I Never Fancied Him Anyway (39 page)

Course it is. A bit of breathing space is what we all need right now, just till things blow over.

Yes. This is unquestionably the
right
thing.

What I can’t figure out then is: why does it feel so wrong?

I must have been daydreaming for ages because Jo actually has to nudge me awake for the interval. She’s absolutely brilliant, as usual, chats away to Dad as if there’s absolutely nothing amiss. He does ask what happened to Charlene and Marc with a C and she covers beautifully. ‘Unavoidably detained,’ she smiles and gets away with it. Luckily, Dad’s too busy going around talking to neighbours and pals to give it too much thought and before you know where we are, Mrs Walsh from the refreshments committee is ushering us back into our seats for Act Two.

Pretty soon, I’m drifting off again, except this time to the strains of ‘Edelweiss’.

Valentine did finally turn up at the office, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, which, in fairness, he probably hadn’t. I took one look at him and immediately dragged him down to Starbucks for a badly needed max-strength cappuccino.

I’m not joking, for the half-hour or so that we were sitting there chatting, his mobile must have beep-beeped about a dozen times, all women, all looking for dates, all wanting a piece of our Valentine. He looked kind of embarrassed every time it happened, but also delighted at the same time. Anyway, it seems Danish girl has now been replaced by his next-door neighbour in the apartment where he’s staying while he’s in Dublin. Blonde and very pretty, according to him, although at some breakfast launch do only that morning, he did meet yet another gorgeous girl who runs her own PR company. Phew. I have a hard job just keeping up.

Anyway, sweetheart that he is, he asks about Jack and I tell him. Everything. I omit no detail, however trivial. I’m glad I did too, because it’s brilliant to get a man’s perspective on the situation. Well, a straight man’s perspective, that is. What’s even more brilliant is that Valentine was there, in our house, on the night in question, your honour. So, as I pointed out to him, he saw first hand how much Charlene was driving me completely and utterly scatty.

Not that it’s a defence to say she was driving me nuts, I’m only reminding him of my mental state at the time. Oh yes, and not to forget that I was pretty much off my trolley with cheap wine.

Wine and dementia. Lethal combination.

He listens to every word I’m saying and doesn’t rush
to
judge. ‘Charlene is your friend and all you owed her was the truth and that’s what you told her. Friends want their friends to be happy, don’t they? She’ll come round in time, you just wait and see. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing with Jack,’ he said to me, gently squeezing my hand. ‘Bit of time out is no harm. Sure, if you were to go out to dinner with him tonight, you’d be so riddled with guilt, you’d both end up miserable. Just remember this, Cassie: if he’s a nice guy and if he genuinely likes you, he’ll wait for you. You’re a girl that’s worth waiting for.’

I keep saying it over and over in my head, like a mantra. It’s the advice of the millennium.
If he’s a nice guy, he’ll wait for me
.

Won’t he?

Shit, as usual, there’s never a psychic flash handy when I actually could do with one. Another sharp nudge from Jo and I realize that everyone’s clapping and the show’s actually over. The von Trapps are safely over the Alps and everyone’s on their feet cheering.

God, at times like this I really don’t know what I’d do without Jo. She’s just so fab, coming back to the dressing room with me and Dad afterwards to congratulate Mum and the rest of the cast. Boy, do I owe her big time.

The dressing room is actually just a big storeroom off the side of the stage where nuns and Nazis are all cracking
open
the champagne, high as kites on the euphoria of finishing a show where nothing went wrong.

We eventually find Mum, wearing the Japanese kimono I gave her last Christmas, with, I’m not kidding, an actual turban on her head, as she takes off one layer of make-up and replaces it with another.

‘Does this make you feel like Liza Minnelli?’ Jo whispers to me. ‘You know, and she’s Judy Garland? Mother and daughter both in showbiz-type thing. Just think, you’re playing Carrie Fisher to her Debbie Reynolds.’

‘Oh, there’re the girls!’ says Mum, spotting us and giving each of us a huge hug. ‘Thanks so much for coming! Did you enjoy the show? Did you see me waving at you? Oh, what did you think of the costumes? I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but Mrs Nugent our director thinks Margaret and I might very well get a nod for a nomination for the best costume design award this year! Could you imagine? Us, winning an award! Oh Margaret! Look, it’s Cassie and Jo, come on over here and say hello!’

Then Margaret our next-door neighbour is over, still in her nun’s costume, glugging back a glass of champagne. Dad’s busy photographing everything and everyone and Jo and I politely shake hands with Margaret, congratulating her on a great performance. Oh, and the costumes too, of course.

Mum is still on a stage high and barely lets anyone get a word in. ‘Can you believe the girls came all this way to see us, Margaret? Aren’t they just great, now? Oh, and remember Cassie has a big night ahead of her on Halloween! Nothing for you to be worried about now, love,’ she says, misinterpreting the worry lines across my face. ‘Sure, you’re well used to television at this stage, aren’t you, love? Walk in the park. I just can’t believe our little Cassie is going on the
Late Night Talk
show! We’re so proud, darling. I’ll make sure the whole musical society is watching and don’t you worry, Daddy will have the VCR recording.’

Oh, bloody hell. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

Chapter Nineteen

THE TAROT DECK

THE DEVIL CARD

Not good. Symbolizes a vicious, strong and forceful element in another, which is about to be unleashed with devastating consequences. Can indicate a power-hungry person, who will stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to succeed, even if that success is at the price of another’s downfall
.

The devil is considered a trump card, meaning that it’s pretty much unstoppable
.

In other words, there’s only one thing to say: good luck. You’re going to need it
. . .

GOING INTO CHANNEL
Seven at night-time is a weird experience. And it’s Halloween and there’re bonfires everywhere and fireworks going off all over the place and kids with their little faces painted trooping around the streets trick-or-treating. Normally I’d be excited and looking forward to the night and, well, feeling anything other than the way I do right now. Which, to be honest, is numb. Completely numb.

I got a call earlier to ask me to turn up at the station about an hour before transmission, just to get made up and settled, I suppose. I’m not in the least bit nervous, which is unlike me. I think I’m still just too punch drunk with recent events even to be worried about this. So, I park my car and head to TV reception, and the only thing that’s going through my mind is how quickly I can reasonably get out of here.

Jo, bless her, has agreed to sit in the studio audience, so I won’t see her till after transmission. Marc with a C is coming along too, as diplomatic as ever, just to prove that he’s absolutely
not
taking anyone’s side in the Great Barrier Reef, as he’s nicknamed this stupid bloody feud.

‘I’ve given this a great deal of thought,’ he said to me on the phone this morning, ‘and the fairest thing really is if neither of you see Jack, ever again, as long as you live. OK, sweetie? That’s my two cents’ worth and see you
ce soir!
’

I asked after Charlene and he immediately changed the subject, which is only making me think that she’s continuing to wish a pestilence on my house and that I put on two stone. Ho-hum.

Oh, and Valentine has promised to come along too, which I’m very grateful for, as are half the
Tattle
magazine office, mainly because I’m under strict instructions from all of them to suss out who he brings along with him as his date.

Anyway, I really am glad that I’ll have some support out in the audience tonight. Apart from them, I won’t know a single soul here. No, not strictly true, there’s Richard Bryan from the National Ghost Convention, who’s the person who put me forward for this in the first place. I’ve never met him but I’m presuming he’ll be here. I never made it to their convention either (if you could call it that) at Kilmainham Jail today. I could have, I suppose, only, well, I had to work, didn’t I?

Yes, of course, very busy working girl. I was in the office all day. Gazing out of the window for most of it, hardly getting any flashes and nearly jumping six feet in the air every time the phone rang, just in case it was Jack.

Which it wasn’t.

Not even a text, nothing. And no calls to do a slot on the
Breakfast Club
either, which, under the circumstances I suppose, is a good thing.

A stunningly productive day, as you see.

Anyway, the first person I see when I get to reception is, surprisingly, Lisa. ‘Hi,’ I say, hugging her warmly, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Hey, Cassie! Great to see you! I’m gonna be working with you tonight.
Late Night Talk
’s regular stage manager is out sick, so they rang me to see if I could fill in at the last minute. What can I say? I have no morals and I need the cash.’

I’m really delighted; it’s just great to see a friendly face before I go on. She leads me through reception and into a tiny dressing room with a big basket of fruit sitting there waiting for me. There’s a slightly awkward pause where I’m just hoping against hope she doesn’t mention Jack. The last time I saw her was the infamous night in the Comedy Cellar and I know that she knows what happened and, well, it’s just that there’s a very good chance that if she does give me the third degree, it might well end in tears.

She doesn’t though, which is fab.

‘Wow, this is all very A list, isn’t it?’ I say, indicating the towering fruit arrangement, dying to keep the conversation away from – well, you know. Seriously though, it almost looks like something Carmen Miranda would perch on top of her head.

‘Only what you deserve.’ She smiles. ‘Emm, Cassie, do you mind if I have a quick private word with you?’ Then
she
closes the door, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear what’s coming next.

Shit, she’s going to ask me if I’m seeing Jack.

OK, Cassie, keep the head
.

This is a perfectly normal, lovely girl who isn’t out to cause me any upset or embarrassment, she’s just looking for a nice juicy bit of gossip, that’s all. As I probably would myself, if I were in her shoes. I mean, at the
Tattle
office, that’s pretty much all any of us do, all day long. Presuming the Dragon Lady isn’t in residence, that is. If she asks, I’ll just laugh the whole thing off and brush it aside.

Great plan.

Oh yes, and claim that I was pissed drunk. Which is the truth, anyway.

‘The thing is,’ she says so slowly that I’m now really starting to worry, ‘the producer was wondering, now – only if it’s absolutely OK with you . . .’

Shit. The producer. Shit, shit, shit, I forgot to ask who the producer was. Can’t be Jack. No, it can’t be . . .

‘The thing is, she has this idea . . .’

Phew. I’m safe. ‘Yeah?’

‘Well, it’s just because it’s Halloween and everything. She sort of thought . . .’

‘Yeah?’

‘That the guests tonight appear . . .’

‘Yeah?’ Now I’m thinking: What, naked?

‘In fancy dress.’

‘
What?
’

‘It’s only for a laugh, that’s all. All the other guests have agreed to it. Oliver Hall has already nabbed a Captain Jack Sparrow costume for himself. You should see him. He’s upstairs in make-up prancing around the place like he’s Johnny Depp.’

My jaw drops to my collarbone and I look at her in total shock, which poor Lisa misinterprets. I’m honestly not a bit bothered about going on in costume, but
Oliver?
What the hell is he doing here?

‘Oliver Hall? He’s going on tonight as well?’

‘Yeah. But look, Cassie, if the costume thing is a problem for you . . .’

‘No, no, not at all. Emm, I don’t want to appear nosey or anything, but can I ask you what Oliver’s going on to talk about?’

‘He’s going on with you.’

‘
WHAT?
’ OK, now I think I might just need a brandy.

‘Didn’t anyone talk to you about this, Cassie?’

‘Well, no,’ I say, racking my brains to think. Did anyone call me or email me and did I just forget, like I normally do with anything really important?

No, no, I know I’ve had a lot on my mind, but I’m fairly sure that they didn’t.

Lisa checks the show’s running order on a clipboard
she
’s carrying. ‘Yup. There’s an environmentalist on first, then you and Oliver up next, then we go to a commercial break.’

Jesus, I need to sit down. ‘But, Lisa, to talk about what? I thought I was just here to have a chat about Halloween and, I dunno, maybe it would be a bit like on the
Breakfast Club
, where people ring in and . . . you know . . .’ I trail off lamely. The unspoken part of my sentence is ‘and I’ll just be able to wing it like I normally do.’ Shit, here I am about to go on live television, completely and utterly unprepared. Serves me right for spending the last few days going around in a complete and utter daze.

You roaring bloody eejit, Cassie, you are about to get your comeuppance and boy, do you deserve it
.

‘OK, stay cool,’ says Lisa, popping a chewing gum into her mouth. ‘I’ll find the producer and see if I can find out a bit more for you. Relax, you’ll be grand. For God’s sake, you’re Cassandra. Everyone knows you’re
brilliant
.’

Yeah, everyone except me, I’m thinking. Oh, sweet baby Jesus and the orphans.

An hour later I’m ready to go on, feeling as sick as a parrot and within an inch of sacrificing my name and reputation (if I still have one, that is) by committing the most unprofessional act of all and running away.