Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (28 page)

I give her a warm smile and shake hands with her. ‘You'll be brilliant, Sadie, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. You did an amazing audition and we're very lucky to have you in the show. I know you'll be fantastic in the part. Knock 'em dead.'

‘Thanks, Amelia,' she says, gripping my hand tight.

‘And remember, if you've any problems, just come up to the office and find me, any time.'

She laughed. ‘Wow. It's been a long time since anyone I've worked for has been this
nice
to me.'

Wish I could say the same, I think to myself, with
Philip's legendary rudeness not far from my thoughts. Extraordinary how he can have scaled the heights of the corporate ladder with absolutely no people skills whatsoever …

I take the precaution of calling Jamie from the privacy of the conference room, which has pretty much become my office now, so I can fill him in properly.

‘Oh, Amelia,' he says sadly. ‘Where is your impulse control? Have I taught you nothing?'

‘I was kind of hoping you'd say something like: “OK, so that's the problem, now let's figure out a way to solve it. Oh, and don't fret yourself, Amelia, it's not nearly as bad as you think.” '

‘I won't lie to you, it's even worse. To tell an ordinary, normal guy that you're single and panicking and now you'd like to hold him to a seventeen-year-old pact and get married to him is bad enough, but to a guy like Jack Keating? We'll be lucky if he hasn't run screaming across the border into Canada. He's probably changed his name by now, in case you hop on a flight and come after him, wearing your Vera Wang and clutching a bouquet.'

‘Gee, thanks for the help. What a great spin doctor you'd have made.'

‘No need to get ratty. It's not my fault if you broke one of my three golden commandments. Don't get intexticated, don't drink and dial, and never, ever
get e-drunk and email when you've had a few over your e-limit.'

‘Jamie, they are
not
your three golden commandments. You're always ringing people you fancy whenever you've had a few. The last night we were out, you drank five margaritas and made what I can only describe as an abusive phone call to your agent.'

‘Oh, who are you, my biographer? Besides, my agent needed that kick up the arse. If he doesn't get one of his clients a decent job soon, he'll have to go full time on the checkout in Tesco's.'

‘Sorry. Well, all I can say is I've learned my lesson the way I seem to learn all my lessons in life. The hard way.'

‘Are you near your computer?'

‘Yup.'

‘OK. Forward the offending article on to me and I'll forensically examine it for any evidence that'll get you out of this. PMS is considered a defence in some states under federal law, you know.'

‘You're a sweetheart, I owe you big time,' I say, logging on to my laptop and bringing up the emails. I can't even bear to look at it again, so I send it straight on to Jamie. ‘OK. It's sent. Just please don't judge me when you read it.'

‘I have seen the inside of your bathroom cupboard, filthy bitch. We have no secrets.'

‘Oh shit, that reminds me.'

‘What?'

‘I'll have to call my cleaning lady. As if I didn't have enough to do, I'm hosting a party for my class this Saturday and before you even ask, no, you can't come.'

‘Am I allowed to ask why not?'

‘Because you're neither a single woman over thirty-five who's actively pursuing a husband, nor are you an eligible straight man who's in the marriage market.'

‘No, but I could be a really good party caterer for the night. I could certainly do with earning a few extra quid.'

‘Jamie, no offence, but you've never catered before in your life.'

‘How hard can it be to open a few trays of Marks and Spencer's party packs? Come on, Amelia, I need the cash and you're time poor. I'll do a great job. Trust me.'

‘I have deodorant that I trust more than you.'

‘Relax. Have I ever let you down?'

The day drags on. This isn't helped by the fact that I keep checking my emails every chance I get between meetings, in case, just in case, Jack has got back to me.

By three in the afternoon, mid-morning in Boston, still nothing.

That's it then. He's read it, thinks I'm insane and I'll probably never hear from him again, ever, as long as I live.

The only emotional pension plan that I had going for me, and I had to go and blow it.

Six p.m. Sadie Smyth has just given such a towering performance in the last scene she shot that I have to run on to the studio floor to congratulate her. Even up in the production office, people were clustered around TV monitors, glued to the screen. On the floor, the crew burst into spontaneous applause and Good Grief O'Keefe, who shared the big mother-and-child reunion scene with her, is quietly fuming in the corner looking (there's no other word to describe it) pole-axed.

‘Can we shoot that again?' she pleads with the floor manager. ‘I just wasn't prepared for how
emotionally
she was going to play it. I know Sadie's my birth mother and she's explaining why she gave me up for adoption and everything, but did she have to burst into tears? It's not like she's dying of a tumour or anything.'

If she'd come right out and said, ‘
I
do the tears on this show,' her jealousy couldn't have been more transparent.

‘Thank you, everyone, that is a wrap for today, see you all in the morning,' the floor manager calls, completely ignoring her.

‘Sadie, you were
terrific
!' I say and she gives me a huge bear hug.

‘Thanks, Amelia, for all your encouragement.'

‘Any time. Keep up the good work!'

I can still hear the crew congratulating her as I leave the floor and go back to the office.

‘What an entrance, the audience are going to love her.'

‘What can I say? A star is born.'

I check my emails for about the thousandth time that day. Still nothing. Then I check my voicemail. Four new messages.

The first one's from Jamie: ‘Oh, you poor misguided fool. I'm just home and I've read the email. Dear God, what were you drinking? Methylated spirits? I can't believe you actually used the phrase “when you're chronically single, something inside you starts to shrivel” without irony. Off the top of my head, the best thing I can suggest is that you tell him you've been sucked into a religious cult and are now going through a very painful deprogramming which is making you act like a crazy lady.'
Beep.

Jamie again: ‘Machine cut me off. Ring the second you get this. Don't even bother playing the end of the message.'
Beep.

Rachel: ‘I heard what you did last night and I know you're probably in a state but here's my two cents' worth. Ignore, ignore, ignore. Walk away from the problem and be thankful there's the Atlantic Ocean between you and Jack Keating. Ring me when you've finished work and we'll meet up to discuss further.'
Beep.

Then, a warm, friendly voice I haven't heard in a long, long time: ‘Hey, Amelia, howya doing? Thanks for your email, which I … emm … read … with … emmmm … well, it sure made an interesting read. Look, as it happens, I'm coming home for my parents' fortieth wedding anniversary next week, why don't we meet up then?

‘Oh, it's Jack here, by the way.'

In the end, I'm delighted I took Jamie up on his suggestion that he cater for the party. Although it's Saturday, it's still a filming day on
Celtic Tigers
so it's almost seven p.m. before I even get home.

I'd never have had the time to do everything he's done. The apartment looks immaculate. The wooden floors are gleaming; there are fresh long-stemmed lilies dotted about the place; scented candles glowing; the dining table is beautifully laid out with glasses and bottles of red wine, uncorked and breathing and just crying out to be drunk. Jamie emerges from the kitchen in his work uniform with an apron tied around his waist, like a French waiter.

‘Well, hi, honey,' he says, hands on hips, camping it up, ‘how was your day at the office, dear? Don't you feel like we're in a role-reversal nineteen-fifties American sitcom, starring me as the stay-home housewife?'

‘Jamie, whatever you're charging me, you're worth far more. I can't get over how
fab
the apartment looks!'

‘You may not say that when you see the bill. I spent like a wise guy.'

‘Well worth it. Just look at this place!'

‘Everything's done. The white wine is chilling; I even bought a nice bottle of champagne for you and me, just to get us in the party mood.'

‘You're a treasure. If I can dust down an old chestnut, if you were straight, I'd marry you.'

‘If I had five euro for every time I heard that. Oh, and I feng shui'd your bedroom for you too.'

Jamie, I should tell you, once read a magazine article about feng shui which said that ninety per cent of it is just plain old-fashioned decluttering. The result now is he uses the phrase to be synonymous with the word ‘tidy', i.e.: ‘I'd better go and feng shui all those dirty dishes out of the sink.'

I'm over the moon. As would anyone be who'd seen the state of my bedroom this morning. ‘Jamie! You're amazing! You should be a full-time party organizer!'

‘Well, there's going to be nothing but single men here, who's to say you won't score? Oh, that's unless your teacher has put you on some “rules” thing where you can't sleep with a guy for at least three months.'

‘No, most definitely not.'

‘That's the spirit. You take what you can get, honey. Go! Go have a look at your room, then jump in the shower and I'll have a nice chilled glass of bubbly sitting on your dressing table for you to knock back while
you're pampering. Hurry, babe, there's less than an hour to show time.'

Half an hour later and I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I'm wearing my ‘serial result' little black number with my hair loose around my shoulders and just the lightest bit of make-up. ‘Whaddya think?' I say, twirling in front of Jamie.

‘Any man's fantasy come true. A thirty-something Meryl Streep.'

‘You're lying, but bless you anyway.'

‘Here,' he says, topping up my glass.

‘Thanks,' I say, taking a gulp. ‘I'm nervous.'

‘Oh, please, what's to be nervous about?'

I take a nice, soothing deep breath. ‘OK. My present panic attack stems from the following, in no particular order: (
a
) Damien Delaney is coming, which is good news, but he may cop on that this is a treasure/trash party and that I only invited him so I could try to pawn him off on someone else, which makes it bad news; (
b
) I'm afraid that all the boys will cluster around one end of the living room and the girls around the other and no one will talk to anyone and it'll be like a parish dance hall in rural Ireland circa nineteen forty; (
c
) aside from one girl called Mags, I barely know anyone in my class, let alone any of the fellas they're all bringing. I've basically invited a bunch of total strangers to my flat and all we have in common is that we're single. How do I know they won't rob me?'

Just then, the phone rings and Jamie leaps to answer it, putting on a John-Gielgud-type accent. ‘Good evening, Miss Lockwood's residence, the butler speaking. Whom shall I say is calling?'

I make an I'll-slit-your-bloody-throat gesture as I snatch the phone away from him. ‘Hi, Amelia here.'

‘Amelia, this is Ira Vandergelder calling. Wow, I'm so impressed that you have your very own personal Paul Burrell.'

‘Oh, hi, Ira, emm … no, that was the caterer, actually.'

‘Caterers? Didn't I tell you not to go to any trouble?'

‘Well, it's just finger food mostly. And
lots
of drinks.'

‘Good. Lowers the inhibitions. I just called to wish you luck. Now remember, mingle. Rediscover your inner flirt. Remind yourself that you have nothing to lose but your single status.'

I'm half annoyed I didn't put her on speakerphone so Jamie could hear the way she goes on, just to prove I wasn't exaggerating about her. Then the panic hits. ‘Sorry, Ira, did you say that you weren't coming tonight?'

‘I never go to these parties, honey. I find my being there tends to make my ladies a little nervous, which defeats the whole point of the exercise.'

‘Oh, rats. I was hoping you could help me to winnow out the decent guys from the messers.'

‘What have I told you about honing those rusty
instincts of yours? Have a wonderful party and I'll see you at class next week.'

And she's gone.

Eight p.m. Bang on the dot, the doorbell rings. Jamie hops behind the makeshift bar/dining table and wishes me luck as I go to answer it.

I'm dying to know who it is; none of my friends ever comes to a party on time. I open the door, hoping my smile doesn't make me look too much like the desperado I am: Damien Delaney, carrying a magnificent potted pink orchid.

‘Good evening, Amelia my dear, how very pretty you're looking.'

‘Emm, thanks,' I say as we peck each other politely on each cheek. I don't know how he does it, but there's just something about the way he speaks that makes me feel as if I should be wearing Victorian crinolines and clutching a phial of smelling salts.

‘This is for you,' he says, handing over the orchid, which is encased in cellophane.

‘Thank you so much,' I say, really touched. ‘It's my favourite plant. And the only one that I'm actually able to keep alive.'

‘Yes, I spoke to Caroline, she told me. Of course, I would never dream of bringing fresh-cut flowers to a party. Dreadful breach of etiquette. It presumes that the hostess has not put any thought into her floral arrangements.'