Caroline had never heard of anyone called Gary O’Neill either and nor had Mrs Egan, who checked and rechecked her carefully thought-out guest list, at Caroline’s insistence.
‘Then what was he doing there?’ I almost wailed, my dreams of being a multi-millionaire going up in smoke. Not to mention my sex god boyfriend …
‘Sweetie, we think he might have gatecrashed the party,’ said Caroline gently.
‘What?’
Now I’m feeling a sharp stab of almost physical pain.
‘Sounds crazy, but people do, you know,’ said Mike. ‘Look at the facts. There were hundreds of people at Barberstown Castle; he could easily have slipped into the wedding once the dinner bit was over. A free bar is a free bar. No one would ever have guessed that we didn’t know him.’
He was looking at me so sadly, as if I was some idiot spinster about to hand over her life savings to a confidence trickster. Which, in a way, I was …
‘We know absolutely nothing about him,’ said Mike firmly. Which, again, was true …
Ever since the honeymoon couple had got back I’d been suggesting meeting up with them as a foursome, but Gary always had a cast-iron excuse. He was tied up in meetings out at the airport; he had to go to New York unexpectedly; or, on one occasion, he was meeting up with the Minister for Development who was giving him a huge grant. He always looked the part in his Savile Row suits and was always utterly convincing, but basically, whenever I would mention either Caroline’s name or Mike’s, he’d do a complete disappearing trick.
Oh dear. Of all the lovely, eligible men at that wedding, there was one idiot wide-boy chancer and I had to go and fall for him …
If I ever needed final proof that Gary was some kind of fly-by-night, it was this. After Caroline and Mike voiced their concerns to me, I faithfully promised (a) to confront him about not being invited to the wedding and (b) not even to think about shelling out one penny of my savings until this mess was cleared up.
I called him and left a message, saying I needed to talk.
Not only did he never return the call, but when my next credit-card statement arrived, there was a total of about a thousand pounds outstanding, all stuff which I never bought, all purchased over the phone using my credit card number: airline tickets, a few cases of Veuve Clicquot and, worst of all, expensive costume jewellery, purchased online and certainly never given to me …
I wish I could say that I never saw Gary again, but the tale does have a twist, of sorts.
About eighteen months later, August 1997 to be exact, Princess Diana was tragically killed in a car crash at the Pont d’Alma in Paris. The following week led to the most extraordinary scenes in London, with oceans of flowers being left outside Kensington Palace and Buckingham Palace, candlelit vigils and a rising tide of anger against the royal family, perceived as being distant and remote, holed up in Balmoral. I was a rookie producer on current affairs then and was dispatched over to London with a reporter and a cameraman to cover these astonishing displays of raw grief, live from the capital.
It was a late-evening flight and I’ve never been a very good flier, so I was sitting nervously by the aisle, waiting for the drinks cart to trundle down, absolutely gagging for a good stiff gin and tonic.
‘Can I get you anything, madam?’ the steward asked.
There was just something familiar in his voice that made me look up. ‘I’d love a gin—’ I broke off. There he was, Gary O’Neill, wearing the British Airways uniform and a neat navy apron tied around his waist.
I couldn’t resist. ‘So, how’s the airline business going, Gary?’
He played it like the pro he was. What an actor he’d have made; he actually looked like he was thrilled to bump into me. ‘Fantastic, Amelia. Great to see you. I’m just doing this for charity. You know, one of those days where all the head honchos come down to the coalface and learn about the operation from the ground up.’
‘Are you for real?’ I said in a low voice so none of the other passengers can overhear. ‘Has the cabin suddenly depressurized? Is that why you’re coming out with all this utter shite … lack of oxygen to your brain?’
‘It’s the absolute truth,’ he says, smiling at me with that sincerity he can fake to a T.
‘My friend Richard does it all the time. That’s Richard Branson, by the way. Lets the staff know I’m really just one of them.’
‘Move on, could you please?’ his supervisor said crisply from behind. ‘You’re blocking the aisle and this passenger needs to use the bathroom.’
He wheeled the trolley onwards and it was just as well. He was so convincing, I’d almost have believed him. In another minute he’d have been telling he was a majority shareholder in British Airways.
Please understand I’m completely cool and calm as I’m remembering all of this sorry episode. All I can think is: talk about your lucky escapes …
Back to class and Ira is busy giving out instructions for next week’s homework. There’s loads of it: we all have to do a ‘program evaluation audit’ where you reassess the progress you’ve made (or lack of it in my case) over the past few weeks. Is your appearance up to scratch; is your attitude remaining positive; are you really casting your net as wide as possible to include dating men who aren’t your type?
Yes, actually, I think, mentally ticking that one off. Well, I did ask Philip Burke out, didn’t I?
As class wraps up and Ira cheerily tells us to ‘Go, get results!’ Mags comes over to me and gives me a hug.
‘Hey! I heard you got nominated for a big TV award and I just wanted to congratulate you.’
‘Thanks. I’m kind of nervous, but I’m really looking forward to it. Should be a great night.’
‘Yeah.’ She laughs. ‘That’s just what Philip said.’
‘He told you I asked him to be my date, then?’ I try not to look embarrassed. After all, isn’t that what this class is all about?
‘Yes, he told me. Give him a chance, Amelia, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Yeah, of course I will.’ I try to sound upbeat and positive about the prospect of a scary night out with him, but I’m really thinking, I’m only putting myself through this because Ira says you should date what’s not your type.
‘I think he likes you.’
‘Really?’ I’m about to say. ‘How do you tell?’ but opt for smiling politely instead.
‘Yes, I do. Look, I know he can be a bit, well, aloof, but just remember that if you sand him down, there’s a good heart under all that … well, all those clangers he sometimes comes out with. Think of him like a rough diamond. OK, he needs a bit of polishing and working on, but it would be so worth it. Then you and he could come out on foursomes with Damien and me. Wouldn’t that be so much fun?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Get Down off Your Crucifix, We Need the Wood
There’s a deeply unpleasant surprise waiting for me when I get home. I go into my building, pick up the post and step into the lift, dying for (in no particular order) a good, long soak in the tub and a lovely chilled glass of Sancerre.
The lift doors glide apart and there he is, waiting for me. He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken. He’s slumped up against the door of my apartment with the biggest bouquet of stargazer lilies you ever saw lying on the ground beside him.
Oh help …
He hops to his feet the minute he sees me and I brace myself for what’s coming. Keep cool, I tell myself. Just stay calm and get it over with.
‘Hi Amelia,’ he says, thrusting the flowers at me. ‘Congratulations. I just got you these to say well done on being nominated in the TV awards.’
I look at him, deliberately not taking the flowers. ‘You have to stop this.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Trying to be all pally with me. Being here. Lurking outside my apartment. The flowers, everything. It’s not going to happen, ever. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but I’m not your friend, I didn’t ask to be, I don’t want to be and I never will
be.’
‘Well, actually, I was kind of hoping we could have a chat.’
‘About what? Wedding plans? Seating arrangements? Next thing you’ll be inviting me out on your stag night.’
‘No, nothing like that. I just thought I could talk to you about something.’
I don’t answer, just fish around in my handbag for my door keys.
‘Poppy wants us to take a break,’ he blurts out.
‘What?’ Am I hearing things? Half of me wants to go inside to the safety of my flat and slam the door in his face, but the other half is dying to find out what’s going on.
Naturally enough, the nosey half wins out. I look at him quizzically and he takes this as his cue to continue.
‘She says she needs time, that the whole wedding thing has been too rushed. Then there’s the age-gap issue. Half the time I don’t even know what she and her friends are talking about and they all look at me like I’m some sleazy, lecherous old granddad. Her best friend keeps ringing me up from nightclubs at five in the morning wanting lifts home, as if I’m some sort of twenty-four-hour on-call taxi …’
I was right. It’s almost like there’s a generation gap between them and now the cracks are beginning to show.
Too bloody bad …
‘Amelia, I can tell you this, because you’ll understand. You know me so well, better than anyone, I think.’ Then he looks around, a bit embarrassed. ‘Look, can I come inside, just for a few minutes? I really don’t want to discuss this out on the corridor.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the corridor. Say what you have to say and let me go. I’m tired, I’m narky and I’m starting to think I’ve heard enough.’
He looks at me, realizes the lady is not for turning, then goes for it. ‘This isn’t easy for me to say, but over the last few weeks, I’ve realized what a terrible mistake I made in letting you go. You wanted a commitment and at the time I couldn’t do it, but this whole experience with Poppy has been such a major eye-opener for me.’ He takes a long pause for effect. ‘Amelia, I think I’m with the wrong woman and I let the right one slip through my fingers.’
For once in my life, I can’t even think of a smart comment to throw back at him. The pain and the agony and the hurt that this man put me through and now he’s saying: Ooooops, sorry about that, made a bad move, can we just forget about the past and by the way, please take me back?
Suddenly the last few months flash before my eyes … every one of my exes that I painstakingly tracked down, full of hope that I’d learn something that would all stand me in good stead when I met the one.
I can handle that none of my previous relationships worked out. I can handle the sad fact that you could summarize my entire twenty-year dating history in three words: crash and burn. I accept that I made bad choices in the past.
What I can’t handle is that it’s still ongoing. Whatever I’m doing wrong, I’m still doing it: viz, this arsehole on my doorstep fully expecting me to take him back with open arms. If I’m really honest, yes, there was a time after we first broke up when I probably would have taken him back, in spite of everything, but not now. Not after everything he’s put me through. Maybe I’m a million miles wrong, but I can’t help feeling I deserve a bit better. And anything’s better than this …
‘Amelia?’
‘What?’
‘You’re doing your drifting-off-into-space thing again. Did you hear what I just said?’
‘Yes, I was just doing my best to tune it out.’
‘I was apologizing for the huge mistake I made. I didn’t know what I had with you until I lost it. I guess you’re an acquired taste.’
‘Like Guinness,’ I mutter, taking out my keys and opening the hall door. I’ve had enough. Quite enough.
He looks at me, crestfallen as I turn to close the door. ‘So I’m not welcome inside then? Are you sure we couldn’t talk about this over a nice bottle of Sancerre, your favourite? Poppy’s out with her friends again tonight and I really don’t want to be alone. Come on, Amelia, let me in, for old times’ sake. I’ve missed you and if you’re honest you’ll admit that you’ve missed me too.’ Then he grabs my arm and moves in close. ‘Don’t be like this, honey, let me inside. You know you want to.’
Now he’s done it.
I turn to him, boiling with fury at the sheer brass neck of him. ‘I’m really glad I’m not crying because I’d hate for what I’m saying to be clouded by emotion. It is not OK for you to camp out on my doorstep just because your fiancée is having second thoughts about you. I am no one’s second choice nor am I your consolation prize. Do you understand?’
He gives me the puppy-dog eyes but sensibly says nothing.
‘Oh and FYI?’ I add, unable to resist this.
‘Yeah?’ He looks at me half hopefully, half expectantly.
‘When a woman says she wants to take a break, allow me to translate. It means she wants a break from you.’
I go inside, collapse on the sofa and burst into angry, bitter tears.
As ever, it takes Jamie to put a smile back on my face. I call him from work the next day, desperate to talk.
‘Hey, hon!’ he growls, sounding hungover as a dog and dying for a good long gossip, ‘So what’s the word from planet crackpot?’
I fill him in on last night’s developments, in glorious Technicolor, no detail, however tiny, omitted.
‘Oh, Jamie, I honestly can’t remember the last time I cried that much. My head is splitting today and I’m supposed to be working and I just can’t bring myself to do anything. This is awful. It’s just so bloody awful.’
‘Jeez,’ he says, concerned, ‘you really sound like you’re stuck in a slough of despond. Not like yourself at all.’
‘If you’d only seen him; he was just so sure of himself. In his warped head he thought all it would take would be a bunch of flowers for him to be on a one-way ticket to pantyland.’
‘OK, are you ready for my take on this?’ says Jamie, sounding like the Exorcist after smoking fifty fags. ‘Although you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what’s going on there.’
‘Please.’
‘Elementary, my dear. Poppy’s finally got bored with him and now wants to hang out with her twenty-something friends. So if I were in your shoes, I would now be dancing on rooftops going “he, he, hee”. What a kick in the teeth for him. I’m sorry, but isn’t some evil part of you just haemorrhaging bittersweet laughter, my favourite kind?’
‘No, that’s the thing. It turns my stomach to think that I’m his also-ran woman and, now that he’s a dumpee, he thinks all he has to do is doorstep me and I’ll fall back into his arms. After what he put me through.’
‘Come on, babe, you have to stay strong. You have a big awards do coming up and the last thing you need are stress lines breaking out on your face. Refocus. Regroup. So what’s the plan for today?’
I’m so shell-shocked by the last twelve hours, I can’t even think straight … Then it comes back to me. ‘Oh, you’ll love this. I have to contact Gary O’Neill.’
Jamie snorts. ‘The original dirty rotten scoundrel? The Nick Leeson of the skies? Take great care, angel, in fact take a tip from me. Do it over the phone. You don’t want him getting his thieving paws on your credit card. Again.’
He’s dead right, I’m thinking, God knows what Gary’s up to now. He could even be in prison for all I know … In fact, if he’s a free man, I’ll be very surprised …
‘Ooooh, this is just way too much drama for me this early in the day,’ says Jamie. ‘Keep safe and keep me posted, won’t you, hon? Oh, here, I have to go, the dead have arisen.’ In the background, I can hear a loo flushing and heavy footsteps thumping around Jamie’s flat.
‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ I say. ‘Have you got someone there? Did you score last night?’
‘At it like students after lights out all night long, baby,’ he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I’ll call you back, darling. I was very drunk and now I hav
e to try and remember which lies I told him. I definitely remember saying that I was a black belt in karate and that I was fluent in Greek and Arabic and that I was acting part-time while I did a Ph.D. in genetic research.’
‘Jamie!’
‘In fact the only thing I didn’t lie about was being single. Cheerie-bye, dearest, chat later. Love you, mean it!’
I seize the moment. I have about half an hour before my next meeting, with the advertising department, so I make sure the conference-room door is shut tight and I go for it. After all, time is running out and here I am, still single and now dealing with an ex-boyfriend who thinks I’m fair game.
Right, here goes.
One deep, soothing breath later and I’m on the phone to the British Airways personnel department.
Then I do something I’m not very proud of.
In my defence, when I was in current affairs, we used to do this all the time. If we needed to talk to someone and get specific information, we’d say, ‘Hi, I’m calling from the News Time TV show, can you tell me … ?’ It was like uttering a magic formula. People would tell you all kinds of stuff which they probably shouldn’t have. But it worked then and it works now.
The lady in personnel I speak to sounds crisp and efficient. Definitely not a rule-breaker, so I chance my arm. ‘I know you’re not supposed to give out personal information,’ I say tentatively, ‘but, you see, I’m a producer calling from TV One and I’m trying to track down an employee of yours.’
OK, it sounds like I’m about to make a documentary about the airline industry but, so far, it’s only a half-lie.
‘Any information you can give me would of course be treated in the strictest confidence,’ I add, doing my best to sugar it up.
It works like a charm. ‘Who did you wish to contact?’ she asks.
‘One Gary O’Neill,’ I answer, feeling a bit more confident.
‘Gary O’Neill?’ she asks, repeating the name slowly.
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 30