‘I think I know what you’re going to say, Jess.’
In the end, it’s actually easier for me just to come straight out with it. ‘I’m moving out.’
It’s heart-breaking really; for a second I think the two of us are going to cry.
‘Come on, Sharon,’ I say, gently taking her hand. ‘I couldn’t keep on sharing your room forever. Apart from everything else, won’t you be glad to have the space back?’
‘No,’ she blurts. ‘No, I’m not glad. Sod the sodding space. I don’t want you to go. Anyway, you can’t go. Ma is redecorating that room especially for us.’
For a second, I smile, touched that a Laura Ashley makeover would be a motivation for me to hang around. ‘Jess, I don’t want it to go back to only seeing you at Dad’s anniversary mass once a year for ten minutes. I’d miss you too much.’
‘I swear, it’s not goodbye. I’ll still visit all the time, and not just at Christmas either. Hey, we’re friends now and that’s what really matters.’
‘It’s going to be so boring around here without you. You’ve no idea.’
‘Come on, you’ve got Matt now. Sure you’re practically out five nights a week with him.’
She does what she always does whenever Matt’s name comes up. Shrugs, lights up a fag and changes the subject.
‘So where will you move to?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll rent somewhere close to Channel Six. A small, one-bedroomed apartment maybe. But absolutely nowhere over my budget and nowhere that’s too ridiculously big for me. I’ve been down that road and learned that lesson, I can tell you. Small and affordable will be just fine. My days of over borrowing and over spending to keep up with the Joneses are well and truly over. No more acting like a gap-year trustafarian and no more flashy cars either; I’ll get myself a bike and that’ll have to do me.’
‘Joan and Maggie will miss you too.’
‘And I’ll miss them. But Joan has her IPrayForYou.com business on the go and Maggie’s going to do brilliantly at the Comedy Cellar on Sunday, you wait and see. But the person I’m going to miss the most is you.’
‘Me too.’
I lean over to give her a big hug and that’s when the pair of us start to well up a bit.
‘We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’ she says, sniffling. ‘Since you first moved in. I mean, who’d have thought?’
‘Such a long way.’
‘Won’t miss you nicking all my cans of cider though. Jeez, for a skinny bitch, you’re sure as hell able to put away the Bulmers.’
‘Oh, and you think I’m going to miss you robbing all my make-up, you thieving cow?’
Now we’re both giggling a bit.
‘Just remember, you’re my sister and I’ll always be there for you.’
‘I’ll always be there for you too.’
Chapter Twenty
I don’t know how it happened. And what’s more I’m fully prepared to swear on my parents’ grave that it had nothing whatsoever to do with me. But by the following Wednesday, the papers are full and I really do mean full of the story.
It seems that some bright spark in the studio audience for the showdown between myself and Emma, had the brainwave of videoing it on their iPhone. And by Monday it had found its merry way onto YouTube, including a clear shot of me kicking, screaming and being escorted off the premises by security.
I can’t actually bring myself to watch it, but Sharon tells me it looks very well. In a Jerry Springer sort of way, that is. Anyway, that led on to a feature piece in the Evening Herald. Which, come Tuesday, had mushroomed onto page two of the Star and page one of the Mail. And by Wednesday, the story is everywhere. The unexpurgated version too; how Emma set me up as the fall guy, how she covered it up and how I miraculously happened to stumble on proof of this almost entirely by accident. How I’ve been offered my old job back, whereas she’s been let go for ‘personal reasons’. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Better than a soap opera any day. Dear God, no wonder it’s such a hot story; you couldn’t make it up.
My mobile hasn’t stopped, so unless it’s someone I know, I’ve taken to just ignoring it. And if anyone from the press calls me either at Channel Six or at Radio Dublin, I just politely but firmly say no comment to make and refer them back to Roger. No better man.
‘Jilted Jessie Returns to Primetime!’ is one banner that sticks in my mind. And I have to hand it to them, the reporting is astonishingly accurate. Facts are amazingly unblurred. But then, I’ve always maintained that there were more leaks at Channel Six than in a winter vegetable medley.
Anyway, come Wednesday late evening, I’m sitting in Steve’s office, going through the papers to see if there are any funny stories we can use for tonight’s show. Yes, inevitably once we go live on air, the phone lines jam up with callers all wanting to tell their dating horror stories, but it’s no harm to have a few newsworthy anecdotes on standby to throw in, just in case the need arises.
‘Trouble is,’ Steve grins, ‘the lead news item this week is you, Jessie Woods.’
I jokingly fling the sports section of the Independent across the desk at him, narrowly missing his head. Funny, but ever since I’ve been reinstated at Channel Six, things have been completely back to normal between us. As if we both know our days of working together six nights a week are numbered, so we’re both determined to make these last, precious few weeks as much fun as possible. It’s brilliant; we’re right back to the way we always used to be; messing and giggling with not a shred of awkwardness between us. Or sexual tension. Which is great. Which is all I wanted. Isn’t it?
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘at least the papers all have their facts straight for once. Including Emma’s sacking.’
‘Yeah, madam won’t like that. Not to mention that Channel Six have invoked the phrase of certain death. “Leaving for personal reasons”.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Makes it sound like she’s about to check into the Priory for a six-month detox, doesn’t it?’
Come show time, he leads me down to the studio and gives me an affectionate bear hug before I step into the booth. ‘Be your usual, fabulous self, Jessie Woods. And hey, remember I’m getting you disgracefully drunk this Sunday to celebrate you getting your old job back. Rat-arsed and pie-eyed and no excuses taken.’
I grin up at him gratefully. Bless him, he’s probably the only boss alive good-natured enough to take you out on the tear after you hand in your notice.
Anyway, as soon as we go live on air, the phone calls start and barely stop. Poor Ian in the production booth is more like a 1940s telephonist than a producer these nights. People are all being really sweet, congratulating me on Jessie Would being recommissioned, then, after a bit of chit chat, launching into the real reason why they’ve called in.
It’s barely a minute past midnight and I’m on the phone to Carole from Drimnagh who’s calling in to ask if anyone out there thinks it’s possible to change a man.
‘Why do you ask, Carole?’ I probe gently.
‘Because my ex-boyfriend is back on the scene and when we broke up, he was a complete arsehole. Oops, sorry, Jessie, am I allowed to say arsehole on air?’
‘Bit late now!’ I say and we both laugh.
‘You see, he said he wanted to “take a break” about four months ago and I was nearly on the floor, I was that devastated. Because he was awful to me, wouldn’t return my calls or anything. Anyway, I was just beginning to get my life back together again, when out of the blue he contacts me, saying that he wants to get back together. Just like that. He says that he’s changed. Realises what an eejit he was in letting me go so cruelly. But my question is, Jessie, can a fella ever really change?’
‘No, definitely not!’ yells another caller, Jane from Rathmines. ‘They’ll mouth platitudes at you and tell you what you want to hear, but no man is fundamentally EVER able to change. Plus, they’re like homing devices; able to sense when you’re healing from them and that’s when they bounce back int
o your life to mess it up for a second time. So take my advice and run a mile from him. Now, while you still can!’
‘But, when we were together,’ replies Carole, ‘I was always giving out to him for never being romantic. And ever since he’s started trying to get back together, overnight it’s like he’s turned into the Hallmark version of himself.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Making all these spontaneous romantic gestures, without it being Valentine’s Day or without my having to nag at him. Flowers for no reason, breakfast in bed, telling me he loves me without a gun being pointed to his head …’
‘Well, clearly he wants to change,’ I say. ‘Plus, let’s face it. In our love-starved society, don’t these little romantic gestures go a long, long way? So I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe you should give your ex-boyfriend the benefit of the doubt. Because if you don’t, you might come to regret it and end up with a serious case of the coulda, woulda, shouldas.’
Then Tommy from Blackrock calls in to say Carole should tell her ex where to go. That in his opinion, trying to change another human being to suit your own ends amounts to little more than a human rights violation.
‘And why do you say that, Tommy? Do your girlfriends ever try to change you?’ I ask.
‘All the time. My clothes, accent, friends, job, you name it. But the only thing I ever change is girlfriends.’
Cue an irate call from Fiona in Temple Bar. ‘I am fed up with men trying to change me. All my boyfriend ever wants me to do is to dress sluttier and wear more make-up and frankly I’m sick of it …’
Then Susan from Cabra says, ‘You know, it’s a huge mistake to ever think you can change a man. Apart from their clothes and hair, that is. Because mark my words, once you start pulling at threads, the whole fabric will fall apart.’
The show skyrockets on from there, we barely even have time for music breaks, and before I have time to look at the clock, Ian gives me a hand signal to indicate that I’ve only time for one last caller before we wrap.
‘So who have we got here on line one?’ I ask.
There’s a long silence. Dead time, as we say on radio, so I’m about to hang up when suddenly a man’s voice says just one word. ‘Woodsie?’
I know who it is instantly.
With absolute certainty.
But obviously, I don’t let on …
‘Yes, you’re through to The Midnight Hour. Who’s calling please?’
‘Woodsie, it’s me.’
‘I’m sorry, could we have your name please?’
I think it’s only delayed shock that’s keeping me this calm. That combined with utter disbelief. I mean, why would he be doing this? If he wanted to talk to me, why not just pick up the phone? Instead of ringing into a late-night talk show? When I’m working for God’s sake?
‘It’s Sam.’
I decide to play it cool. Well, as cool as can be expected given that my bum is starting to sweat. ‘And where are you calling from, Sam?’
‘At the moment, from my carphone. I just wanted to say, in response to the discussion that’s been going on, that yes, men can and do change.’
‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’
‘I want to say that, unless a man is a complete idiot, he’ll change if he realises he’s made a mistake.’
‘Go on.’
‘Because we all make mistakes. But what differentiates a winner from a loser is if you’re willing to stand up and say, look, I messed up royally in one particular situation and I’m prepared to change if it means I can win back something … or maybe someone … that’s very dear to me.’
My heart stops. For once, I can’t think of a logical, coherent question to tack on. But as luck would have it, I’m saved by the bell because just then, Ian waves to tell me that we’re out of time.
Nor was I dreaming or imagining things. Because the next day, Sam calls again. And again. And again. By lunchtime, he’s left about five messages for me and I’ve yet to return a single one of his calls. Because I’m in complete freefall. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I can’t decide on a clear course of action. Weird to think back over all these months, when all I could do was fantasise about Sam contacting me again and now that it’s happened, I’m like a rabbit in the headlamps. The thing is … I’m doing fine without him. Better than fine, I’m doing brilliantly. My life has finally fallen into place, like Lotto balls. I’m not Cinderella Rockefeller any more; I’m Humpty Dumpty, all put back together again. I never thought that I could function without Sam; I spent so long convincing myself that he was my split-apart soulmate and that without him, I made no sense. But, as usual, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
None of this is helped by the fact that I’m completely on my own in the house. Everyone’s at work, which is driving me mental; the one occasion when I really need a touchstone of sense to bounce off. I know Steve is there for me, but it just doesn’t feel right somehow to discuss this with him. Like this is the one topic that would be absolutely verboten between us. If he copped onto something after a caller named Sam rang the show last night, he never mentioned it, which I was deeply grateful for. He took me home on his bike and if he did suspect that something was up, was gentlemanly enough not to ask. Or even comment on the fact that instead of all my normal high-octane chatter after a show, I barely opened my mouth the whole way back to Whitehall.
The other thing I’d forgotten about Sam is that, when he wants something, he goes after it with a kind of scorched earth policy. I know him of old, he’ll basically just batter down doors until he gets what he’s after, which he always, always does. So after about his twelfth attempt to call me, I eventually answer. Sitting trembling and unsure of myself at our kitchen table, with no one around to advise me or calm me down. I take a deep breath and answer the phone.
It’s a short chat, brief and to the point. He wants to see me and asks how soon can we meet? That what he wants to say isn’t for over the phone. He suggests we meet at Bentleys Oyster Bar in town at seven this evening, just before I go into work.
‘Woodsie? Are you still there? Does that suit you? I mean … do you want to meet me?’
A long pause.
‘I’m nodding.’
It’s the only two words I’ve uttered for the entire conversation.
The good news is that it’s a particularly busy day for me; the less time I have to think the better. Firstly, I’ve to run into Roger’s office to go through the new Jessie Would contract (Sweet, gentlemanly old Roger even hands me a bouquet to congratulate me with a card that simply reads, ‘Welcome back’. The aul, dote.) Then I’ve an appointment at Chez Pierre, my old hairdresser, to get my hair put back to blonde again. On Liz Walsh’s explicit instructions it has to be said. Otherwise, I’d have been perfectly happy to stick to cheapo home colour kits for the rest of my life. Pay rise or no pay rise, the new credit crunch Jessie Woods is here to stay. OK, so I may be back in the money again, but my debts at Visa aren’t going anywhere, are they? In fact, all my new ‘re-employed’ status at Channel Six means to me financially is that I’ll be finally able to repay everything I owe that bit quicker. Like maybe before I qualify for the old age pension. If I’m very lucky, that is. But, no, Liz reckons viewers won’t recognise me unless I’m back to blonde, so I’ve no choice. By 7 p.m., I’m back to looking exactly like my old self again. The hair is almost platinum and, as I walk down to Bentleys to meet Sam, for a second I think, this was my life only a few months ago. Bouncing into Roger’s office, pricey hairdos, meeting my boyfriend at his favourite posh restaurant. It’s as though nothing’s changed.
Nothing except me, that is.
When I step into the Oyster Bar, Sam is sitting waiting for me in a quiet corner with a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket beside him. Which, if he thinks is to celebrate my going back to him, is presumptuous and premature to say the least.
So I decide to make him work for it.
I say hi curtly and sit opposit
e him. As if this is a business meeting.
‘Wow, you look amazing!’ he starts off, x-raying me with the black eyes, the way he always used to. I just nod and let him talk.
I let him do all the talking, in fact. I use silence as a protective shield around me. His theme is clear. He’s missed me and feels terrible about our last meeting, when he had to haul me out of that minging police station in Kildare. I take a tiny sip of the champagne and try to tune out that particular memory. He says over and over again how sorry he is about the way he treated me. How he just panicked and felt he needed to take time out. But that there wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t thinking about me and deeply regretting everything that happened between us.
Then he says how much he admires the way I hauled myself back up from the ground again. How he heard from Nathaniel and Eva about my flipping burgers in Smileys and actually felt proud. That I’d behaved like a winner. I didn’t go under, I came out fighting. He even astonishes me by saying as soon as he read about my presenting The Midnight Hour, he became a regular listener, usually when he was driving home in his car after some swishy do.
For the first time since I got here, I start to feel myself melt a bit when he says, ‘I just liked hearing the sound of your voice.’ Then he read about the drama at Channel Six, how I was now reinstated and exonerated from any wrongdoing, and decided to get in touch. To say congratulations. It was a chance remark he heard me saying on the show that spurred him on as it happens; I’d made some comment about how little romantic gestures go a long way. So he picked up his phone and called into the show from his car. And couldn’t believe it when he actually got through to me. It was like some kind of sign from above.
‘And of course,’ he continues, ‘I wanted to see if you’d forgive me and give me another chance, give us another chance. The thing is … I’m useless without you, Woodsie, I need you.’
He takes a breath so deep it’s almost coming from his feet up. ‘I … I heart you.’ Then he looks at me expectantly with the coal black eyes and I realise he’s waiting for an answer.
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