Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (17 page)

It's actually a really enjoyable evening, and Caroline and Mike never once have to resort to prodding either myself or Damien into chatting to each other. In fact, it hardly feels like we're being set up at all. He's very easy and relaxed and seems genuinely interested in my TV work. I entertain the table with a few choice anecdotes about Good Grief O'Keefe and some of her worse excesses and he encourages me to tell a few more tales out of school. In return, I ask him all about being
retired and all the free time he has on his hands. Turns out he spends all of it either playing golf or else looking after his mother, who he lives with.

Once again, my mind's off …

PRO:

This is a good thing.

All the self-help books proudly boast that if you want an instant handle on a guy, all you have to do is casually ask him how he gets on with his mom. The rule of thumb being that nice guys tend to have very good relationships with their mothers whereas the losers, my normal targets, tend not to. Given that Damien is well into his sixties, the mother must be in her eighties at least, so, I figure, isn't it sweet that he's so devoted to her?

CON:

He spends so long talking about her, all I can think of is Norman Bates in
Psycho
. I even find myself wondering if he has creepy stuffed birds in his house …

After dessert, Caroline asks me to give her hand with the coffee, winking surreptitiously at me from the corner of her eye to follow her. We gather up a load of plates between us and trundle downstairs to the kitchen, leaving the boys to talk about their golf handicaps.

‘Well, what do you think?' she asks as soon as the door's safely shut. ‘I know the mother thing is a bit of a turn-off, but apart from that?'

I smile at her. That's the great thing about Caroline; you never have to tell her what you're thinking. She always knows. ‘On paper, he's perfect,' I say, loading up the dishwasher for her. ‘But in practice … oh, Caroline, I hate saying this when you've gone to so much bother, but there's just no spark between us. Nothing. I've seen more chemistry in a bad episode of
Celtic Tigers
, and God knows that's saying something.'

‘Give him a chance, that's all I'm asking. He'd take you out to lovely restaurants and treat you like a queen and who knows? Maybe you'll kiss him and sparks will fly. Better an old man's darling than a young man's slave, as my mum always says. Anyway, I'm very proud of you for coming out tonight. It was brave of you, considering the week you've had.'

‘That's one good thing about Damien,' I say, shuddering, as we head back to the dining room, ‘he's the complete antithesis of
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
.'

Pretty soon after coffee, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes ten and Damien makes his excuses to leave. ‘Goodness, I had no idea it was so late,' he says. ‘I'm afraid I really must be off or Mummy will wonder where I am. Besides, I always take her to early Mass on Sunday mornings, so I really ought to call it a night.'

The tiniest, barely perceptible look of he's-a-nice-guy-so-just-ignore-that-comment-and-give-him-a-proper-chance from Caroline.

‘You really are a most charming young lady,' Damien says, affectionately kissing my hand as he makes to leave. ‘I do hope we meet again. Perhaps you'd do me the honour of having afternoon tea with me some day?'

I hesitate for a nanosecond and then clock Caroline and Mike looking at me, dying to know what I'll say.
Headless groom, Vera Wang, headless groom, Vera Wang …
‘That would be lovely, thanks, Damien.'

‘Wonderful. I'll tell Mummy we can expect you then. I think you'll both get along very well.'

The three of us dutifully wave him off and then, I'm sorry to say, I get a bit giddy. ‘Afternoon tea? Now I know how it feels to be courted like a Jane Austen heroine.'

‘Damien's a great guy,' says Mike, shutting the door and yawning. ‘I'd never have got into Portmarnock Golf Club without him.'

Hours later, when I'm tucked up in bed, I can't resist the temptation to call Rachel in her hotel in Paris to tell her all about it.

‘Oh God.' She laughs so hard I can hear her spluttering on a cigarette. ‘So what did his wife die of? Boredom?'

‘Shut up. Caroline says I have to give him a proper
chance, so I'll do the whole tea with Mummy thing and report back—'

She interrupts me with a loud cackle.

‘What?'

‘Nothing, I just did a mental calculation.'

‘Your point being?'

‘If you persist in that half-assed night course of yours, then, in strict chronological order, do you realize who your next target will be?'

I almost drop the phone.

My silence says it all.

‘Yes,' says Rachel. ‘I might just have to come with you for this one. Over my dead body am I letting you meet up with
him
on your own.'

Oh, this'll be good. Of the entire parade of losers I call my ex-boyfriends, this one I'm actually looking forward to tracking down. First, though, I should give you a little bit of deep background.

Number four is called Tony Irwin and although I'd known him since my schooldays, we didn't start going out with each other till we were both well into second year at college. Tony was amazing, a really, stunningly wonderful all-rounder of a guy. If his life was ever made into a Hollywood movie, he would have to be played by … Jude Law.

He went to St Andrew's College, the boys' school around the corner from us, and was something of a lust object/ pin-up/yardstick against which to measure all other men for each and every girl in my class. Apart from his looks (tall, blond, blue-eyed Aryan, the type I'm sure Oscar Wilde would have had in mind when he wrote
The Picture of Dorian Gray
), he really was the man who had it all.

Gifted athletically as well as academically, he was head boy at his school and then went on to read History and English at UCD. He was one of those rare people who the Gods smile on and save all their best gifts for and, as if this wasn't enough, he was easily the nicest and best-liked man I've ever met, before or since. As we say in television: he was so popular, he was practically lowest common denominator. Everyone loved him and absolutely no one had a bad word to say about him.

To give an example of his phenomenal charisma, let me just say that, after all these years, Rachel and I still maintain that he's the only man, living or dead, real or fictitious, that we'd ever physically fight over.

It was circumstances that broke us up, or so I like to think: he won a rugby scholarship to Glasgow University in Scotland and so, to my complete devastation, we had to part. Even though we were both only nineteen, if it had been up to me, I'd have married him. No question. But we lost touch, as you do, and the strain of keeping up a long-distance relationship took its toll, as it inevitably does. So, after a couple of months of romantic letter writing (which seems prehistoric now, in this age of email and five-cent texts and cheapie Ryanair flights to Glasgow Prestwick airport, but back at the end of 1987, a good, old-fashioned pen and paper was all we had, quite apart from the fact that my dad would have crucified me if I'd run up the phone bill on long-distance calls) and
after much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part, we eventually had to call it a day. That's the trouble with being nineteen; you think the Tony Irwins of this world grow on trees. It was only when I got older that I realized what a rare diamond I'd let slip through my fingers.

But there's one thing no one can ever take from me. For six, happy, glorious months, back in the Hilary and Trinity terms of 1987, I was Tony Irwin's girlfriend.

As soon as she gets back from her trip, Rachel volunteers to do all the detective work for me, which I'm very grateful for, as my work load on
Celtic Tigers
has virtually gone stratospheric. I even find myself having to slip into the office on Sunday, to play catch-up in editing the production week we've just filmed, and also frantically to read ahead on the coming week's shooting scripts. However, I still manage to find time to call Rachel in Paris and we plot a rudimentary track-Tony-Irwin-down strategy. Now, it may not exactly be Desert Storm, but it's the best we have. OK. Let me explain the chain …

1. When Rachel split up with hubbie number two (or shit features, as she calls him) she sold both of her engagement rings and used the money as a deposit on a bijou, dinky little villa by the sea in Dalkey, County Dublin. Her reasoning at the time had been: ‘I've been
engaged more times than a switchboard, I might as well have something pretty to show for it.'

2. Not long afterwards, she went for broke and bought Urban Chic in the city centre, which came with a fully fitted luxury apartment above the shop, in turn-key condition and with stunning views over the River Liffey. Now, for a city chick like our Rachel, the lure of living in the heart of town was too much to resist, so she rented out the villa and moved lock, stock and barrel into her new bachelor-girl bolthole.

3. It just so happened that when Rachel came to rent out the house, the estate agent sent out another St Andrews's past pupil and an old classmate of Tony's to take care of the place, the unfortunately named Michael Brick, or Mick Brick. Not exactly the brightest candle on the tree, we'd all known him for years – but by his nickname, Thickie Brickie.

4. So this, in a nutshell, is the plan. First thing in the morning, Rachel is going to ring Thickie Brickie on the thinly veiled pretext of discussing the lease on her villa, which by a stroke of very good luck, is up for renewal at the end of next month. Her tenants are great and she fully intends to let them have the
place for as long as they want, but we're hoping Thickie Brickie will live up to his name and not realize that her calling him is only a ruse to dig for information about his old friend Tony. There is, of course, the likelihood that (
a
) Thickie doesn't have the first clue where Tony is or what he's up to or (
b
) he knows where Tony is all right, but is too dim to remember …

As Rachel very wisely says, though, we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.

The TV station is deserted and without the distraction of phones ringing and actors throwing strops, I get loads of work done, although sitting in an empty office on a Sunday afternoon all on your own has to be one of the most surreally lonely experiences you'll ever have. Dave Bruton's words come back to me, that this is the perfect job for someone single, but right now, much as I enjoy the work, I'd prefer to be sweeping the streets or stacking the shelves in SuperValu if it meant that I could go home to a loving husband at the end of a long, tiring day …

It's late, almost heading for eight o'clock by the time I'm trudging to the car park to plod my weary way home. I'm fantasizing about whether to order in Chinese, Indian or just to chicken out, call Caroline and ask her if I'm too late to stick my name in the pot
for her usual big Sunday family roast, when I hear footsteps behind me.

Through the darkness, I see Philip Burke, also alone and also heading for his car.
Shit
.

OK. Given that this is not only my boss but also the most intimidating man in television, my first instinct is to run for the hills and hope against hope that he didn't see me, but the car park is practically deserted, so the chances of that are slim. He spots me, waves and strides over. I walk towards him, silently praying that he doesn't ask me any hard questions about our ratings-boosting strategy on
Celtic Tigers
. I'm way too exhausted to do all my hard work any justice right now.

No such luck. Without any preamble or reference to the fact that we seem to be the only two people in the whole station working on a Sunday, he cuts straight to the chase with his usual hawk-like focus. ‘Amelia, there you are. I watched the episode broadcast last night, you know, and I have to say that Rob Richards's performance was lazy to the point of coma-inducing even by his standards.'

Double shit
. He does want an impromptu work discussion. And believe me, this guy is so scary that just talking to him makes you feel like you're treading on eggshells, in a banana skin factory, in an earthquake.

What I want to say back to him is: ‘So you stayed in and watched TV on a Saturday night then, did you, Philip? My, what a full life you lead,' but,
unfortunately, I need this job. I take a deep breath. ‘Philip, ever since our last meeting, we've made a lot of major production changes, but given that the episode you're talking about was shot weeks before I even came on board—'

‘Calm down, I'm not giving you a hard time over this, I'm just pointing out that if you are planning on doing a cast culling, there's your prime target.'

‘As it happens, we have had story meetings to figure out a quick, effective way of losing the dead wood from the show—'

‘Plane crash? Pub explodes? Alien abduction?
Celtic Tigers
is known for taking chances on crap, as we all know. So what's it to be?'

‘We haven't made a final decision yet, but don't worry, I'm on top of it.'

‘Glad to hear it. Cut away the fat. Just like a boxer sheds useless flab before winning a world heavyweight title.'

‘Emm, yeah.' Philip Burke may be the youngest-ever head of television, but his social skills are up his bum. I'm not sure what to answer to that; I'm too busy thinking: Did he just say that? There's more to come, though.

‘I know it must feel like you're flogging a haggard old nag to the gates of the boneyard right now,' he goes on, ‘but it'll be worth it. Trust me. I want to see changes on that show and I want to see them fast.'