I Never Fancied Him Anyway (25 page)

‘I’m calling in connection with a letter she sent me recently.’ There, did that sound OK? Crisp and businesslike is what I’m going for here.

‘Very well. Hold the line,’ he barks at me. ‘LIZ?
PHONE
CALL FOR YOU IN MY STUDY.’ Heavy footsteps, a door slamming, then lighter, more rushed footsteps, then his voice again, only a bit muffled this time, as if he has his hand over the receiver. ‘Who’s this complete stranger ringing you?’

‘I don’t know. How can I know until I speak to them? A friend, maybe?’

‘You don’t have any friends.’

‘Well, maybe one of the old neighbours. I really don’t know. Now please, Gerry, can I just have the phone?’ A disagreeable grunt, then her voice again. ‘Hello? This is Liz Henderson speaking.’ She sounds timid, a bit nervous. ‘Who is this, please?’

I explain who I am and why I’m calling and all of a sudden it’s as if I’m on a hotline to the KGB.

‘Just one moment, please.’ Then the sounds get a bit muffled again, but I do hear her say, ‘Gerry? I wonder if you’d mind keeping an eye on the potatoes I have on the stove? Please? I may be a few minutes on the phone and you know how much you hate them when they get floury.’

‘You haven’t told me exactly who it is on the phone.’

‘Oh, it’s just . . . emm . . . a thing for a magazine.’

‘Why would a magazine possibly want to speak to you?’

God, he sounds awful. ‘It’s a survey,’ I hiss at her. ‘Say you’re taking part in a survey.’

‘Oh, thank you, it’s . . . emm . . . a survey about . . . leisure activities for the over sixty-fives.’

‘Yes, so you said. It still doesn’t explain why they’d want to speak to
you
. And how did a magazine get this number?’

‘Please, Gerry, the potatoes will be ruined.’

A grunt, then heavy footsteps, a door slamming, then I think he’s gone. Bloody hell, it’s almost like listening into a radio play. Now Liz’s voice again, but speaking a bit less nervously this time.

‘Cassandra, I’m so mortified about that, I don’t know where to start apologizing to you.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s no problem, really.’

‘If Gerry knew I’d written to you about the goings-on in this house, he’d hit the ceiling. And things have got so bad here, you wouldn’t believe it. Only yesterday, I came home to find the fridge door ajar, vegetables strewn all over the floor, the cupboard doors wide open and bleach spilt everywhere. Gerry nearly went mad and kept blaming me, saying it was somehow all my fault. And that’s the very least of it. We have a lovely bedroom upstairs that’s an absolute no-go zone. I’m at my wits’ end here, Cassandra, and if you can’t help me, I honestly don’t know who can.’

‘Mrs Henderson, you mustn’t worry. I’m not quite sure what the problem is, but maybe I could come by tomorrow? I promise I’ll do my best to help.’

‘Oh Cassandra, you absolute lifesaver. Let me know whatever time suits and I’ll try to think of something to get Gerry out of the house. Say a prayer it’s a fine day because then, with luck, he’ll go out playing golf. And that’ll tie him up for hours too. We’ll be quite safe from him.’

Which is an odd thing to say about your husband, I’m thinking as we say our goodbyes. The image I’m getting of Gerry is – well, put it this way: he’s starting to make the Dragon Lady look like a Relate counsellor. Anyway, I’m absolutely certain about one thing. I have to go there. I’m
meant
to go there. All in the line of duty.

So, that done and feeling deliciously organized and on top of things (a rarity for me, you understand), I switch my mobile back on. Two missed calls. The first one’s from Marilyn, sounding, well, a bit wobbly and speaking so low that I almost have to strain to hear her.

‘Cassie? Hi, it’s me, Marilyn. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now; I mean about’ – an even more hushed whisper – ‘the baby and getting married and everything. Have to keep my voice down ’cos no one in work suspects a thing. Look, the thing is, we know Charlene is staying with you and maybe – huge favour here – if you think there’s any chance that she might come round, would you call me? We all know what she and her father are like when they dig their heels in, but, personally, I’m holding out for the miracle. Perhaps you and I could
meet
up? I’m in castings all day, but text and I’ll get straight back to you. I’m really worried about her. It was a horrific row and, well, a lot of things were said that can’t be taken back. This is such a shock, but at the same time, we’re all the family she has in this world and we’re both anxious to build bridges with her.’

Beep.

Second message. Charlene, sounding in a panic.

‘Hi, it’s me. OK, OK, this may not exactly be my finest hour, but the thing is I was trying to clean the kitchen floor with that stinky stuff – whaddya call it? Oh yeah, bleach – and anyway, it brought out all my allergies. Well, you know what I’m like around cheap perfume and this is, like, a
thousand
times worse, so I didn’t know what to do so I fished out the Yellow Pages and got a contract cleaner to come and sort out the mess and she did and she was Polish, I think, just brilliant, did the insides of the windows, ironing, everything, while I caught up with my magazines. I never bother eating lunch, you know, mainly because I always figure that
Vogue
nourishes me far,
far
more, but now you see the awful thing is that I have to pay the cleaner and it’s really embarrassing because she doesn’t speak any English, well, apart from the odd word like Hoover and Mr Sheen, who I thought might have been relatives of hers, but anyhow, I don’t have any cash and she doesn’t take Visa, if you can believe that in this day and age, and now she’s starting to glower at me
and
is saying something about calling her three brothers, who apparently are all professional weightlifters, to get her money for her. Can you come home soon, sweetie, and make all of this go away? Pleeeeease?’

I race home to find Marc with a C and Jo already in before me, troubleshooting and soothing irate Polish feathers.

‘OK, so maybe I made a poor judgement call,’ Charlene is squealing from the kitchen.

‘You call this a poor judgement call?’ Jo is yelling back at her. ‘You wanted to pay an honest, hard-working economic migrant who has slaved all afternoon in this house with a
credit card?
’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being that if you don’t start to make some kind of effort in the real world, then I am going to force you to do voluntary work for me at Amnesty.’

‘I did make an effort. I decided that from now on, today is going to be called Champagne Tuesday. I’m thinking of making it permanent. You know, a bit like daylight saving time.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, what is that, Charlene-onomics?’

‘Don’t you raise your eyebrow at me, Josephine. May I remind you that I’m going through a terrible family trauma. So instead of trying to make
me
your pet project, why don’t you just go and, I dunno, adopt a cat, or something?’

‘Ladies, ladies, ladies, let’s just keep our powder dry here, shall we?’ Marc with a C is saying, but then he’s always great at refereeing. He’d have been amazing as a hostage negotiator in the Middle East. ‘Charlene, my sweet darling innocent, I have a teeny question for you. How do you normally pay for your credit card?’

‘I don’t. I send the bill to Dad’s head office in Switzerland.’

‘And who do you think foots the bill there?’

‘I don’t know. Never gave it much thought. It goes to accountants and then it goes to more accountants and then they write it off as expenses and that’s pretty much the end of my involvement in the matter. It’s an arrangement which has always suited me fairly well.’

‘Oh, my poor short-sighted girl, with you living in this house, who needs soap opera? If you’re determined to plough ahead with this whole I’m-financially-independent thing, then the credit card has to go. Because, let me enlighten you, it is ultimately paid for by your dad, if that doesn’t come as too much of a shock to you.’

‘I know, I know, I know
eventually
it has to be, but I thought, just this once? I just don’t know if I’m up to credit-card cold turkey. And by the way, you didn’t see the Diane von Furstenberg silk wrap-over dress in Harvey Nicks that I
didn’t
buy today. You should have seen me on the ready-to-wear couture floor. I was like
some
kind of Tibetan monk. An absolute model of discipline.’

Marc with a C sighs so deeply, it’s almost as if it’s causing him physical pain. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, babes, but it’s time for you to pursue gainful employment.’

‘I don’t need a job, I already have one.’

On cue I walk through the kitchen door.

‘And what
job
would that be?’ Jo asks dryly as I greet everyone.

‘You can just drop that tone right now and stop speaking in italics,’ sniffs Charlene, looking close to tears. ‘Look at me. In the space of twenty-four hours I’ve gone from having the world at my feet to the world at my throat and do you hear one single complaint out of me? I’ve spent all evening cooking for you guys, even though you said I didn’t have to, just so I could be useful, and do I hear a single word of thanks?’

But now an alarm bell is ringing in my head. ‘Sorry, Charlene, go back to the bit where you said you had a job?’ I ask, almost dreading the answer.

‘Well, I’m still your agent, sweetie, aren’t I? Oh, and by the way, I took a message for you earlier. Some guy rang from Channel Seven and says you’re to call him back.’

Shit, I’m thinking. I thought she’d got bored and moved on from that idea ages ago.

‘Speaking for myself, I honestly can’t say what I’m
more
shocked by,’ says Marc with a C as I head out to the hall to return the call. ‘That you didn’t buy the Diane von Furstenberg, or that you actually cooked. Oh and Jo, dearie? You owe me five euro. I just won a bet that the three of you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours living under the same roof.’

‘Just out of idle curiosity,’ says Jo slowly, ‘what did you cook?’

‘Duck à la marmalade,’ she says proudly. ‘From the Nigella book. It’s meant to be duck à l’orange but we didn’t have any, so I just used Chivers from the back of the fridge instead. Like, there’s a difference?’

‘Charlene, you are aware that I’m a strict vegetarian?’

‘Well, yeah . . . but I did go to loads of trouble and I thought, maybe, just this once?’

‘My conscience does
not
take a day off.’

‘What else was I supposed to do?’

‘Haven’t you ever heard of tofu?’

‘You mean that’s an actual
ingredient?
I thought it was a small country in Africa.’

Double shit, I think, closing the kitchen door so they can’t be heard sniping at each other while I’m on the phone. It’s going to be a long, long night.

I pick up our gas bill which has a message scrawled on the back of it. ‘Cassie, some bloke called Oliver called. Here’s his number . . .’

Oliver, Oliver, Oliver: I’m racking my brains to think
where
I’ve heard that name recently . . . Got it. He’s the guy I met in Jack’s office. The cute guy. Hmm.

As I’m dialling his number, I’m trying to figure out what he could want me for. To slag me off for being such total crap on yesterday’s show? Unlikely.

He answers after only two rings.

‘Hi, Oliver? It’s Cassandra here, from the
Breakfast Club?
’

‘Cassandra, hi! Great, yeah, good, thanks so much for getting back to me.’ He talks really fast, as if he’s thinking aloud, and it sounds like he’s pacing up and down a room. I can almost sense him waving his hands in front of his face, expressively, the way highly intelligent people in Mensa are supposed to do. And, of course, there’s the American twang. ‘Now, of course, I’m only throwing this at you, it’s just a pitch, but do have a think, won’t you? Basically, your performance on TV gave me an idea. I’m putting a documentary together at the moment, freelance, you know, and after seeing you, I thought about maybe looking into the whole psychic phenomenon and how popular it is, particularly among single people.’

‘Oh. Wow.’

‘Just the reaction I’d hoped for. So I just wondered, first of all, if you’d be interested in taking part and secondly if you might have anything coming up that I could shoot. I’m seeing maybe you doing a psychic
reading
for a punter, I’m seeing maybe you sitting in your dressing room getting flashes, I’m seeing maybe you advising people on relationship problems – that really seems to be your strong suit. Except face to face, instead of over the phone in a studio. I really want us to delve into the psyche of a person who’s looking for romance; you know, the type of women out there who aren’t just dating anyone, they’re dating
everyone
. And then, to balance the documentary, we’d talk to guys who see these women and are terrified and think, My God, there are cannibals out there less man-hungry.’

He pauses to draw breath and I’m left thinking: Did he really say that? Did he really just compare single women to man-hungry cannibals?

‘I’m speaking metaphorically, of course,’ he adds apologetically, almost reading my thoughts. ‘It’s just that this is what the light entertainment market really seems to want and, based on what I’ve seen, you are the
Breakfast Club
’s very own resident psychic relationship coach. Just wondered where you stood on this, that’s all. Any thoughts? Anything coming up that we might be able to talk about?’

Before I even have a chance to draw breath, he’s off again.

‘OK, now I’m seeing maybe you watching a monitor with a live feed from a bar or a nightclub, so we can see guy chatting up girl and then cut to you telling us, when
he
says X, this is actually what he really means and when she says Y here’s what she really means. So you’d be a sort of psychic dating detective, if you’re with me.’

Wow, that’s a lot to digest. A lot of rubbish to digest, if I’m being honest. I have to think for a sec before answering.

‘Cassandra? Are you still there? I hope I’m not scaring you off?’

‘Ehh, no, it’s just that, well, you see . . .’ Oh shit, what’ll I say to him? I’ve only just got my foot in the door at Channel Seven and I don’t want to appear uncooperative to a big famous senior TV journalist, but at the same time I don’t want to get myself in too deep over my head. I mean, come on, a psychic dating detective? I think I’d rather have my toenails pulled out by a trained badger. The potential for humiliation is so monumental and, boy, if anyone knows about humiliation, I do.