‘I’ll be sure to pass that on.’
‘Congratulations, Jessie, you’ve done a complete Pygmalion on her. Except that you’re Henry Higgins and she’s Eliza Doolittle.’
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I can honestly say this.
I’m happy.
Chapter Sixteen
This lasts right all the way up until the end of the following week and then the blow falls. What makes it worse is that, up till then, everyone’s in top form. And I really do mean everyone, including most astonishingly of all, Maggie.
Remember the flyer I whipped off the kitchen wall at Radio Dublin? It was an ad for an open mike contest, to be held at the Comedy Cellar in town in just two weeks’ time and called, appropriately enough, So You Think You’re Funny? A one-off night to give first-time stand-up comedians a chance at performing in front of a live audience. With a prize of €1,000 and the chance to be seen by one of the top comedy agents in town. The only stipulation is that all entrants must be novices. Complete unknowns, so it’s a level playing field.
Now, knowing full well that if I mentioned this to Maggie, she’d do the exact opposite of what I was suggesting purely just to spite me, I got Sharon to pitch it to her instead. With one hundred per cent success. She took one bite of the cherry and said what the hell, nothing to lose, she’d give it a go.
But that’s only part one of the miracle I have to report. The big news is that, finally, after all this time, there’s been, let’s call it a ‘cessation of hostilities’ between Maggie and me. Hard to believe, I know, but it all dates back to a few nights ago, when it was just she and I alone in the house in, quelle surprise, the TV room.
For starters, there was a very different atmosphere. Maggie was all twitchy and what’s more I could sense it. She was sitting in her usual armchair, but instead of giving the telly her usual laser-like focus, she had a notepad on her lap and kept either staring into space or else scribbling down into it. Every now and then, she’d throw a furtive glance in my direction, as though she was about to ask me something, then would think better of it and look away just as quick. At first I thought I was imagining it, so I did a little experiment.
‘Mind if I change channels?’ I asked her innocently.
‘Hmm? Yeah, go ahead.’
Immediate alarm bell. Because we were watching EastEnders, Maggie’s favourite soap that she never misses and would knife you if you even talked over, never mind changed the channel. So, figuring it would be a long, long time before I got a golden opportunity like this again, I went for it.
‘Maggie, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is everything OK?’
Silence. I could practically feel her wondering whether she should open up to me, the arch enemy, or not. And then the miracle happened. She did.
‘Well, as a matter of fact …’ she began, sounding more unsure of herself than I think I’ve ever heard her.
‘Yeah?’
‘The thing is … there’s this open mike night at the Comedy Cellar coming up that Sharon told me about and … well … I’ve decided to enter.’
‘Hey, that’s great news!’ I said, mentally reminding myself to act all surprised. ‘You’ll be wonderful. I’ve no doubt.’
‘Yeah, but …’ she went on, ‘you see … I need to test out my material. I mean, I have loads of ideas and that, but I won’t know if they’ll work until I actually try them out. So I was wondering … only just because you happen to know a bit about performing in front of an audience …’
‘Maggie, if you want to test your material out on me, I’d be absolutely delighted to lend an ear. Just get us two tins of Bulmers out of the fridge and let’s do it right now.’
She smiled, actually smiled at me and we spent the next two hours going through her gags. With the TV … drum-roll for dramatic effect … switched off.
It was amazing. She paced up and down the TV room, notebook in hand, rehearsing her material as I listened attentively, making helpful comments and remembering at all times to keep her confidence up. Some of her stuff was great, but very Maggie, if you know what I mean. For instance, she had this whole riff about being a civil servant in the Inland Revenue and the pitfalls to avoid if you want to have a long career there. From there, she segued into a whole sequence about how she’s going to turn thirty-four soon, referring to it as the ‘Is this all there is?’ age. ‘It’s the age when you finally accept that you’re not going to win X Factor or the National Lottery on a Saturday night. Or that you’re not going to enchant George Clooney over a muffin in Starbucks on your way into work.’ And off she went spinning into this whole existential routine about how mid-life can do funny things to the most normal and conservative of people, even ones that work in the tax office. How, in her own case, the shock of reaching her mid-thirties now has her doing something she’s never thought possible before: attempting to be funny in front of a drunken cellar full of hecklers, all expecting to see the next Jo Brand.
As soon as she was finished, I leapt to my feet, gave her a standing ovation and told her I thought if there was any justice she’d win the shagging thing hands down. And that I was there for her if she ever wanted to rehearse in front of someone again.
‘Look, thanks for doing this,’ she said, over yet another tin of Bulmers. ‘It was … emm … nice of you.’
‘Maggie, give me a chance. I am nice. In spite of what you think, I am not the antichrist.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just … not been easy.’
‘Yeah, well. Me being back here can’t exactly have been a barrel for laughs for you. I do understand, you know. Particularly with myself and Sharon getting so pally.’
‘No. It’s not that,’ she said, surprising me. ‘Or at least, it’s not just that.’
I looked at her, puzzled. Puzzled and half pissed, if I’m being honest. Boy is this is one road I don’t think she and I could ever have attempted to go down sober.
‘I know you must have thought that I had it in for you all this time,’ she said, lighting up a fag, ‘but it was tough for me having you living back here, you know. Brought back so many memories of us all being teenagers under the one roof all those years ago. Remember?’
‘Do I remember? I’m still having therapy.’
She snorted at my gag a bit and went on.
‘It’s just, you were always Daddy’s Little Princess, weren’t you? The apple of his eye. You walked on water as far as he was concerned. But Jessie, the thing is … he was my dad too. He may not have been my real father, but he was my father figure and I … really loved him. He encouraged me in a way that Ma never did, praised me when I did well I school and was delighted for me when I got into the Inland Revenue. Meant I was set up for life, he said. Then he died and it was like you had the monopoly on grieving for him. But you weren’t the only one who loved him and who misses him. For feck’s sake, who do you think organises the anniversary mass for him every year? Only me.’
I couldn’t speak. Just sat on the sofa, actually dumbfounded and feeling about an inch tall.
To my shame, I just never thought of Maggie as someone with sensitivity and the same raw emotions as the rest of us.
‘Remember the stink you kicked up when you discovered all his things lying out in the garden shed?’ she went on, stubbing out a fag. ‘Well it was me who wanted to hang on to all his stuff in the first place. If Ma had her way, she’d have fecked the lot into a skip years ago. You know how unsentimental she is. Not to mention what she’s like for doing clearouts.’
‘I do remember,’ I said, in a very small voice. ‘And Maggie, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I just hadn’t realised that you missed him too. I mean … I never knew.’
And ever since that night, honest to God, it’s been like the iron curtain coming down between us. Maggie and I actually converse now. For real. What can I say? If Dad was looking down on us, he’d be proud of how well we’re getting on. I’m certain of it.
Night after night, she rehearses her
material pacing up and down the TV room, surrounded by scraps of paper with ideas scribbled across them, testing out material on me. Then I chip in my two cents’ worth and off she goes, rewrites, and does the whole thing all over again for me the following night, without fail.
You want to see her, she’s like a completely different person these days. The old Maggie is gone and in her place is the new, improved, more energised version of her. It’s a wondrous sight to behold; the girl has a raw, basic talent that’s slowly beginning to flower as her confidence grows and boy is she getting there. Day by day, step by step. And what’s even more astonishing is that the TV guide remains lying on the sofa, unopened and un-looked at. Meantime, Sharon continues to date the long-suffering Matt, although I did challenge her on this and told her in no uncertain terms that if she’s not interested, then she really should let the poor, besotted guy down … but gently.
‘I’m not ready to,’ is her resolute answer. ‘At least, not till I’ve someone else lined up. Besides, going out on all these dates is good practice for me. And I don’t want to tell him to his face that he drives me up the walls sometimes; it’s way too early in the relationship to show him my true colours.’
In actual fact, she doesn’t want to let him go, is my conclusion. She’s having far too good a time having a single man chasing around after her and making all the running. So I say nothing more. For now.
Meanwhile, Joan’s week involved buzzing around the place in one little ‘dressed for business’ outfit after another, and spending most of her time down in the Swiss Cottage with Jimmy Watson, her ‘investment partner’. So much so that I’m seriously starting to wonder if she has shares in the place. Funny, but whether her whole IPrayForYou.com business actually works out or not is kind of beside the point. Because one good thing has already come out of it; her mood has been a bit like good weather can be sometimes; lasting for day after unbelievable day.
This wondrous humour lasts right up until Saturday afternoon, when she catches me crashed out on the sofa listening to a new riff in Maggie’s material. We both hear her thundering into the hall then clattering down her handbag and keys, instantly alerting us to a one hundred and eighty degree reversal in her mood. As bad luck would have it, I’m the first person she lights on when she bursts in, therefore I’m first in line for a tongue-lashing.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ she snaps at me the minute she flings open the TV room door.
‘I don’t have to be there until nine,’ I stammer back.
‘Jessica Woods, have I or have I not spent the whole of last week asking you to move that mountain of stuff belonging to you out of the garage? Honestly, how many times do I have to nag and nag at you before you’ll get up off your lazy rear end?’
‘I’m doing it already!’ I groan, hauling myself up from the sofa.
‘Oh, by the way, Jessie?’ says Maggie as I’m on my way out the door. ‘Thanks for listening to my routine. I owe you one.’
And I’d swear I catch a half-wink from her. Bloody hell. Not so long ago, that was the kind of civility you’d nearly have to strangle out of her.
Anyway, as soon as I open the garage door, I realise I’d forgotten just how much there actually is here, all with my name on it. Tons of cardboard storage boxes, all full of stuff from the Jessie Would production office. Course I never went through them, I just did what I always do with unpleasant reminders of my past: dumped it in the garage and airbrushed it out of my life. Put in a pile and mentally labelled ‘To be dealt with at a later date when am a bit more able to handle sheer, unquantifiable misery.’
Right then. It’s pointless cluttering up mine and Sharon’s bedroom with a load of storage boxes from Channel Six, miles better to dump the whole lot into the green wheelie bin and let the rubbish men deal with it. I’m about to do just that, when some sixth sense stops me in my tracks.
Hang on one second. I spent the best part of three years working on Jessie Would and apart from the ignominious end it all came to, it was far and away the happiest time in my life. Do I really want to consign all that to the dustbin of history? Isn’t there some little memento or keepsake that could be in one of these boxes that I could hang on to, as a reminder of past glories? A mug maybe, with the show’s logo on it. Or maybe one of the Jessie Would T-shirts that we used to hand out to all the kids in the studio audience? So I sit myself down and start at the very beginning.
Pretty boring, actually, most of it. There’s dozens and dozens of memos that would have flown around the office and camera scripts from long-forgotten shows, but not much else. No joy in finding the mug or T-shirt I’m looking for, so I move on to another box. And that’s when I first see it. A neat file, with the date of my very last show written across it. Just seeing that date in bold print makes me catch my breath. Because I remember it like a heart attack.
I’m about to shove the file back into its box and dump the whole lot in the bin when suddenly, a piece of paper flutters out and lands right at my feet. It’s the heading at the top of it that catches my eye. Because it’s from Mercedes Ireland. I recognise the logo immediately. It’s a printout of an email addressed to Emma, care of the production office, and is from some guy called Joe de Courcey.
Dear Emma, it reads. Further to our phone call yesterday I just wanted to confirm in writing that everything is now set firmly in place for tomorrow night’s show.
Tomorrow night’s show … Then I look at the date at the top of the printout. It was sent the Friday before what turned out to be the last ever Jessie Would broadcast.
OK, something is beginning to sound very, very wrong about all this. Because why would Emma have been in touch with Mercedes in the first place? So on I read.
After tomorrow evening’s stunt at Mondello Park involving your colleague Jessie Woods, we’re now pleased to confirm that, at your suggestion, the company are now in a position to invite her to be brand ambassador for Mercedes for a period of one year.
Suddenly I can’t breathe. At Emma’s suggestion? I read on, with disbelief mounting.
Of course, we understand that the element of surprise is a huge factor in getting her to agree, but as you state below, given that her own sports car was repossessed so recently, we feel that an inordinately generous offer like ours is one that surely can’t be refused. Naturally, we are terribly sorry at your declining our offer, but fully understand that you’re not in need of a new car, having just purchased one so recently. But we’re most grateful to you for selflessly putting forward your colleague in your place. I’m happy to say that we’re all in agreement with you here, Miss Woods would make an ideal candidate for a Mercedes brand ambassadorship.
We trust this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship between us.
Sincerely,
Joe de Courcey
It gets worse. Far worse.
Emma’s original email to him is on the printout below his reply, there in black and white for me to see. Even though I can barely believe what it is that I’m actually reading.
Dear Joe,
Firstly, apologies again for my not being able to take you up on your kind offer, but thanks so much again for being so understanding about it. Believe me, had I not changed my own car so recently, I’d have jumped at your generous suggestion!
About my other idea, I forgot to mention that Jessie’s car was repossessed only a few weeks back and I’ve no doubt that, if faced with a brand, spanking new Mercedes SLK in showroom condition, will be only too delighted to accept. Who wouldn’t be? The main thing to remember is not to take no for an answer. She’s proud and will really need this forced on her! I’m thinking, maybe personalised number plates might be an idea? However, I’ll leave the details in your more than capable hands.
Many thanks again for all your kindness and generosity in this matter, I couldn’t be more grateful and I’m certain that Jessie will feel the same.
Best wishes,
Emma
Now I think I might be sick. M
y hands are trembling, my heart is palpitating and my breathing is short and jagged, like I’m having a full-blown panic attack. I read and reread it over and over again, but there’s no mistake.
Emma set me up for a fall.
Emma, my trusted friend.
I have to keep saying it out loud because it just sounds so completely ridiculous, I mean this is Emma I’m talking about here! Apart from anything else, why would she do something like that to me? I was her co-presenter, for God’s sake, her team-mate!
Then like a thunderbolt, it hits me. Because until I came along, she was Channel Six’s rising star, not me. I started out with just a little five-minute dare segment on what was then her show and it all mushroomed from there.
Could she really have wanted me out of the way that desperately?
The more I think about it the more mental it sounds, but then I keep coming back to the email and reading it over and over again.
There’s no mistake. Emma was the only person alive who I’d confided in about my own car being repossessed, so she knew my weak spot and went in for the kill. There’s no other way of looking at it. Plus, according to this email, she was initially offered the car herself and turned it down, knowing it was a sackable offence, but put me up for it instead. It’s at this stage that I honestly think I might need to start breathing into a paper bag. I don’t, but I do desperately need to confide in someone and NOW. Sharon’s out with Matt, Maggie’s pacing around the TV room downstairs, immersed in her routine, Joan’s in a fouler, so instead of turning to any of them, I call the one person who I know will talk me off the ledge I’m perched on. In other words, Steve.
I’ve barely said hello when he instantly asks if everything’s OK. But there’s just no way that I can possibly begin to tell him over the phone. So I just tell him that I urgently need to talk to him, somewhere private.
‘Where are you now?’ he asks firmly.
‘Home.’ Honest to God, my voice sounds so tiny, you’d think it was coming from another room.
Hopes & Dreams Page 27