myself, so even if he says no, chances are he’ll genuinely have forgotten in about three minutes’ time …
<
br />   Deep breath.

  ‘I don’t suppose you … I don’t suppose that it … Well, it’s just that …’

  Now he is looking at me. ‘Give me the last sentence first.’

  Headless groom, Vera Wang, headless groom, Vera Wang …

  Go for it.

  ‘Do you want to come to the awards with me? It’s absolutely fine if you don’t, I completely understand, I just thought … well … Well, for starters, you’ll know everyone there, won’t you? And … then, it’s an awards do, isn’t it? It’s bound to be a great laugh. Not for me, of course, I’ll probably have my head down the loo for most of the night, throwing up with nerves … which I realize doesn’t make me sound exactly like the most fun person you would choose to be there with … In fact, now that I think of it, you’ve probably got someone else in mind that you could bring … another date, I mean, so please just disregard everything I’ve just said as the deranged ramblings of a woman who’s just been nominated for an award …’

  ‘Yeah, OK, why not?’ he says, shrugging.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll go to the awards with you. Anything to shut you up.’

  ‘Oh. Right. OK then. Emm … thanks, I think.’

  ‘That’s unless you want to take that South African bloke who gatecrashed your party.’

  ‘Very definitely not.’

  ‘Right. That’s a date then.’

  I leave his office, completely stunned. I honestly don’t know which is the most overwhelming. That I’m up for a big, flashy award or that I just asked Philip out. And he said yes. And, considering that he’s barmy, it was remarkably easy.

  This mightn’t be too bad … Who knows? It may even turn out to be fun …

  By the time I get back downstairs, the word’s out. It seems that everyone in the whole production office either saw the news or heard about it on some mysterious tom-tom. Suzy throws her arms around me and squeals congratulations, then asks me if I’d like a loan of her good Catherine Walker evening dress, bless her. The production team give me a spontaneous round of applause and I almost have tears in my eyes.