I Never Fancied Him Anyway (38 page)

AM WITH CHARLENE. JUST TO LET U KNOW THAT SHE’S MOVED OUT OF YR HOUSE AND BACK INTO HER OWN. DIDN’T WANT U TO GO HOME AND THINK YOU’D BEEN BURGLED. SHE’S V UP AND DOWN BUT AM TALKING TO HER, WORKING ON HER AND V. HOPEFUL SHE’LL COME ROUND EVENTUALLY. LIKE IN A YEAR OR SO. ANYWAY, I STILL LOVE U, MXXXX

Bloody hell.

There’s a taxi with the light on just driving past me. I don’t even hesitate, I barely even pause to weigh up whether this is a good idea or a bad idea. I hail it down and jump in. My phone beeps again as another text comes through.

This time it’s Jack. Again.

LET ME KNOW UR OK. THAT DINNER INVITE IS STILL OPEN. J.X.

P.S. U AND ME R THE TALK OF CHANNEL SEVEN, SO IT SEEMS!

‘Where to, love?’ the driver asks me.

I don’t even think about it, just give him Charlene’s address. I can’t contact Jack, at least not just yet, so I switch my phone off. I have to do this first. Get it over
with
. It won’t be pleasant or easy, but it would be on my conscience if I didn’t.

For the first time in my life, I’m actually nervous walking up the long driveway to Charlene’s house/mansion. Marilyn’s car is parked there, but there’s no sign of Mr Ferguson’s. Phew.

Marilyn lets me in and is so warm and welcoming, I’m left thinking: Does she even know what happened? That, in the space of twelve hours, I’ve been demoted from best friend to spawn of Satan?

Hard to know. On one hand, Charlene can’t abide the sight of Marilyn, but on the other, whenever she’s going through a crisis, everyone, and by that I really do mean everyone, right down to her eyebrow-waxing lady,
knows
.

‘Hey, am I allowed to say congratulations?’ I ask as Marilyn takes my coat.

‘Of course,’ she says, blushing very prettily. ‘Thanks so much, Cassie. It was a bit of a shock, but I think – well, I hope that, in time, Charlene might, you know, come around to the idea. She’s just upstairs in her room, with Marc with a C, if you want to go on up.’

‘Thanks,’ I gulp, dreading it.

‘Cassie, do you mind if I say something?’

‘Of course not.’

‘The thing is, it really was a terrible row between Charlene and her dad, but you know, there’s nothing
I’d
love more than for us all to build bridges. Maybe she and I will never have the friendship you all do, but, well, I’d like her to know that I’ll always be here for her. I know this is hard for her, I really do, but there’s nothing that would give me more happiness than for her to be involved with this baby. Is that asking too much, do you think?’

‘No, not at all. I’m really over the moon for you,’ I say, hugging her warmly, really meaning it. Wow. Lucky little spirit to be born to such a fab mother, I’m thinking. And it looks as if Charlene might, in time, come round to the whole idea, given that she’s physically moved back here, so . . . well, it’s an ill wind and all that.

Of course, the
main
reason she’s back home again is because she can’t bear to share the same airspace as me, but that’s what I’m here to deal with. I hope. Anyway, I’m on my way upstairs, just thinking about how lovely Marilyn is and how lucky Charlene is that her father isn’t marrying some gold-digging horror story, as he could so easily have done. OK, so maybe she and her father will never see eye to eye, but at the very least Marilyn is a good soul and Charlene’ll always have her in her corner.

‘Hey,’ says Marilyn, interrupting my happy thoughts about her. ‘Any flashes on whether it’s a boy or a girl? I’m only asking, because, for Charlene’s sake, I think a boy might be that bit easier for her to come to terms with.’

I don’t even have to think about it. I get an instant flash. Wow again.

It’s Mr Ferguson and Marilyn, standing in a church, at the baby’s christening. They’re both beaming with pride, gazing down at this tiny bundle, swathed in oceans of Chantilly lace
.

‘
Will the godparents step forward, please?’ an elderly priest asks the congregation
.

This is a minor miracle. The godfather, who I don’t recognize, steps up to the font and beside him, looking strangely pleased and even proud to be godmother, is Charlene
.

‘
By what name do you wish the child to be known?’ asks the priest
.

Marilyn looks adoringly down at her little bundle, then back up again. ‘James Henry Charles.’ She smiles and I’d swear I can almost see her winking at Charlene
. . .

‘You know, don’t you?’ says Marilyn, correctly gauging the look on my face.

‘Yeah, but I’m not telling.’

‘Ah, go on.’

‘Nope. My lips are sealed. But you are going to be so
happy
.’

She goes back into the drawing room, delighted with life, and I head upstairs, feeling a little bit more confident
now
. This mightn’t be so bad. I mean, Charlene’s had all day to get her head around what happened. OK, so she did move out, which could be interpreted as a bad sign, but then I am here, I have made an effort to at least try and find some middle ground. To show that I do actually value our years of friendship.

Above a fella. Yes, even a fella as divine as Jack.

Right, just hold that thought, Cassie
.

I knock gingerly on her dressing-room door.

I have to wait for ages before Marc with a C eventually opens it. ‘Hey, honey,’ he whispers, kissing me. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Why the low voice?’ You’d swear there was either (a) an invalid or (b) someone just out of an intensive-care unit in the room with him.

‘Who is it?’ I can hear Charlene asking from her bedroom, which is a kind of inner sanctum through a big French double door.

Deep breath. ‘It’s me.’

There’s a pause and now I can hear her getting out of bed.

‘You must prepare yourself for a shock,’ whispers Marc with a C in that respectful tone of voice people use whenever there’s been a bereavement. ‘I’m not kidding, she has Macy Grey hair.’

Charlene appears at the doorway, wearing her comfy pink fleecy pyjamas which I happen to know she only
ever
wears when she’s in the throes of a crisis. She looks at me in deep disgust, that same disdainful sneer she reserves for women who wear last season’s lip colour.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says. ‘I thought it might have been Jo. You remember Jo? My friend who didn’t run off with my ex a day after we broke up?’

‘How are you?’ I ask, ignoring the jibe and deliberately keeping my voice cool.

‘Do you really want to know how I am? Because I’ll tell you.’

‘Charlene, look—’ I say, but Marc with a C interrupts me.

‘Can I just say one thing? If we were all French, there’d be no problem.’

Bless him, I think he’s trying to lighten the mood, but some instinct tells me to just keep on talking while I still have the chance. ‘Charlene, I hated the way we left things today, but I really have to tell you—’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ she says. ‘Don’t Hallmark make sorry-I-ran-off-with-your-ex-boyfriend cards?’

‘Come on, sweetie, let her finish,’ says Marc with a C.

OK, this will be awful, but I’m going to try to get it all over with in one sentence. ‘I think – I honestly feel that . . . Well, look, here it is. I think that I might have feelings for Jack, I really do, and I’m not certain but I think that he might have them for me as well and – the thing is, this has been on my mind all day – I really feel
the
right thing to do is to be completely straight with you. It wasn’t a fling. At least I don’t think that it was. He has asked me out and I think I’d like to take him up on it. But obviously not if it’s going to upset you or mean the end of our friendship. And I want to know where you stand on this.’

Marc with a C gives me a round of applause. ‘Brave, brave lady,’ he says. ‘So now over to you, Charlene. Come on, let’s try to find some common ground here.’ Now he’s starting to sound like a relationship counsellor. ‘Cassie has been honest with you, so – maybe – you could meet her halfway and admit that you have moved on as well, with whatshisname, that reporter guy, so can’t we just all put this behind us and go back to being a happy family? For my sake?’

‘Brilliant,’ Charlene snaps back at him, a bit ungratefully considering that all he’s trying to do is help. ‘Tell you what, when you’re finished here, why don’t you go out to the Middle East and solve that little problem with a nice big group hug?’

There’s a very long, very ugly pause.

Big mistake coming here, I’m thinking. She’s not prepared to listen to reason, in fact, she’s probably prepared to drag this out till Christmas. At least I tried. Conscience clear. Well, clear-ish.

I’m just about to say my goodbyes when she comes right in tight to me in a move I’d swear she copied
straight
from Joan Collins on old re-runs of
Dynasty
, which I happen to know she knows almost every line of by heart.

‘I just have one thing to say to you, Cassandra, before you go. There is a thing called karma and what you’ve done
will
come back and bite you in the arse. And when it does, all I can say is, I hope it bloody well hurts.’

Chapter Eighteen

THE TAROT DECK

THE TEN OF SWORDS CARD

Awful, just awful. The card has a picture of a person lying face down in the snow, with ten swords stuck into their back and blood oozing everywhere
.

A Distressing and very upsetting time for all concerned. The only chink of hope is that if you look closely enough at the card, there are stars twinkling in the dark night sky giving some hope that time heals all wounds and that the dawn will, eventually, come. Mind you, you do have to look really, really closely
. . .

MARIA VON TRAPP
has just come on stage in her nun’s habit singing about the hills being alive with the sound of music and Jo’s sitting beside me in the freezing parish hall, nudging me to stay awake. Thank God too, because I was about to drift off and the next scene is when Mum makes her grand entrance. According to the programme, she’s playing Sister Mary Bernadette and her big chorus number is ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?’

OK, so maybe the scenery is a bit shaky and maybe the singing is not up to Broadway standard, but, still, we’re all here to support her and cheer her on. Well, Jo and I are here, that is, with my proud dad sitting in the row in front of us, digital camera at the ready, all set for Mum’s big scene.

Charlene didn’t come and Marc with a C elected to stay at home with her. She never even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. Nothing. It’s like I’ve been completely dead-headed. It’s been a horrible, horrible week, best summarized in the words of my friends, or at least my friends who are still speaking to me, as follows:

Oh shit, I better stop daydreaming
.

The nuns have just come out now and there’s a huge round of applause, dragging me out of my reverie. There’s Mum and her friend Margaret, looking, well, actually a bit over made-up and glamorous for two nuns who live in a convent in Salzburg circa 1938. Dad’s on his feet with the camera just as they burst forth into song. Anyway, before you know it, they’re done (flawless performances, everyone remembered their words and
Mum
only winked down at us twice, very professional), Maria’s been dispatched off to the von Trapp residence to take care of the seven children and . . . whaddya know, I’m drifting off again.

I haven’t been able to concentrate on a single thing these past few days. I’m way behind with work, I’ve yet another deadline looming and I haven’t even begun to tackle the mound of letters that’s waiting for me. I did, however, hear from Jack. He called me when I was supposed to be working but was actually more gainfully occupied gazing out of the window. One of those days.

He was sweet and funny and lovely, as usual. Asked how I was and I told him. About my awful, misguided visit to Charlene’s house, the guilt that’s been laid on with a bloody trowel, the whole works. Plenty of guys would have tried to talk me round, but he didn’t and I really liked that he didn’t. Honestly. We were both very adult and grown-up about the whole thing, really. I think he’s feeling like a bit of a heel himself, in fact.

He said he felt awful that I was feeling so awful but understood what I was going through, or rather, being put through. Anyway, I can’t remember if he suggested it or if I did, but we agreed not to see each other. For now, anyway.

‘Let’s let the dust settle a bit,’ I think I may have said to him. I can’t be sure, it was all a bit of a blur. Anyway,
he
was fine about it, absolutely cool, and agreed that was the best thing all round.

Yes, I know I’ll have to do the
Breakfast Club
soon enough, but it’s possible to avoid him until then, isn’t it?