Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  I had rung his office that morning, fully expecting an answering machine, but to my surprise, his secretary answered and said he was having a clinic from ten till four. Brilliant. It’s a good sign.

  I go inside the office, which is dark, a bit dingy and unwelcoming, like a doctor’s surgery. There’re three other people sitting on very uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs and I join them.

  I notice I’m the only one under the age of about seventy, but then I’m not here on constituency business. Not by a long shot.

  There’s a lot of coughing and shuffling and the wait is so long that I’m seriously thinking I might just chicken out and leave a message with his secretary instead, but then my recurrent image comes back to haunt me. The headless groom, the Vera Wang … Except in this head rush, I’m almost on the verge of turning into Miss Havisham, with rotting teeth and cobwebs all over my decaying dress and rats eating the wedding cake …

  The door opens and out comes Bill, shaking hands with an elderly pensioner. ‘Don’t be worrying now, Mrs Murphy, we’ll sort out that medical card for you in no time. Go on home now, love, and remember the council elections are coming up soon and you know what we always say to the party faithful. Vote early and vote often!’

  He spots me (well, I must look like a foetus compared with the rest of them) and is over to me like a shot. ‘Amelia Lockwood! Well, look at you! It’s only great to see so, so it is! Come in, come in, till I chat to you properly,’ he says, steering me into his office.

  ‘But, Bill, there’re people who were ahead of me, I’m skipping the queue.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be bothering your head about that,’ he says. Then he turns to the room. ‘Excuse me, I’m sure none of you mind if I see Amelia first, do you? She’s a television producer.’

  You’d think I was a cardinal working for the Pope in Rome, the way Bill talked me up, but no one seems to object, so in I go.

  ‘Jeez, Amelia, am I glad to see you, pet. You couldn’t have called to see me at a better time. Did you see the polls in last week’s Times? Forty-five per cent dissatisfaction with me personally, hard to believe, I know. And 07’s an election year, you know! It’s all down to that useless documentary they did on poor aul’ Claire, stitched her up good so they did. Sure, she never came out with half the stuff they said she did, they just made her look desperate in the edit. That’s the power of telly for you.’

  OK, I’m thinking, does he realize he’s speaking to me like I’m his press secretary?

  ‘I did see it, Bill, but that’s not actually why I came to see you—’

  ‘She was done for speeding in her new sports car the other day, fifty she was doing in a forty-mile zone but the garda recognized her and breathalysed her. Like there was any need for that, you know? Victimization, that’s what it is, pure and simple. They had a headline in the paper the next morning calling her “Lady Macbreath”.’

  ‘That’s awful for your wife, Bill, but you see, the reason I—’

  ‘Election year not far off, do you understand me, Amelia? We need to do a full one eighty on her public image. If people knew the real Claire they’d stop calling her the Claire Witch behind her back and slagging her off for shelling out cash all the time. Very hurtful, you know. She rang me bawling from Louis Vuitton the other day because someone in the shop let it slip, behind her back. Give a dog a bad name, do you see? Now, you with all your media contacts could be worth your weight in gold to us. My idea is that we adopt one of them Chernobyl kids, get great photo opportunities, maybe you could set that up for us? Come on, Amelia, you and I always worked well together. My back is to the wall here. I’ll make it worth your while. The head of television is a personal friend of mine, you know. Fella by the name of Philip Burke. You just think about it. Maybe I’ll do the same for you one day.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man …

  It’s a ladyshave assault course. I don’t think I’ve gone to so much bother to get ready for anything since my debs, all of twenty years ago.

  Rachel and Jamie are going to Caroline’s to watch the awards, which are being broadcast live, but first, the pair of them have called over to me for a calming, relaxing glass of champagne.

  Calming and relaxing for them, that is. I could do with one laced with valium.

  ‘Wow! Goddess alert!’ says Jamie as I come into the living room in my borrowed Peter O’Brien dress, hot to trot.

  ‘Isn’t it fab?’ I say, twirling in front of the two of them.

  ‘Sen-bloody-sational, sweetie.’ Jamie wolf-whistles. ‘Jeez, I so hope you win just so everyone will see the dress!’

  ‘I hope I don’t! You know me and my fear of public speaking. I’m very happy to sit there and applaud the winner and get drunk and not have to speechify.’

  ‘One alcoholic shot of bubbly now, sweetie,’ says Rachel, pouring me a very large glass, ‘then none till after your award’s been announced. I don’t want you tripping up on your six-inch Dolce and Gabbanas on the way up to the podium.’

  ‘Deal,’ I say, gratefully taking a gulp. Anything to steady my nerves.

  ‘What time’s Philip collecting you at?’ says Jamie.

  ‘Should be here any minute. Look at me, I’m shaking. I’d be tetchy enough if I just had the awards to worry about, but a date with him on top of it …’

  ‘Oh, listen to you, fear of success, that’s your trouble,’ says Jamie. ‘You look like a million dollars, that’s the important thing. Remember: smile, wave, kick.’

  ‘Kick?’

  ‘Yup. Smile at every camera pointing in your face, wave like the Queen as often as you can and kick the train of your dress back every time you’re walking around, so it doesn’t end up wrapped round your legs like an elastoplast.’

  ‘As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ says Rachel. ‘The only thing he was ever nominated for was Rear of the Year in the Dragon bar. You really look wonderful, darling, the hair turned out great.’

  I’ve spent the whole afternoon like a preening princess, slaving away under a hot hairdryer in Marshall’s salon, while having my nails manicured. The stylist curled my hair from here to France, then shaped it into an elegant chignon, so for once it looks really thick and full of body.

  ‘Thanks hon,’ I say, taking another gulp of champagne and pacing up and down.

  ‘Will you sit still? You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘I’m practising walking in the Dolce and Gabbanas, like you told me to. They should be called limo shoes; I don’t think I’ll make it any further than from the car to the hotel, that’s it. If there’s dancing, they can forget about it.’

  ‘Hold out your arms till I check them one last time,’ says Rachel.

  I obediently do as I’m told.

  ‘Good, much better. Streaky fake tan disaster narrowly avoided. Yet again, good old-fashioned body make-up saves the day.’

  ‘That happened to me once with the St Tropez stuff,’ says Jamie. ‘Honestly, they write all these instructions on the bottle about how you’re supposed to exfoliate and moisturize before you lash it on, but they leave out the most important one. Stay sober.’

  Just then, a car horn blows loudly from below my balcony window. ‘Oh Jesus, it’s him,’ I say, peeping out.

  The horn toots again.

  ‘Let him come up and ring the door like a normal person,’ snaps Rachel. ‘Where does he think he is, a drive-in?’

  Another few toots later and Philip eventually realizes that he’s actually going to have to leave his car and come upstairs.

  Our three heads duck in unison, so he doesn’t see us.

  ‘I have to say, the bit I saw of him, he looked very cute in a dress suit,’ says Jamie.

  ‘He’s straight,’ says Rachel.

  ‘Oh yeah, because by saying cute, I’m virtually shagging him.’

  I take another gulp of champagne and he buzzes on the door.

  ‘Show time,’ says Ja
mie, theatrically.

  ‘Go easy on him,’ I say, panicking now. ‘Remember his social skills sometimes aren’t all they should be.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Rachel. ‘You just leave him to me.’

  Two minutes later, she’s leading him into the living room to where I’m standing by the fireplace, trying to look all relaxed and casual, yet terrified to sit down in case the dress crumples.

  ‘Philip, how are you?’ I say as he gives me a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘You remember Jamie, and, well, you met my friend Rachel at the door.’

  ‘Yeah. Hi, Jamie,’ he says as Rachel eyes him up. I swear I can physically see her trying to decide whether she likes him or not. He’s barely looking at her at all, which in itself is odd. Certainly makes him the first man in a long, long time who’s been oblivious to the lethal Rachel pheromone …

  Then there’s an awkward silence.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry.’

  Another long pause, which Philip makes no attempt to fill.

  ‘Do you like Amelia’s dress?’ asks Jamie eventually.

  ‘Ehh … very nice,’ he says. ‘My mother used to have something like that.’

  ‘What?’ says Rachel disbelievingly.

  ‘Well, of course, she wouldn’t wear it now. She’s eighty-two.’

  Rachel throws me a puzzled look, as would anyone who wasn’t used to the Philip Burkeisms.

  Another silence.

  ‘Did you have any difficulty getting the tickets?’ Jamie asks.

  I laugh nervously. ‘I doubt it, given that Philip’s the head of television.’

  ‘Only trying to make conversation,’ says Jamie.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ says Philip indifferently. ‘Actually I won them in Bella magazine.’

  We all just look at him.

  ‘That was a joke,’ he adds.

  ‘Oh, right,’ we chorus, all doing our best to look amused.

  Yet another silence.

  Oh God, this is going to be the most excruciating night of my life. What have I let myself in for?

  ‘I suppose we’d better get going then,’ I eventually say to Philip.

  ‘OK then, my love,’ says Jamie, air-kissing me so as not to ruin the make-up. ‘Just remember my golden rule, whether you win or lose: don’t take the highs too high and don’t take the lows too low.’

  ‘It’s the TV awards, not the shallow awards,’ says Rachel, hugging me. ‘Good luck, sweetie.’ She squeezes my arm significantly as if to say, ‘And good luck with this guy, who quite honestly is as odd as a bucket of shite.’

  I know just what she means.

  Jamie and Rachel wave us off, promising to lock up the apartment and to keep up constant mobile-phone contact throughout the night. I slip into the passenger seat beside Philip and we drive off in silence.

  We haven’t been gone two minutes before I notice something I’d rather not have. He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken is outside his house, polishing his jeep. He sees us and we see him and it’s pure awful.

  ‘Isn’t that the South African guy who gatecrashed your singles party?’ asks Philip, who misses nothing.

  ‘Emm, yeah,’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant – as if men crashing singles parties in my flat is the kind of thing that happens to me every day of the week.

  ‘Ex-boyfriend, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d say that’s quite an interesting story.’

  Is he fishing for information? Or is this his Philip-Burkeish way of drawing me into conversation?

  Hard to tell …

  One thing’s for sure, though. This is not a subject I want to be drawn on. Not tonight. I turn to Philip and smile brightly. ‘Not so much interesting, as long.’

  He glances over at me.

  ‘That was my idea of a joke,’ I trail off.

  But he doesn’t laugh.

  Dear God, I’m thinking, this night is going to replace the horse’s head at the bottom of the bed in my nightmares …

  Nor do things improve when we get to the Four Seasons. Philip refuses to park in the hotel car park on the grounds that they charge ten euro to valet park, so he leaves the car way down the street outside. This, from a man who earns an annual six-figure salary. Smile and get through this with a good grace, I tell myself as we walk up to the hotel, each step nearly crippling me in the heels.

  The foyer is buzzing when we do eventually get there and I’m delighted to see Dave Bruton and his wife, along with Janet, our designer, who’s brought Suzy from the production office with her. We all hug and squeal at each other, exclaiming over each other’s dresses/hairstyles/or in my case drastic new look.

  Things are looking up. At least there’s a good gang from work here, normal people that I can have a laugh with.

  Well, mostly normal people.

  Unfortunately Good Grief O’Keefe is here too, with a much younger-looking guy who she introduces to us all as Garth. For a few minutes, it drives me nuts trying to remember where I know him from, and then it hits me. He’s lead singer in a boy band called Boyz On Fire. Then the lovely Sadie Smyth joins us, looking resplendent in a gold lamé dress and there’s more hugs and air-kisses and shrieking and complimenting each other’s outfits.

  OK, the night mightn’t be too bad after all …

  ‘So what’s the story with you and Philip Burke?’ Janet whispers to me. ‘Are you going out with him? Cos that’s what I call hot gossip.’

  On second thoughts …

  Because it’s a live broadcast, everything is punctual to the second, so bang on the dot of eight p.m. we’re all being shepherded into our seats. The organizers have spared no expense; there’s a gorgeous meal, after which we’re live for the actual awards. Philip and I are at the same table as the rest of the Celtic Tigers gang, which is great. Well, except that he spends most of the meal talking shop with Dave Bruton, who’s looking more and more bored and keeps throwing for-the-love-of-God-please-rescue-me looks across the table to his wife.

  The awards are to begin at nine-thirty, so at twenty-five past, there’s a stampede to the ladies, for last-minute hair and make-up retouches. The great thing about having my hair in a ‘do’ is that it’s hardly budged since I left the hairdresser’s. In fact, I have a vision in my head of me with a hammer, chisel and blowtorch just trying to get it back to normal when I get home.

  ‘Looking good, Miss Nominee,’ says Suzy, who’s a bit pissed by now.

  ‘Come eleven-thirty, when it’s all over, then I’ll relax,’ I say. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Locked. Veeeeeery squiffy. That’s the thing about having the awards after the dinner, just means you’ve been drinking for hours before we go live. Are my teeth gone black?’

  ‘Ehh … no. Definitely not. You’re all right.’

  ‘Red wine does that to me. So what’s the story with you and Philip Burke? Doesn’t he scare you?’

  ‘Yes and no. Yes, he scares me a bit and no, there’s no story.’

  ‘I used to work with him on the Late Night Talk show, oh, years ago, before he got promoted, and I swear we all used to run in fear. I once hid in a toilet to avoid a meeting with him. “Ming the Merciless” we used to call him. Do you know what he said to me tonight?’ She giggles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know the way he’s so abrupt? He barked at me, “What have you done to your hair? It’s a completely different colour from the last time I saw you.” So I said, “Yes, Philip, it’s highlighted. Lots of women do it, all very normal, you know.” And he said, “You show me a natural blonde and I’ll show you a dirty big liar.” Can you believe him?’

  ‘Philip Burkeisms, I call them.’

  ‘Whatever. He’s very lucky to be with you tonight, otherwise we’d all be too terrified to talk to him.’ Then she gives me a tight hug. ‘Good luck, Amelia. We’re all rooting for you!’

  I make it back to our table j
ust in time, as they’re rolling out the opening credits, with a fanfare of drum rolls. The lights dim and it’s all very exciting, like being at the Oscars or the Baftas, I imagine.

  ‘Another two minutes and you’d have been late,’ says Philip.

  OK, now I’m starting to think asking him to be my date has been a horrible mistake. Just wait till I get my hands on Mags when I see her in class next week …

  I smile at him and grit my teeth. I will get through this night. Attitude is everything and I have a very positive attitude – once I don’t have to go up to the podium and make a speech, that is … At least I gave Philip a whirl, so that’s something, isn’t it?

  Our host for the evening is a well-known stand-up comedian called Jay Jones who comes bouncing out and immediately gets the party rolling with a hilarious opening set, basically slagging the knickers off everyone. He even does an impression of Good Grief O’Keefe trying to cry and I have to stuff a napkin in my mouth, I’m laughing so hard, while she just sits at the table looking stonily ahead. My mobile phone is on silent, but it lights up with a text message.

  Jamie: U R ON TV! TAKE THAT F**KING NAPKIN OUT OF YOUR GOB RIGHT NOW!!!

  Oh shit. I look around me for the camera. There it is, right behind me, a hand-held one, circulating the tables. I shove the napkin back on the table and clasp my hands in front of me, trying my best to look demure.

  The first few awards are all in the technical categories: best lighting, sound, editing and effects. This basically means that everyone not directly involved can go up to the bar to get as many rounds in before the major gongs are handed out.

  ‘Would somebody else mind getting this round?’ says Philip. ‘I don’t want to break a fifty.’

  Yet another Philip Burkeism in a whole sea of them; at one point he called Dave’s wife Martini. Her actual name is Olive.

  Then the best actress award, which goes to an actress who played a leading role in a hospital drama series. She’s a popular winner and it’s the first standing ovation of the night.

  ‘This time next year, it’ll be you,’ I hiss over to Sadie and she beams and blushes.