Reluctantly Charmed (22 page)

I laughed at it all with my friends. We bought the papers and
pored over them, flicking through them furiously for photos of me, cringing in unison at bad journalism and headlines: “Witches in Stitches,” “When Irish Eyes Are Spellbinding,” and, my favorite, “Fairy Fearful Forecast.” But I worried. Now and again I’d look up and notice a glance, a signal. Fiona and Lily would laugh too loud, their smiles would be too wide, the headlines were “too funny,” “too ridiculous,” “such lies.” And I knew my friends had doubts about me. Well, maybe not doubts—nothing as concrete as doubts—but a suspicion was chipping away at the back of their minds.

Meanwhile, Mam and Dad were enjoying their fifteen minutes. They’d hired an agent, Harry McMahon, a skinny bleach-haired man who air-kissed and proclaimed Mam to be a “genius.” Dad let me know with a wink, a nod, and a downturned wrist that Harry was, you know, “one of them.” Dad was sure he’d never met a gay man before (I didn’t have the heart to tell him every sixth guy he’d ever met was probably gay) and he was pleasantly surprised by how well they got on. Harry informed me that theirs was a star on the rise, and if he could only get his hands on me, who knew where we could go as a family. “Think the Osbournes or the Addams Family,” he repeatedly said to my stubbornly shaking head. Harry was securing and locking down any deal he could, and, as a result, Mam and Dad were making money. In the previous four weeks they’d made more money than Dad’s pension brought in in a year. Dad was now the face of a massage chair, a website that traced your family tree, and denture glue, and he was in talks to write a DIY book about car maintenance. Mam loved the guest appearances, and was turning up at the opening of every envelope, waving and smiling for the cameras. She was starting on the audition circuit for reality TV:
Celebrities on a Farm
,
Celebrities up a Mountain
,
Celebrities in the Kitchen
.
Together they were the face of Tan-a-lot, a self-tanning gel: “No streaks and an instant sunny glow in thirty seconds.”

Unfortunately for Dad, though, Mam was spending the money as fast as it was coming in. She said she’d waited her whole life to shop without looking at the price tag. She refused the advice of fashion professionals, believing she had her own personal style nailed down, a bit like Kate Moss. Only when you saw photos of Mam in magazines, Kate Moss wasn’t the first name to pop into your head: Liberace or Cher circa 1995 was more likely. Patterns exploded all over her: paisley, floral, spots—every combination that never knew it was a combination. I watched with trepidation as her hemlines got shorter and her necklines lower. Her ears began to droop under the weight of heavy yellow gold, and her wrists looked pained, adorned as they were with stones the size of small islands. She was contemplating a boob job and I had visions of lads’ mags knocking on her door for a discreet photo shoot, which absolutely terrified me.

Dad still wore his cord suit with suede elbow patches, although Mam had somehow persuaded him to get auburn highlights. He stroked his remaining few wispy bits of hair and told me quietly that he was scared the dye would sweat out and he’d end up with red streaks down his face. Dad was thinking of upgrading his car, but he suspected correctly that the neighbors probably weren’t gossiping about his battered old banger anymore.

But they were happy. They held hands and flirted with each other. Dad would proudly wrap his arm around Mam’s shoulders, and she’d cuddle into him, giggling. While other couples their age were gardening and joining bridge clubs, Mam and Dad were skipping up red carpets and practicing their poses for photo shoots. If the Seven Steps had achieved anything, they’d brought happiness and passion back into my parents’ marriage,
and for that I would be forever grateful—and embarrassed, if Mam didn’t sort out her wardrobe soon.

People were crawling out of the woodwork: teachers from school were e-mailing, ex-neighbors were dropping in, and guys I’d dated who had never called me back suddenly found my number again. I didn’t know what any of them wanted. It was like they were reaching out, trying to catch the celebrity, so when they were nursing pints in the pub on a Friday night they could tell the drunk beside them that they knew Kate McDaid.

By the time I published the fourth Step, trying to maintain a normal life had become increasingly difficult. Work was a nightmare—not the actual work, which was coming together quite well, but the office itself. I was now the coworker everyone wanted to know. Conversations would stop if I was within ten feet of a group, and heads peeped around watercoolers and laptops to stare at me as I walked by. My desk area was a thoroughfare for gawpers nudging each other and saying, “That’s her, that’s her,” while I’d sink lower and lower into my chair.

And then there were the gifts. Bucketloads of gifts had begun to arrive, some days three or four, one day fifty-four. Flowers, iPods, shoes, handbags, foot spas, chutneys. Gifts from journalists, producers, or product manufacturers who wanted me to be photographed wearing or using their stuff. It was exciting, initially: every day was Christmas Day. But then there was just so much of it, and there’s only room for so many wallets/key chains/bicycle pumps in your life. So I gave a lot of it away. Not all of it—obviously, I kept the handbags and shoes—but the jams and aftershaves were up for grabs. The accounts department met me with hands hanging and a greedy glint in their eyes as I handed out baskets of fruit and iPhones. The design department sent me an angry e-mail, saying they felt that accounts were getting all
the best gifts and that they were second on my list. Unwittingly that week I started a turf war.

Dudley was the biggest benefactor of all. His child-catcher cart was brimming over with presents daily, and some days he’d just call me from reception, listing off the items and telling me which ones he wanted. By rights, I thought, the design department should have been sending
him
angry e-mails.

The day after I posted the fourth Step, I was desperately trying to forget everything and just focus on work. Matthew and I had to go to a meeting and ended up being away from the office for maybe two hours.

While we were out, Setanta came visiting, as he always did. Seeing we weren’t there, he did what any dog would do: he dived headfirst into the box of Starshoot chocolates on the floor by Matthew’s desk.

When we got back from the meeting, Matthew went to see the design department. I returned to my desk to find Setanta flat out on a bed of half-eaten Starshoot bars. He was struggling to breathe, his tongue hanging lopsided out of his mouth and his eyes flickering at half-mast.

My heart stopped. “Setanta!” I dropped to my knees and put my hands under his head. “Oh, God. Please be okay,” I said aloud. “Please be okay.” His breaths were short and sharp, and his whole body was straining to keep breathing.

I grabbed my phone. “Marjorie. Get Hugh. It’s Setanta. He might be dying.”

Before I’d even hung up, I could feel Hugh’s presence hurtling toward me. In a moment he was at my side. He slid to his knees and cradled Setanta in his arms, his face red with worry and anger.

“What the hell happened?”

“I . . . I dunno.”

“Jesus Christ!” He picked up a handful of the Starshoot wrappers that littered the floor. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

He rose to his feet. Setanta, sick and panting, somehow looked small in his arms.

“I didn’t, I—”

“He’s a dog. He can’t eat your type of food. What the hell is wrong with you?” His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me with pure hate.

“He . . . Oh, God, I didn’t mean—”

“Save your pathetic excuses. You people haven’t a clue.” Hugh glared at me like I was the creator of all evil, the keeper of a pitchfork and horns. He nuzzled his face into Setanta’s and whispered in his cartoony voice: “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. I’ll save you.” Then he turned and ran, disappearing with such speed I began to think I’d imagined the whole scenario.

Later, I tried to get Hugh’s number from Marjorie, but she point-blank refused to give it to me, saying it was inappropriate for me to have dealings with her client. So I got it from Colin, who couldn’t have cared less.

I called Hugh that evening, praying with all my might that Setanta had made a full recovery. Thankfully, he had. But it didn’t stop Hugh from chastising me like a naughty child. I took my punishment and apologized profusely. I was just happy Setanta was okay. He needed a few weeks of rest and relaxation, so Hugh was taking him home. Hugh was sick of Dublin and the people here, he said.

I took that to be a direct dig at me. The man was infuriating beyond belief. He never failed to find an opportunity to insult me or belittle me, and yet he was the one working in the porn industry. How he could get so high and mighty flabbergasted me.

But there was something about him, something that, in spite of everything, I liked and admired. The way he cared for Setanta, his ruggedness, even his dirty boots. There was something about him that was so different he stood out. He didn’t try to be anyone he wasn’t. He didn’t play any games. There was an honesty about him that was refreshing. Unfortunately, I’d probably never see him or Setanta again. It was a thought that, if I was honest, quite depressed me.

Colin had an idea about David Hasselhoff and the Starshoot campaign, and I agreed to do it if he absolutely 100 percent agreed to promote me after the ad was shot. I don’t know where I got the courage to ask him for the promotion, but I knew I had to—it was one of those now-or-never moments.

We were at the end of a pier about to jump off, but we couldn’t do it without David Hasselhoff, who, it just so happened, was impossible to get hold of. We’d tried every angle we could think of—fan sites, stalker sites, medical sites—nothing was working. The PA’s PA’s PA’s PA in L.A. had never returned my call—that had gone nowhere. It was time to jump.

Colin sat me down, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. He was embarrassed to ask me, he said, twiddling his mustache. “But you need to use your celebrity to reach out to another celebrity. That’s how these things work.”

David Hasselhoff wouldn’t have heard of me, I argued. Colin said that it was worth a try, that we were at the end of our collective tether. We had to get him on board, which was why he’d offered me the promotion.

I thought about it for a while, weighing up the options with Matthew over an egg salad sandwich at AlJo’s. I really wanted
that promotion—I
deserved
that promotion. So, I did it. I called Mam and Dad’s agent, Harry McMahon, and asked him to use his agent network to find the Hoff and tell him that the witch Kate McDaid was looking for him.

Fifteen minutes later, the Hoff called me direct.

“Kate McDaid.
The
Kate McDaid?”

“Is this David Hasselhoff? This is great.”

“I can’t believe this is Kate McDaid!”

It went on like that for quite a while, both of us saying each other’s name. I was so excited, you’d think I’d won a full house at bingo. The legendary David Hasselhoff was talking to me. I felt myself bowing slightly on the phone to him. He’d heard about the Steps from an Irish friend in L.A. He told me that he was Irish on his great-grandfather’s side.

He was so nice. He said our idea for the campaign was
awesome
, and he sounded so believable that for a moment I thought it was. He agreed to everything. Because of his tight filming schedules for
America’s Got Talent
, he could give us only twenty-four hours of his time. That was all. I knew we could work around it. He asked very politely if we could send him some samples of Starshoot. I’d looked nervously over at the four or five bars at the bottom of what was once a five-hundred-pack box under Matthew’s desk and scribbled down a note to ask the Little Prince for more. I told the Hoff that I’d firm up the details and call him back as soon as I could.

After he’d hung up, Matthew, Colin and I high-fived one another. We were
The A-Team
, we were amazing, we were advertising stars. It felt great. Matthew and I were finally going to get a campaign out the door. And I was going to get promoted. Things were looking up.

We sent out the bat signal and arranged for the Little Prince to come into the office the following day. I couldn’t wait to see
the look on his face. Only when I did see it, it wasn’t what I expected at all.