Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (27 page)

 

From:
    
[email protected]

To:
         
[email protected]

Subject:
How the hell are you?

 

Hey Jack!

How's it going? It's been weeks since I've heard from you, just wondered how you were? Still making your millions at the law firm in Boston, Mr Big Fat I've-just-been-made-partner Pants? Listen, when you're home next, maybe we could meet up? You must be due a trip home soon … I'd love if we could have a bite to eat??? Or go to one of your rugger-bugger pubs and have a few drinks – whatever you fancy. Lots to tell you and lots to hear …

 

I reread, then hit the delete button. Too needy, too eager. Not casual enough. Needs to be … lighter. ‘Whatever you fancy'? … I can't believe I even wrote that.

I never suggest meeting up with Jack; he always calls me whenever he's in Dublin, which is maybe four times a year, and he's
always
the one to invite me out.

He knows me too well – he'd read this and run a mile. I do not want to be part of the Jack Keating pussy posse, I want a husband; I have to be really cool and behave exactly the same way I always have done.

If
Cosmo, Marie Claire
and magazines of that sort have taught me nothing, it's that you should treat a guy you fancy exactly the way you'd treat a guy you don't fancy.

Not, I have to stress, that I fancy Jack Keating. We just had a deal. Which was his idea, not mine. And we're both well over the thirty-five mark now …

At least he would be one relatively normal ex-boyfriend, or rather non-ex-boyfriend, that I could tell Ira Vandergelder about.

OK. Draft two.

Ten-thirty p.m. Second glass of Sancerre. Haven't eaten a scrap since lunch, so am now feeling deliciously woozy.

 

From:
    
[email protected]

To:
         
[email protected]

Subject:
(No Subject)

 

Jx

 

How are you?

 

Ax

 

Delete, delete, delete.

Too cool by half. I get up from my desk and pace around a bit, then go over to the mantelpiece and pick up a photo of me and Jack. It was taken the night of my thirtieth birthday, all of seven years ago. There's a big gang of us clustered around a restaurant table, all wearing party hats with streamers hanging out of us. For some reason, Caroline, Jamie and Rachel are wearing those fun furry angels' wings and look like they're on the way to a raucous hen night in Temple Bar. Jack has both his arms around me and is squeezing me tight.

He had flown in from Boston just that morning especially for the party as a birthday surprise for me. I smile to myself, putting the photo back in its place. He'd gone to so much bother too. He even called my mobile from outside the restaurant door, pretending to be in the States, raging he couldn't be there, then
walked up to me, phone in hand, singing happy birthday and almost giving me a cardiac arrest. This photo was taken immediately afterwards and you can just see the glow of happiness on my face because he came. My wonderful friend Jack.

OK, I am bending the rules a bit here, I know. It's not as if Jack and I ever dated. Or even kissed. But a deal's a deal. We are each other's matrimonial back-up plan. He even reminded me on the night of my thirtieth. I'll never forget it. It was about five a.m., when we all fell out of Lillie's Bordello, giddy on the champagne we'd been skulling back all night. Caroline and Mike hopped into one taxi, Jamie and Rachel staggered on to an early opening pub down on the docks and Jack, ever the gentleman, walked me home.

To all intents and purposes, we must have looked like a couple; he even took off his jacket and slipped it around my freezing shoulders, as if we'd just been to a debs ball together.

‘Thanks for coming,' I said, linking arms with him. ‘That was the best birthday present I could have asked for.'

‘A pleasure. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. I just can't believe you're thirty.' Then he put on a voice like a ham actor in a Victorian melodrama. ‘Five more years and you shall be
MINE
!'

‘You're only saying that because you're between girlfriends now.'

‘No I'm not. We made a pact. If we're both still single by thirty-five, I'm carting you down that aisle, whether you like it or not.'

OK. When I worked in the newsroom and had to script a difficult piece, this is what my executive producer used to tell me. Write down exactly what you want to say in layman's terms so that the sense is there, then gloss it up and throw in all the long, TV-speak phrases you want.

Right. Here goes.

Midnight. Fourth glass of Sancerre and I've bypassed woozy and am now starting to feel drrruuuunnnkkkkk. Ah, what the hell. Life's short.

OK. Here's the message I want to get across, in draft one form.

 

From:
    
[email protected]

To:
         
[email protected]

Subject:
Way too bizarre to fit into the subject box. Just read on …

 

Hello, Jack

 

You will be surprised to hear from me. It's been, what, two months now? Hope all's well with you in Boston. I know myself and the other Lovely Girls are always saying we'll have to pop over to
see you and do a bit of shopping, but I really mean it this time. To come over to see you, I mean, not just to shop.

 

I've so much news to tell you and it's all bad. So horrific, I will put it in bullet-point form, for easy digestion.

1.   You will remember the emotional car crash that was
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unmentioned
? Well, the curse of Amelia strikes again. Not only is he getting married, but he and his fiancée are virtually my new next-door neighbours. As your mother used to say, me nerves are in flitters.

2.   I've been transferred on to the crappiest TV drama show in history, kind of like Ireland's answer to
Days of our Lives
, and told to revamp it and double the audience numbers. This is akin to turning an episode of
Cell Block H
into
The Shawshank Redemption
. And while we're on the subject of prison dramas, I could never understand why there weren't more break-outs in
Cell Block H
. For God's sake, all they had to do was kick down the shaky scenery. Oh dear, I'm rambling … As your mother also used to say, me brains are mince.

3.   So Caroline's pregnant again, Jamie's dating a
different fella every night of the week, Rachel is Rachel and I'm on my own. The only avenue I have open to me is an old, old man who I really don't fancy.

4.   Jack, it's like this. When you're chronically single and romantically unloved, something inside you starts to shrivel up. I'm slowly starting to despair of ever meeting anyone. In fact I really think I've more chance of winning the Eurolottery. I mean, do you realize how unbelievably slim the odds are? That I'll walk into a club or a pub, meet someone, like the look of him, hope he likes me back, that he'll be single and straight, that he'll want to date me, will call when he says he'll call, be a reasonably decent guy who won't cheat, then, eventually, that he'll make a commitment to me without my having to resort to any shit-or-get-off-the-pot tactics, which are just so humiliating on so many levels.

5.   So what do I do? Accept that this is it, this is my life? In fairness, the universe has sent me lots of other fantastic blessings, just not the one thing that I really, really want above everything else …

6.   Or you and I could resurrect the idea of our pact. I don't mean to sound pushy or anything, but we're both single and thirty-seven and I'm
sure you have a string of girlfriends over in the Old Colonial (remember you used to call them Jack's Angels and I used to say they should all have T-shirts printed?!), but, maybe, if you thought it was still an OK idea … can we at least talk about this …?

7.   Please???

Twelve-forty-five. The wine has really hit me now and I'm semi-comatose. I press the ‘Send Later' key and decide to hit the bed, get up bright and early and try and compose a less terrifying, needy, reeking-of-desperation email to send Jack. It feels good though to have draft one safely filed and out of the way; now all I have to do is rewrite from here. Something upbeat and confident, I think, rubbing my eyes sleepily. Kind of ‘Hi, Jack! Hey, if you're still single, then next time you're home, why don't you and I give it a whirl? We're always talking about it, why not go for it? What's the worst that can happen?' Except not as … direct.

Oh shit, this could take another seventeen drafts.

I yawn and stretch, then pad barefoot into the bathroom to go through the motions of taking off make-up, most of which has almost completely worn off by now anyway.

Something makes me stop dead in my tracks.

That was the ‘Send Later' key I pressed, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

I leg it back into the study, switch the computer back on and check my email account. No saved email. I'm starting to feel weak …

With a trembling hand I click on ‘Sent Items' and there it is, safely delivered …

OK, now I want to throw up … It's about seven in the evening in Boston now,
and Jack Keating is reading my email …

It's going to be so busy in work the following morning I know I'll barely have time to go to the loo, so there's nothing else for it. This is a damage-limitation exercise. There
IS
no other choice.

 

From:
    
[email protected]

To:
         
[email protected]

Subject:
Major bite of humble pie. Major.

 

I think I may have accidentally sent you an email that I shouldn't have, very late last night with more than a few glasses of vino in me. Please ignore. Long story. Will explain all later. Am v. sorry if I terrified you. Be assured it wasn't intentional.

 

Axxx

 

OK, OK, OK, I think on the drive into work. At least
this buys me a bit of time so I can hopefully think up some plausible excuse to get me out of this.

So far, I've come up with three: (
a
) I'm on very heavy medication; (
b
) I only sent that email for a bet/joke/dare; or (
c
) the truth, i.e., I was drunk, I was lonely and what can I say? It sounded normal in my head.

Jamie. I need Jamie. He's absolutely brilliant at thinking up excuses. I glance at the clock in the car. Just seven a.m. on the dot. Probably isn't even home from wherever he was last night yet, but no matter, I'll call him in a few hours' time. He's usually up and about by the crack of lunch as Rachel always says.

I park the car and head into the canteen for a badly needed max-strength coffee before I haul myself up to the office to start the day proper. I'm just at the till, about to pay, when a familiar voice from behind almost makes me jump out of my skin.

‘Good episode last night. It's the first time I've actually
wanted
to stay in to watch
Celtic Tigers
.'

Philip Burke, with a heaving plate of bacon, rashers and sausages on a tray in front of him and a side plate piled high with buttery toast. Great start to the day, just what I need. Thank you, universe.

‘Hi, Philip, how are you?' I ask, trying to sound bright and breezy. Awkward pause. ‘Not on a diet then, I see.'

Did I just say that to the head of television?

‘Not that you need to be on a diet … that's not what I meant at all. You're very …'
Very what?
‘… emm … trim. Just like Michelangelo's David, if he was doing Atkins.'
Shut up Amelia. Shut up and run, while you still can.

Thankfully he ignores my ramblings, but it's my own bloody fault to begin with. Why do I always forget this man doesn't do pleasantries?

‘Very well scripted,' he says, paying the cashier. ‘Tight. The acting wasn't too bad either. No long-drawn-out sighing before each line or looking directly into the camera, which certainly makes a change.'

I pay for my coffee. ‘Thanks, I'm glad you thought so.'

I look at him for a moment, but that's it. You never can be sure with him whether a conversation is actually finished or not.

I decide that it is and move off. ‘Well, have a good day, Philip.'

‘Yeah, one more thing. Just so you're aware, that's the last compliment you'll get from me. I don't do positive feedback. When the show's doing well, you'll hear nothing from me. But rest assured, if I'm not happy, then you'll know all about it.'

I don't even attempt to answer this, I just leave.
Unbelievable. The man is unbelievable. Not quite a sociopath, but only a degree or two away from it …

I text Jamie:
RING ME THE MINUTE U SURFACE. HAVE
DONE SOMETHING STUPID. NOT UNUSUAL 4 ME BUT THIS IS REALLY BAD. NEED YR HELP. URGENT. AX

Later that morning, I'm in the actors' dressing rooms welcoming a new cast member on board, when Jamie texts back.
AM IN WORK, BARELY IN LAND OF THE LIVING AFTER LAST PM. RING ME WHEN U CAN TALK. R U OK? SHOULD I BRING U VODKA? JX. PS MET A HOTTIE IN THE DRAGON BAR LAST NIGHT. HE'S MR ALTERNATIVE IRELAND. I'M NOT MESSING.

‘Sorry about that, I have to head back to the office,' I say to Sadie Smyth, who's just been cast as Good Grief O'Keefe's birth mother Mrs Hamilton, a new central character in the show. God love her, it's her first day in studio today and she's as nervous as a kitten. She's a highly respected theatre actress, but hasn't done a huge amount of TV and is white in the face with apprehension.