Ever the lady, she even chatted away to Joan, after she’d eventually hauled herself out of bed and come downstairs to discover a bona fide TV star sitting at our kitchen table. Needless to say, Joan instantly snapped into one of her better moods at the very sight of Emma and made a point of getting a few shots of her on her camera phone, ‘So I can show all the girls later on in work, don’t you know.’
Then, between the two of them, they came up with an idea for me to raise a few extra quid; finally selling the bag loads of stuff belonging to me in the garage. One of those gak jobs I’d intended doing ages ago but just never got around to. I think mainly because it would mean really saying goodbye to my old life, like cutting the very last tie. But on the other hand, I desperately needed the cash and when Emma said she knew of a second-hand clothes shop in town which only took designer goods, handbags and shoes etc., then gave you a percentage of the profits, it seemed as good a time as any to get cracking.
‘What a wonderful idea,’ Joan chirruped, looking fondly at Emma. She reckoned that if I was going to do a massive clear-out, then it would be the perfect opportunity for her to throw out a pile of Sharon and Maggie’s crappy old clothes too, which she could then leave down at the local Oxfam; a job best done when the pair of them were safely out of the house at work.
‘No time like the present,’ Emma said gamely, volunteering to give us a hand as she had the rest of the morning free and even offering to drive me to the second-hand store, seeing as how her car had a massive boot that held loads. So for the next hour, she and I ploughed our way through all my bin liners in the garage, ruthlessly purging anything that I had a reasonable chance of making a few quid out of. Prada dresses, Vuitton luggage, Jimmy Choos, the works.
Having Emma beside me was amazing; I really did my best to mirror her positive, can-do attitude and didn’t allow myself to wallow about the happy days when I actually used to wear all this gear, just kept focusing on the fact that I might end up with extra cash and not a minute too soon. The only things I held back on were a few jeans and tops which I definitely would need, a suit in case a miracle happened and I got a job, plus a few accessories like scarves and bits of costume jewellery which I thought Sharon might get some wear out of. In her own words, she was ‘reworking her look’, so anything I thought would look good on her, I kept. But nothing more.
I needed money far, far more than I needed memories.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Joan worked her way through Sharon and Maggie’s wardrobes and filled no fewer than four black bin liners with the more offensive and gakkier of their tracksuits, sweatshirts and jumbo-sized underwear. So by lunchtime, the three of us were all set to go; Emma and I to town in her car and Joan to the Oxfam shop down the road in hers. We loaded up both cars with the black sacks and went our separate ways; Joan practically making poor, patient Emma swear on the Bible to call back and visit us sometime very soon.
Now, you might think that was all very straightforward and simple, but like so much in my life, it quickly turned to disaster. By way of farce. Emma and I arrived in town at a store called Second Avenue and the sales assistant told me to empty all the clothes out on the counter so she could have a look. Which I did.
I stuck my hand into the bin liner nearest to me and out came … not one of my Prada dresses or a beautifully elegant Jimmy Choo sandal, but Maggie’s most revolting tracksuit, the one in bright Hubba Bubba pink. Panicking, I spilled out the rest of the bags all over the shop floor; same thing. Maggie’s horrible gusset tights, nighties belonging to Sharon with holes in them, knackered bras with hooks missing and knickers, long gone grey from years of washing. None of my designer stuff, not a single thing.
Which meant that somehow the bags got mixed up and right about then, every stitch belonging to me was sitting in Oxfam. Where I’d never get as much as a bean for it. I’ll never forget the horrified look on the shop assistant’s face when she politely but curtly told me that she was terribly sorry, but really this wasn’t the type of thing they were looking for at all. And later on, as we drove past the charity shop, sure enough, I saw a model in the window wearing my Marni evening dress and a pair of my good Manolo Blahniks. Emma even tried to make me see the positive side: Oxfam would now make a killing on my stuff and it would help all the poor starving babies in Africa, etc., etc. She was right of course, but I was still ready to sob my heart out with mortification and silent fury. The dress in the window had never even been worn. I could still see the tag on it.
Anyway, she drove me to my front door and, as I stepped out of the car, a few of the kids on the street recognised her and were over like bullets demanding autographs and photos on their phones. Then of course, our street being what it is, the neighbours had to check up on the commotion outside, so they all joined in, scrambling over each other to shake Emma’s hand, like she was visiting royalty. But she greeted everyone warmly, signed every single autograph and took on board every comment like, ‘Ah love, could you not put in a good word to get Jessie back on the telly again? She’s like a recluse here. Never even comes out for a chat, just runs to and from the car with a baseball cap and sunglasses on her.’
Which, I know, gave me more than a touch of the Norma Desmonds from Sunset Boulevard, but then that’s my neighbours for you. Well intentioned but cutting. Hence my long-term survival policy of avoid, avoid, avoid. Emma of course just laughed and smiled and took it all in her stride. And when she finally had to leave, she hugged me tightly before slipping into her car, zooming out of my new life and back into my old one.
*
And now … Ta-da! … the actual good news. I have a job. Don’t get too excited though. It’s nothing like what I used to do. At all. Not by the longest of long shots.
How it came about was thus: my emergency dole money finally came through, but honest to God, by the time I paid Sharon back what I owed her, not to mention the good people at Visa who’ve set up a ‘long-term debt repayment schedule’ for the rest of my natural life, there was nothing left over. Nada. And I hated borrowing more, particularly from Joan who’s one of those people who hold a bad debt over your head like a whip.
That aside, having feck all to do day in and day out was certainly contributing to the low-level depression I’d been going through these past few months. And, in a funny way, seeing Emma again brought it all back to me. In times past, I was just like her; always on the go, busy and active from the minute I hopped out of bed to whatever God-awful hour I crawled back into it again. And, OK, a lot of that time was spent getting myself into toxic debt, but you get the picture. Being busy = good for me. Earning cash = even better.
I rang my poor agent Roger so many times in the past few weeks that I almost formed a mental picture of him waving his monogrammed hanky at his assistant and mouthing at her, ‘If that’s bloody Jessie Woods yet AGAIN, tell her I’m not in and no, there are NO JOBS.’ And it’s not just in the entertainment industry either. No one’s hiring anywhere. NO one. Not the huckster shop down the street, not in the takeaways, not even in our local Maxol garage. Believe you me, I’ve tried them all. This is the first summer in living memory when even students can’t get part-time jobs and anyone lucky enough to have a Saturday job is politely but firmly being let go.
Plus, there’s the slightly bigger concern. I’m not exactly trained to do all that much, am I? I mean, yes, I did a certificate course in media training years ago, but since then my work experience to date has all involved doing wild and wacky dares, bits and pieces of freelance reporting, pointing at areas of low pressure on chromo-key maps and acting as general dogsbody to a lunatic. And I’m up against college graduates with BAs and MBAs and MAs hanging out of their earlobes. You know, useful qualifications.
Then there’s the other, slightly more delicate problem. Who wants to hire someone who made such a spectacular show of themselves live to the nation? When there’s a queue forming behind me of, let’s just say normal, reliable, more trustworthy candidates? The problem was driving me nuts and I
was on the verge of throwing in the towel, when, not for the first time, Sharon came to my rescue.
About a week ago, she bounced home from work so delighted with herself that I thought some handsome, TV-addicted, fast-food-loving stranger had walked up to her and asked her on a date. But it turned out to be even better.
‘News for you,’ she beamed. ‘You’ll never guess, so don’t even try to. Smiley Burger are looking for a new crew member and guess who has an interview tomorrow morning? You do! I had to put in a good word for you though, but don’t let on we’re sisters or else they’ll all think it’s nepotism.’
Useless my protesting that I know as much about the fine art of burger-making as I do about flying the space shuttle, Sharon was having none of it. Think of it like one of your dares on telly, she said. A child of five could do it and in fact, if it was up to Larry the boss (who they all call Larry the Louse) he’d have the kitchen entirely staffed with underage kids like in a Chinese sweatshop, just so he wouldn’t have to bother paying them minimum wage.
Then there was the small question of wages. €9.31 an hour. Which works out at a bit more than €446 per week, if I can manage to work a six-day week. Exactly double my dole money. It would mean I could finally start paying my way at home and therefore be exempted from doing all the housework. And just the very thought of never, ever having to stand in that God-awful, long, snaking queue at the dole office is enough to have me grabbing Sharon’s uniform, name badge and hat and running down to Smiley Burger to start chopping gherkins right now.
Sharon even spent hours coaching me through the type of questions I was likely to be asked at the interview. Interview, I thought? Surely I just turn up, fill out an application form and get kitted out with a uniform straight away? You’d think that, but no. Apparently, I’m expected to wax lyrical about all their products and as Sharon put it, show that I actually do eat the shite.
So she gave me a crash course on every single thing they make, Smiley Burgers, Smiley Fries, Smiley Shakes; they even do a whole range of low-fat Smiley Calorie-Counter meals, all of which taste like cardboard and by the time you add on the Smiley Salad Dressing, end up with exactly the same fat content as a big, greasy burger and chips. But there again, I’m quoting Sharon.
Then, on the morning of the interview, when she spotted me getting into my usual jeans and a casual top, she almost had a coronary. ‘Jeez, smarten up a bit, will you? Larry the Louse will be interviewing candidates kitted out like they’re going to appear in court. People with actual degrees. So cop the feck on.’
I did what she said, albeit a bit sulkily, thinking, Yeah right, degrees in what exactly? How to deep fry chips? Anyway, I did manage to find a solitary Peter O’Brien crisp, tailored suit among the few clothes I’d held on to for just such an emergency, so I shoehorned myself into it and off I went. And bloody glad I was too that I wore something demure, mainly because Larry the Louse spent pretty much the entire interview staring at my chest. Honestly. He’s well named too, he actually does have a lousey look about him, with eyes that bit too close together and teeth that bit too pointy and sharp. And when he wasn’t looking at my chest he was looking at my legs, one or the other. The git never even asked me a single thing about all the crap I’d memorised; how many calories were in a Smiley Chicken Salad, was the beef in the burgers one hundred per cent locally sourced and organic? No, all he wanted to know was did I regret leaving Channel Six and whether or not Emma Sheridan was single. Dear Jaysus help me.
I must have done something right though, because the last thing he said to me was, ‘So, when can you start?’ And as I stood up to shake his hand on my way out the door, he leaned in and gave me a highly inappropriate peck on the cheek. Now there was a layer of skin I’d be exfoliating later.
*
So now I’m one full week in the job, it’s Saturday lunchtime and today I’m being trained on the till. At all times remembering the two Smiley catchphrases, which have been drummed into me: ‘Did you want fries with that?’ and my personal favourite, ‘You have a Smiley day now!’
Till duty is actually considered something of a promotion here, mainly because on hygiene duty, you’re expected to mop floors and clean toilets which most of the staff hate and despise. I’m not so bothered though, as let’s face it, up until a few days ago, I was doing all that stuff at home anyway, for free. But interacting directly with customers has caught me a tiny bit off guard, mainly because, new-look red hair or not, I’m quietly terrified that someone will come in and recognise me as ‘your one who got fired off the telly’.
It’s also very busy. Packed. Now this is a hectic branch at the best of times, given that it’s near the Omni Park shopping centre and also fairly close to the airport, but it’s one o’clock now, peak lunchtime and the queues are long. Six of us are working flat out on the tills, including Larry the Louse who’s supervising on this shift and who’s right beside me, taking let’s just say more than a keen interest in everything I’m doing.
Anyway, my head is down and I’m slaving away, taking orders, accepting cash, handing out food the second it’s come from the sweatshop of a kitchen that’s steaming away at full throttle behind us. I glance up, checking to see how many customers are left in my queue … and that’s when I spot them. Eva and Nathaniel standing in my queue, while their two little twin boys run riot around the place.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
‘Josh? Luke? Come back here this instant or else there’ll be no TV when you get back home!’ I can hear Eva shrieking.
It is happening. OK, the main thing is to stay cool and calm. They haven’t seen me. I can still get out of here. There’s still time. Think, think, think …
‘Emm, Larry? Can I go on my break now?’
An irritated, rodent-y glare from him. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve just had your break.’
Shit. Eva and Nathaniel are getting closer now, as the queue moves on, so close that now I can hear them rowing.
‘Nathaniel?’ she’s griping at him. ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have gone to the Four Seasons to feed the kids. You know I hate them eating this rubbish. It’s utter junk, full of nothing but wheat and E numbers.’
‘For the thousandth time,’ I can clearly hear Nathaniel replying, ‘because I am NOT driving all the way home with the kids wailing at me that they’re starving. You’re the one who wanted them to sleep on the flight instead of letting them eat the airline food. I’m tired, I’m jet-lagged, I’m stressed and as far as I’m concerned, they can eat whatever crap they like if it’ll just shut them up so I can drive home in peace.’
I chance a lightning-quick upwards glance at them and notice that they’re all suntanned, wearing ‘just stepped off a long haul flight’-type gear. Eva’s in chinos and a T-shirt, with a very new-looking set of highlights glimmering through her long, swishy hair.
‘Well, the boys will just have to eat in the car,’ she moans, sulkily. ‘Because if you think I’m sitting down in this kip, you’ve another think coming. Someone might see us.’
‘Small chance of anyone we know being in a dump like this.’
‘Well you needn’t bother ordering anything for me. I wouldn’t eat the food here, not if you dragged it through a pool of disinfectant.’
‘Larry,’ I say, getting panicky now, as they’re only two places in the queue away from me. ‘Emm … I need to … use the bathroom. Now. Dire emergency.’
‘Well you should have gone when you were on your break, shouldn’t you?’
Bugger him anyway. If Sharon was supervising today, I’d have no problem, but, as bad luck would have it, it’s her day off today.
‘Please Larry,’ I beg, the hysteria in my voice rising up another notch. ‘It’s—’ Then I have the brainwave of seeing whether embarrassment will get me further with him than pleading. ‘The thing is, you see, I have, well it’s … women’s problems. Time of the month, you know …’
&nbs
p; He sighs deeply, like it’s not the first time this one’s been pulled on him. ‘Right then. When you finish dealing with these customers, you can take five minutes and no more.’
A glimmer of hope. I might, just might, get out of this and live to tell the tale. I serve the customer in front of me as fast as I can and am just about to make a run for the sanctuary of the staff loos downstairs … when hope dissolves like a Smiley Muffin in the rain.
‘Two Smiley Meals with Smiley Juices and a Smiley Latte,’ Nathaniel says, with his head in his wallet, counting cash and not looking at me.
‘Ehh … sorry sir, this till is closed,’ I mumble, head down. Then I think, disguise my voice. Now. ‘If you wouldn’t mind using the till just here,’ I add, in a crappy attempt to pull off a Cork accent.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. How can you be closed when you just served the family in front of me? Now get me two Smiley Meals …’
Shit. He’s looking directly at me now, really staring.
‘Dear God, I don’t believe it! Jessie? Jessie Woods? Can that really be you?’
I blush like a forest fire as clammy, cold flop sweat breaks out all over me. Down my spine, everywhere.
‘Jesus Christ, it is you! What’s with the funny accent?’
‘Emmm … sore throat,’ I cough weakly.
‘Eva? Come here, wait till you see who it is!’
No, no, no, no, no, please let there be an earthquake or some global catastrophe right now, just so I can get out of here … But Eva, who’d disappeared down to the back of the queue to chase after one of the kids, is straight back up to us.
‘Jessie? I don’t believe it! What are you doing here?’
‘Emm … well, long story, you know …’
‘And you’re a redhead!’
‘Ehh …’
‘Are you doing this, like, for charity or something?’
The loudest scream is slowly starting to build up inside me, gathering strength like a tidal wave. ‘No you fecking dopehead, I am not standing here, in a revolting brown stripy uniform with a matching, equally vomit-inducing hat, waiting on you for charity. I’m doing it because I need the money. I got fired from my job, remember? Now piss off and let me get back to work.’
Hopes & Dreams Page 20