Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (39 page)

‘So, are you on Mike's side or Caroline's?' I ask, coyly.
Definitely not Caroline's,
I'm thinking.
She'd have told me if she had any distant relations who were complete and utter rides like this one
.

He's very fit-looking, tall and lean … incredibly
sexy. He's smouldering at me and all I can do is wonder what he looks like naked. Utterly divine, I silently bet myself, like a Greek God …

‘Mike's my first cousin,' he says.

‘And what do you work at?' I ask, now in full flirtation mode.

‘Actually it's very exciting. I'm a financier, and I'm putting together a fantastic investment package at the moment.'

‘Oh really? What do you invest in?'
If he has a few quid as well as looking like this,
I'm busily thinking,
he'd be the perfect guy for me … It's so true, that old saying: ‘Going to one wedding is the makings of another.'

‘I don't really like to talk about it.' He's grinning at me now, and I know he's almost egging me on, dying for me to ask more.

No problem. My big mouth will always win out. ‘Oh, come on,' I say, swishing my hair in what I hope is a come-to-bed, Bardotesque, sex-kitten way. I lean in and whisper in his ear: ‘I can keep a secret.'

‘OK then, you asked for it,' he whispers back, grinning. He smells gorgeous and the physical attraction I'm feeling for him is so overwhelming that all I can do is stare at his lips and wish I could be snogging the face off him. In front of Mrs Egan; in front of them all.

I don't care who he is or what he does. If he sweeps the streets or is a bin man's assistant, I don't care. All I want to say to this guy is, ‘Get your coat, you've pulled.'

‘OK,' he says teasingly, ‘you asked for it. I'm setting up my own airline.'

Score …

Now, I've always said that I have a guardian angel and boy did they put in overtime on Gary O'Neill. Exactly six weeks later, just as Caroline and Mike were coming back from their honeymoon, I was on the verge of investing in Gary's airline project. Not a huge amount of money, but pretty much all my savings from my first few years working my ass off as a journalist and doing bits of freelance work on TV.

‘I would conservatively estimate that you will quadruple your money in a year,' Gary had said and I believed him. It was hard not to: he was so utterly convincing. He even presented me with a business plan, basing the airline on a low-cost model, a bit like Ryanair. You know, the ones where the flights go out either at ridiculously early or ridiculously late times, land you a minimum of eighty kilometres from your destination city and have loss-leader-style pricing. Flights for ninety-nine pence, that type of thing. It sounds gullible, it sounds naïve, but had Gary asked me for anything I'd have gladly given it to him.

Besides, you should have seen the list he showed me of all his other investors. It read like a who's who of Irish multi-millionaire businessmen, with even a few government ministers thrown in for good measure.

I'm going to be a shareholder in an airline, I told
myself at the time. Free flights for life and a yummy boyfriend to boot … As far as I was concerned, I was the luckiest gal on the planet.

Until Caroline and Mike got back from honeymoon, that is.

First up, Mike pointed out that he had never heard of anyone called Gary O'Neill.

‘But he said you're cousins!' I said.

‘Amelia, I only had two very distant cousins at the wedding. One was my mother's eighty-seven-year-old second cousin Muriel, who you'll have noticed because she's in a wheelchair, and the other was her daughter and carer, Gloria.'

Caroline had never heard of anyone called Gary O'Neill either and nor had Mrs Egan, who checked and rechecked her carefully thought-out guest list, at Caroline's insistence.

‘Then what was he doing there?' I almost wailed, my dreams of being a multi-millionaire going up in smoke. Not to mention my sex god boyfriend …

‘Sweetie, we think he might have gatecrashed the party,' said Caroline gently.

‘
What?
'

Now I'm feeling a sharp stab of almost physical pain.

‘Sounds crazy, but people do, you know,' said Mike. ‘Look at the facts. There were hundreds of people at Barberstown Castle; he could easily have slipped into the wedding once the dinner bit was over. A free bar is
a free bar. No one would ever have guessed that we didn't know him.'

He was looking at me so sadly, as if I was some idiot spinster about to hand over her life savings to a confidence trickster. Which, in a way, I was …

‘We know absolutely nothing about him,' said Mike firmly. Which, again, was true …

Ever since the honeymoon couple had got back I'd been suggesting meeting up with them as a foursome, but Gary always had a cast-iron excuse. He was tied up in meetings out at the airport; he had to go to New York unexpectedly; or, on one occasion, he was meeting up with the Minister for Development who was giving him a huge grant. He always looked the part in his Savile Row suits and was always utterly convincing, but basically, whenever I would mention either Caroline's name or Mike's, he'd do a complete disappearing trick.

Oh dear. Of all the lovely, eligible men at that wedding, there was one idiot wide-boy chancer and I had to go and fall for him …

If I ever needed final proof that Gary was some kind of fly-by-night, it was this. After Caroline and Mike voiced their concerns to me, I faithfully promised (
a
) to confront him about not being invited to the wedding and (
b
) not even to think about shelling out one penny of my savings until this mess was cleared up.

I called him and left a message, saying I needed to talk.

Not only did he never return the call, but when my next credit-card statement arrived, there was a total of about a thousand pounds outstanding, all stuff which I never bought, all purchased over the phone using my credit card number: airline tickets, a few cases of Veuve Clicquot and, worst of all, expensive costume jewellery, purchased online and certainly never given to me …

I wish I could say that I never saw Gary again, but the tale does have a twist, of sorts.

About eighteen months later, August 1997 to be exact, Princess Diana was tragically killed in a car crash at the Pont d'Alma in Paris. The following week led to the most extraordinary scenes in London, with oceans of flowers being left outside Kensington Palace and Buckingham Palace, candlelit vigils and a rising tide of anger against the royal family, perceived as being distant and remote, holed up in Balmoral. I was a rookie producer on current affairs then and was dispatched over to London with a reporter and a cameraman to cover these astonishing displays of raw grief, live from the capital.

It was a late-evening flight and I've never been a very good flier, so I was sitting nervously by the aisle, waiting for the drinks cart to trundle down, absolutely gagging for a good stiff gin and tonic.

‘Can I get you anything, madam?' the steward asked.

There was just something familiar in his voice that
made me look up. ‘I'd love a gin—' I broke off. There he was, Gary O'Neill, wearing the British Airways uniform and a neat navy apron tied around his waist.

I couldn't resist. ‘So, how's the airline business going, Gary?'

He played it like the pro he was. What an actor he'd have made; he actually looked like he was thrilled to bump into me. ‘Fantastic, Amelia. Great to see you. I'm just doing this for charity. You know, one of those days where all the head honchos come down to the coalface and learn about the operation from the ground up.'

‘Are you for real?' I said in a low voice so none of the other passengers can overhear. ‘Has the cabin suddenly depressurized? Is that why you're coming out with all this
utter shite …
lack of oxygen to your brain?'

‘It's the absolute truth,' he says, smiling at me with that sincerity he can fake to a T.

‘My friend Richard does it all the time. That's Richard Branson, by the way. Lets the staff know I'm really just one of them.'

‘Move on, could you please?' his supervisor said crisply from behind. ‘You're blocking the aisle and this passenger needs to use the bathroom.'

He wheeled the trolley onwards and it was just as well. He was so convincing, I'd almost have believed him. In another minute he'd have been telling he was a majority shareholder in British Airways.

Please understand I'm completely cool and calm as I'm remembering all of this sorry episode. All I can think is: talk about your lucky escapes …

 

Back to class and Ira is busy giving out instructions for next week's homework. There's loads of it: we all have to do a ‘program evaluation audit' where you reassess the progress you've made (or lack of it in my case) over the past few weeks. Is your appearance up to scratch; is your attitude remaining positive; are you really casting your net as wide as possible to include dating men who aren't your type?

Yes, actually, I think, mentally ticking that one off. Well, I did ask Philip Burke out, didn't I?

As class wraps up and Ira cheerily tells us to ‘Go, get results!' Mags comes over to me and gives me a hug.

‘Hey! I heard you got nominated for a big TV award and I just wanted to congratulate you.'

‘Thanks. I'm kind of nervous, but I'm really looking forward to it. Should be a great night.'

‘Yeah.' She laughs. ‘That's just what Philip said.'

‘He told you I asked him to be my date, then?' I try not to look embarrassed. After all, isn't that what this class is all about?

‘Yes, he told me. Give him a chance, Amelia, that's all I'm saying.'

‘Yeah, of course I will.' I try to sound upbeat and positive about the prospect of a scary night out with
him, but I'm really thinking,
I'm only putting myself through this because Ira says you should date what's not your type.

‘I think he likes you.'

‘Really?' I'm about to say. ‘How do you tell?' but opt for smiling politely instead.

‘Yes, I do. Look, I know he can be a bit, well, aloof, but just remember that if you sand him down, there's a good heart under all that … well, all those clangers he sometimes comes out with. Think of him like a rough diamond. OK, he needs a bit of polishing and working on, but it would be so worth it. Then you and he could come out on foursomes with Damien and me. Wouldn't that be so much fun?'

There's a deeply unpleasant surprise waiting for me when I get home. I go into my building, pick up the post and step into the lift, dying for (in no particular order) a good, long soak in the tub and a lovely chilled glass of Sancerre.

The lift doors glide apart and there he is, waiting for me.
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
. He's slumped up against the door of my apartment with the biggest bouquet of stargazer lilies you ever saw lying on the ground beside him.

Oh help …

He hops to his feet the minute he sees me and I brace myself for what's coming. Keep cool, I tell myself. Just stay calm and get it over with.

‘Hi Amelia,' he says, thrusting the flowers at me. ‘Congratulations. I just got you these to say well done on being nominated in the TV awards.'

I look at him, deliberately not taking the flowers. ‘You have to stop this.'

‘Stop what?'

‘Trying to be all pally with me. Being here. Lurking outside my apartment. The flowers, everything. It's not going to happen, ever. I'm sorry if this sounds harsh, but I'm not your friend, I didn't ask to be, I don't want to be and I never will be.'

‘Well, actually, I was kind of hoping we could have a chat.'

‘About what? Wedding plans? Seating arrangements? Next thing you'll be inviting me out on your stag night.'

‘No, nothing like that. I just thought I could talk to you about something.'

I don't answer, just fish around in my handbag for my door keys.

‘Poppy wants us to take a break,' he blurts out.

‘What?'
Am I hearing things?
Half of me wants to go inside to the safety of my flat and slam the door in his face, but the other half is dying to find out what's going on.

Naturally enough, the nosey half wins out. I look at him quizzically and he takes this as his cue to continue.

‘She says she needs time, that the whole wedding thing has been too rushed. Then there's the age-gap issue. Half the time I don't even know what she and her friends are talking about and they all look at me like
I'm some sleazy, lecherous old granddad. Her best friend keeps ringing me up from nightclubs at five in the morning wanting lifts home, as if I'm some sort of twenty-four-hour on-call taxi …'

I was right. It's almost like there's a generation gap between them and now the cracks are beginning to show.

Too bloody bad …

‘Amelia, I can tell you this, because you'll understand. You know me so well, better than anyone, I think.' Then he looks around, a bit embarrassed. ‘Look, can I come inside, just for a few minutes? I really don't want to discuss this out on the corridor.'

‘There's nothing wrong with the corridor. Say what you have to say and let me go. I'm tired, I'm narky and I'm starting to think I've heard enough.'

He looks at me, realizes the lady is not for turning, then goes for it. ‘This isn't easy for me to say, but over the last few weeks, I've realized what a terrible mistake I made in letting you go. You wanted a commitment and at the time I couldn't do it, but this whole experience with Poppy has been such a major eye-opener for me.' He takes a long pause for effect. ‘Amelia, I think I'm with the wrong woman and I let the right one slip through my fingers.'