After reading the quote, ‘A close friend revealed, “She says she wants to die”’, I came over all panicked and went in search of some caffeine to calm my nerves. It only took me a couple of minutes of snooping to find the kitchen, which seemed to be the epicentre of the whole place, as staff hurried in and out of the sliding kitchen door to the smokers’ balcony outside. While I was struggling to find a clean cup, a friendly face made eye-contact, a pretty blonde asking, ‘Can I help?’
For a moment I thought about walking away, but decided being rude would only make me more conspicuous in such a relatively small building. ‘Oh, yes, please. Just wondering where you kept the cups? I’ve been gasping for some coffee.’
‘Ahhh, cups. That’s an issue around this place. Unless you grab one early, you might not score one at all. Here, have mine, I’m done for now.’
I took the cup hesitantly, but she misinterpreted my unease.
‘Hey, listen, I’m Carol, by the way. I know I look like shit. It’s because I’ve been sick, but don’t worry, I’m not carrying any abnormal germs or anything.’
‘I never said you looked … I mean, you look great. Are you OK, though?’
‘Sure, don’t worry, I’m not contagious or anything. I’m just a bit loopy because I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks, and that, as you can imagine, is driving me a bit silly.’
‘Ohhh.’ My response sounded dismissive, but it wasn’t meant to be.
‘I’m not an alco, by the way. I’m just getting over hepatitis. Shellfish, would you believe? Yeah, I went away for a week to Miami with the girls. They whored themselves out every night, while I went to bed early pining for my boyfriend, and I’m the one who comes home sick with hepatitis from eating at a sushi bar. And not one of them bitches had the decency to come home with as much as crabs! I mean, where is the justice?’
Smacked in the face with her honesty, all I could say was, ‘Wow. That’s fairly crap.’ But my new friend Carol hadn’t finished with her stories yet.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ she confided, leaning closer into my personal space to make her point. ‘The real icing on the cake comes when I arrive back with my liver half-dead, and my boyfriend Titus informs me he’s been sleeping with some tart who understands him, and dumps me. And there I was saving myself in the party town of unlimited sex. It makes me mad just thinking about it. So much for healthy eating. What a con.’
For a moment I stood back, waiting for her next rant, but, realizing my discomfort with the situation, Carol had stopped. Clearly embarrassed, she apologized for losing the run of herself.
Understanding the pain of being cheated on, I briefly explained my own story with Michael as I rinsed her cup with warm water, and she responded by giving me the strongest of hugs by way of sympathy. ‘Oh-my-God. You poor thing,’ she gushed. ‘I’m sorry for moaning. Your story is much worse than mine. And here’s me going on like a bipolar maniac. I’m Kerry Katona without the fame and misfortune.’
Not knowing if I really wanted to be the one with the worst story, I thanked her for the hug and the cup, and excused myself back to my desk with a nasty-tasting filter coffee and some pretend errands that needed urgent attention. I was only moments in my seat when a gorgeous man strode by, the spit of Tom Ford, leaving a blast of his scent in my path. He reminded me of an ex of mine, and I breathed in his musky smell, instantly feeling lonely. It was a bittersweet feeling – how good a man could make you feel, yet how devastated you were when they had gone! Lost in the memory of a past relationship, I was jolted back to the present by a girl at a neighbouring desk.
‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’
‘Who do you mean?’ I asked, as if it wasn’t obvious.
‘It’s OK, you know. Everyone fancies Peter. It’s just a pity he’s such a pig.’
Trying to sound nonchalant I whispered, ‘Oh really?’ while keeping my eyes firmly on my cup of bitterness, but it was clear my game was already up.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve thought he’s hot for several years now. I just don’t like him very much. All I’ll say is: be careful. If you’re stuck for a bit of company, go for it, he’s a great lay. I know from experience. Just be sure to keep it covered. He’s done more mileage than Jenson Button, that man. Oh, and watch out not to get cornered in the conference room when you sneak in to get the free biscuits. It’s kinda his thing.’
Doubly shocked at how forthright the women in the office were, I thanked her for the tip-off and started shoving irrelevant pieces of paper around my desk in an attempt to snuff out any further conversation. Thankfully her mobile rang, and she turned away, whispering, ‘You’re such a shit … No, you are … Such a shit. I love you …’
By lunchtime I had received a call of my own from Bradley. ‘So sorry, lovely, but I got held up. Why don’t you go home? And we’ll see you back in the morning. All right?’ Bloody right it was. I was out of my seat before I had even hung up the phone and was at the lift with a discreet, ‘See ya,’ to the girl at reception. After a scandalous two hours trying to navigate my way through London traffic, I arrived back at my Aunt Maura’s house stressed, sweaty, and cursing the fact that I had worn my best outfit to make a good impression and Bradley hadn’t turned up to see me in it.
Maura’s might not have been the fanciest of houses, but she’d made it a real home. When Daisy and I had arrived the previous evening, Daisy had been tired and I’d been a bit homesick off the plane, and we’d immediately been made welcome by the whole family, despite the fact that they’d only had a few days’ notice that I was on my way. I had hardly set my bags on the floor before, like any good Irish mammy, Maura had had the kettle on and a pile of buttered toast waiting to be devoured.
The lovely atmosphere continued today. Walking into the Maguire living room was like stepping into a fairy tale, made even more idyllic by my daughter happily sitting in the middle of the floor, being fussed over by everyone, and loving every minute of it. Taking turns to show her a Malibu Barbie and a Spider Man were Kelly, eleven, Fiona, eight, and little six-year-old Jack. Unlike the two girls, who possibly were treating Daisy like a real-life doll, but in a caring way, Jack was boisterous like any little fella, but practical. He was paying close attention to the expressions on Daisy’s face. Although none of the kids had ever met Daisy before this trip, she was fitting in quickly, and it was a relief to see they were patient and understanding when she grunted and screamed out loud in her own unique excited fashion. Standing in the hallway, I proudly watched the way she interacted with the other kids. I secretly wished that someday Daisy would have brothers or sisters of her own to watch out for her, and protect her against the cruel world that she would have to make her way out into.
Playtime was interrupted by the arrival of my Auntie Maura, and what looked like homemade scones. ‘Oh, hello, lovee, didn’t expect you back so early. Come on in, we’re having a little tea party.’ Daisy threw me one of her winning smiles, and I dropped my jacket and handbag at the door, kicked off my shoes and rushed over to pick her up and bring her to the dining table to have afternoon tea with everyone else. Maura claimed Daisy had been, ‘A doll all morning. Nah bother.’ It was obvious that she meant it, too, as Daisy soon put out her arms for Maura to hold her instead of me.
Making the most of it, I took myself upstairs to change into something more comfortable and left the girls and boy to their Ribena and scones. After sending some catch-up texts to my mum, Parker, Lisa and my editor at YES! – who had very kindly agreed to unpaid leave, since I had now become a superstar journo off the back of my WAG report – I sat down on my new bed and looked around my very compact room, praying that the walls, complete with Barbie wallpaper, wouldn’t start to cave in on top of me. Parker was right, though, I had ended up in the box room, and I even prompted him to gloat about it in my text. But instead of feeling like a single-mother statistic, I felt lucky that I had a family who could take me in at such short notice, and even more blessed that they had not only opened their doors but also t
heir hearts to me and my special little girl.
Being practical, I had already put the money from my WAG video nasty away for five years into a post office savers’ account that I couldn’t touch even if I had wanted to. Ever since Daisy had been born my natural self-preservation instincts had extended to cover her welfare, too, and I was determined to provide for her future, whatever that might be. So I was banking on this UK adventure to pay for itself and a lot more in the future. And although I had agreed to hand over a modest rent for the bedroom and some money towards the groceries and bills, Maura had said she would refuse to accept any money at all for babysitting Daisy until I found myself a properly trained professional or crèche.
‘We’re family,’ she’d said proudly, which was true. But even though she was my father’s youngest sister, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d even spoken before this, and the only contact I could recall was a Christmas card from the ‘London gang’ posted to my mam and dad’s house two or three years ago, with my name included on the envelope. That was the nice thing about the Irish. No matter where in the world they ended up, they always seemed to remember their roots, and how much they too had struggled when they’d first left the green isle. Helping others out didn’t seem a chore to ex-pats, but just a way of passing on the goodwill, and no doubt somehow easing whatever Catholic guilt they might be living with, too.
That night I went to bed early, exhausted by a combination of emotional and physical stress from the move. Although Daisy looked so peaceful in her cot, I couldn’t help myself, and selfishly lifted her gently into my bed so I could give her the usual cuddles. It was becoming a regular practice these days, but she never seemed to mind. If anything, making this big journey together had made me realize more than ever how much I loved her. Even though I knew I would still occasionally have feelings of despair over the challenges that might lie ahead, I adored the feel of her. Just her body heat and the sweet strawberry-shampoo smell of her hair was enough to calm me again. Back in my happy place, I drifted off to sleep the most contented mommy alive, blocking out any unnecessary worries about undercover work, or the fate of unstable reality stars who would blame me for their shameless and inevitable fall from grace.
Arriving at work the next morning, I was pleased to see the handsome Peter waiting by the lift. Busy chatting on his iPhone about some overdue edits, he didn’t seem to notice my small self ogling the back of his head and coveting his nicely shaped bum. As soon as the lift opened, he quickly ended his phone call, stepped inside and bluntly asked me, ‘Going up?’
Of course the filthy part of my brain screamed, ‘I’m much better at going down.’ But I politely replied, ‘Yes, please,’ while trying not to sound too eager. Surprised when I didn’t press another button after he pressed 5, Peter did a double take in my direction and asked, ‘Are you going to the top?’
That was it. In a fit of random giddiness I blurted out, ‘That’s where I’m going, baby. Stra-ight to the top!’ As soon as the words had left my mouth, I wished that I could take them back. His sullen face said it all. He thought I was an idiot. But he wasn’t alone. I thought I was an idiot, too.
We both stared awkwardly at the floor, numbers flashing by, until the silence seemed to become too much for Peter. ‘Are you new?’ he asked, his questioning look only adding to his appeal.
Unsure how much information I could give away, I mumbled, ‘Eh, yeah, sort of,’ and hoped he wouldn’t ask too many more questions. To my relief, he simply stared at me, though in a baffled way, kinda like I was some freak in a circus. Thankfully the doors opened at the fifth floor before I needed to ask what the hell he was looking at, and he marched off, his iPhone stuck to his ear.
Instructed to wait at my desk again by the pretty blonde receptionist, as Bradley was in a conference call and wanted to speak to me as soon as he was done, I’d barely been sitting down five minutes when Peter marched briskly up to me. Then, without fear of embarrassing me or himself, he pointed at me in a very definite manner, as if I was some sort of criminal, and said, ‘You know, you’re very familiar. Have you been on TV?’
Thankfully, I didn’t get a chance to answer, as Bradley swiftly swooped in like Superman, batting Peter’s accusing finger away from my face as he arrived.
‘Can we help you, Peter? Running out of females to harass on your side of the department?’
‘Good morning to you too, Brad. I was just welcoming the new girl to the office. I’m curious about her job.’
‘That’s of no concern to you, Pete,’ snapped Bradley. ‘OK, Eva, let’s go to my office, fewer predators floating about there.’
Obediently, I followed him, leaving an insulted, yet super-sexy, Peter still standing by my desk. Once in Bradley’s office I felt momentarily safe, but that feeling soon passed as he unveiled what looked like a victims’ wall full of photographs of young people, with their names, occupations, and the list of offences that I was to look out for at the restaurant. As I quickly scanned the images, many of which seemed to be pictures of nights out swiped off Facebook, I read snippets such as, ‘Helen Foley, assistant manager: pocketing cash from till.’ ‘Steven Ryan, barman: free drinks scam.’ But when I laid my eyes on ‘Jake Lewis, head of security: drug-dealing,’ the alarm bells in my head started to ring.
‘Eh, Bradley, what’s the story with this Lewis guy?’ I tried to sound casual, but inside I was trembling. Drugs were not something I was comfortable being around. Although I had once snorted some cocaine during a grim drunken evening while trying to impress a couple of people, it was something I was seriously embarrassed about and wished I could blank from my memory. So the thought of having to work closely with – and spy on – a drug-dealer was terrifying.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bradley. ‘He’s a very slick operator. He runs the door, is in charge of the team, and, if our information is correct, he has most, if not all, of the security staff selling drugs for him.’
‘Right.’ My brain was racing too fast for words to form properly. ‘And – it’s my job to report on his activities?’
‘Exactly.’ Bradley smiled as he proudly gazed at his board, unaware of my reservations. Then he quickly went on, ‘But what we really need from you is to catch some of these transactions on camera. Think you can manage that?’
‘Oh gosh, Bradley, I don’t think …’
‘You’ll be great,’ he gushed. ‘We’ll provide you with everything you’ll need. You’ll have the tiniest of hidden cameras, that will fit in a buttonhole, for your surveillance work, and a high-definition mobile-phone-styled camera to film your reports. And the rest is then up to you.’
‘I’m … I’m not very good with drugs,’ I replied, being as truthful as I could.
‘Don’t worry,’ cooed Bradley. ‘I’m not asking you to take them. I’m just asking you to catch them being sold on tape. There’s no danger involved at all.’
After a very one-sided discussion with Bradley I was sent home early again, but this time with ample homework. Aside from having to familiarize myself with the profiles of each of my new work colleagues, I was given sample scripts which I was to memorize, rehearse in front of a mirror and then record on a small video camera to get me used to doing so at the restaurant.
By 3 a.m. I still hadn’t switched the video camera on. It didn’t matter how many times I read the lines on the page, the second I saw myself in my vanity mirror I clammed up and lost the power of speech. Disappointingly, this wasn’t as easy as I had at first thought. My career as an undercover TV journalist seemed doomed to failure before it had begun. So I reasoned that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to catch a few hours’ sleep, just so I could allow my brain to rest before Daisy woke me up, demanding my undivided attention.
At 6.45 a.m. I woke in a sweat, panicking about my pieces to camera. I couldn’t possibly arrive at Brady Reel Time Films with the excuse that my dog ate my homework, so I called Parker for some pointers, and prayed that he’d pick up the phone at such an early hour.<
br />
‘You are sooo lucky this is a shoot day, missy,’ he scolded when he eventually picked up. ‘Now what can I do you for?’
‘I need tips on becoming a TV diva.’
‘Well, you are a diva, so you’re halfway there, petal.’
‘PARKER! I’m serious. I’m in big trouble here. If I don’t go into work today with four segments recorded, I might as well pack up my bags and head back to Dublin.’
‘Mmmm, OK, as much I would love to see you back home, I’ll help you out. But I’ll need a sweetener.’
Thinking on my feet, I promised to send him some gay porn that he wouldn’t be able to buy back in Dublin, and pleaded with him to hurry.
‘OK, OK, firstly you need to imagine yourself as the person you want to be. In this case a bad-ass reporter who takes no prisoners. Forget being Eva Valentine, and think of this as an actor would. You need to put aside any inhibitions you may have and mentally become this character. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but no. I mean, how do I actually do that?’
‘A lot of people find meditation good for clearing the mind—’
‘Oh, give me a break. I haven’t got time for bleedin’ meditation. We’re up against the clock here, Parker.’
‘Keep your knickers on, it was just a suggestion. Right then, the quickest way for you to do this is to pretend you’re mimicking someone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I said. Pretend that you are taking the piss out of someone, in this case a TV reporter, and deliver the piece to camera as if you were poking fun at them. Methinks that’s your best bet.’
‘That’s genius,’ I squealed, stupidly disturbing Daisy from her slumber. ‘Gotta go.’
After nipping down to the kitchen to grab a bottle of milk for Daisy, to keep her in her cot, I ran into the family bathroom, covered myself up with one of Maura’s spare towelling bathrobes, and in minutes had all four pieces to camera on tape.
Champagne Secrets Page 6