I Never Fancied Him Anyway (15 page)

So now the state of play is this: I’m effectively supporting my boyfriend and yet, when I come home exhausted at the end of a fourteen-hour day, he’s done absolutely nothing around the flat. Whenever I ask (gently, in a non-nagging tone of voice, naturally) what exactly his contribution to the household has been, he tells me he spent the entire day doing voice exercises, which, as far as I can see, involve him going ‘ummmmmmm’ over and over again with Richard and Judy on in the background. Not a cup washed, not a shirt ironed, no groceries bought, NOTHING.

I do love him, Cassandra, but my patience is wearing very thin. Do you see any future for him in showbiz? If he got cast in a major motion picture and became the next Colin Farrell, making vast seven-figure sums, then, maybe, MAYBE I could just about deal with this.

I appreciate your time.

With thanks,

Tanya in Temple Bar

It’s late afternoon and the office is buzzing and busy, but I do my level best to tune out all distractions and really, really concentrate . . .

Yes! Brilliant! Success! I’m getting a very clear picture of the boyfriend Tanya’s on about: tall, fair, ruggedly good-looking, very posh accent.

Oh bugger. It’s not a flash at all. I just remember seeing him in the Daz ad.

OK, come on, I can do this. Correction: I
have
to do this.

Just then, Sir Bob wafts past, clutching a copy of an evening paper. ‘I say, Cassie, old thing,’ he says, briefly pausing at my desk, ‘just wondered if you’d seen this? Thought it might be of interest. After all your adventures this morning, I mean.’ With that he plonks the paper in front of me and I almost fall over.

It’s a front-page picture of Maura from the
Breakfast Club
, looking a bit the worse for wear, staggering out of a nightclub wrapped around a much older-looking man and bending upwards, as if to kiss him. The picture is grainy and God only knows when it was taken, but there’s no mistaking that it’s her. The headline reads:
‘
BREAKFAST CLUB
STAR’S MARRIED LOVER.’
Underneath:
‘TV STAR BRANDED HOMEWRECKER AS HER MARRIED BOYFRIEND’S WIFE SPEAKS OUT’.

I stare at the paper in deep, total shock. I saw this. Only this morning. Word for word, clear as crystal.

‘All right, my dear?’ asks Sir Bob, looking at me, a tad concerned.

‘Oh . . . sorry, Bob, I’m just a bit . . . emm . . . distracted.’

He nods and moves off, totally used to, shall we say, my odd little ways. And then another flash hits like a ton of lead.

It’s Tanya from Temple Bar’s boyfriend, the Daz-ad man himself, and he’s been cast in a soap opera. As a villain, one of those J.R. Ewing-type characters that audiences love to hate. I see big success for him, a regular job and a steady income, but as for Tanya . . . Oh God, this just gets better and better. I can see Tanya as clearly as if she’s standing right in front of me. She’s petite with dark bobbed hair and glasses. And . . . yes! She’s met someone new, someone so much more suited to her. I see her with this new man, hand-in-hand outside a neo-classical-looking building . . . I’m seeing pillars, stone columns, steps
. . .

The High Court. Yes, definitely the High Court. I’ve seen it on the six o’clock news loads of times. And the man she’s with is wearing a wig – oh, I’ve got it, he’s a barrister. A
top
one too, the type who takes on all the big, high-profile cases. And she’s happy. I’m certain of it. I feel a deep sense of peace and happiness and security emanating from all around her
. . .

YESSSSS!

SUCCESSSSS!

For the first time today, I feel like hopping up on my desk and dancing a jig. I can do this. I’m absolutely back in the game. Gift restored. All well.

Jack gave me his business card with strict instructions that I call him the minute I come to a decision.

I don’t hesitate for a single moment longer. I pick up the phone and dial.

Chapter Six

THE TAROT DECK

THE HIGH PRIESTESS CARD

Signifies that a wise woman of keen intelligence and understanding will be close at hand, counselling you, advising you, looking out for you. She is more than likely to be an old soul, deep and conscientious, with a rare talent for understanding people and their motives. This amazing woman is in your corner, one hundred per cent behind you, with no other purpose than to guide and steer you away from trouble
.

So you’d better make bloody sure that you listen to her
. . .

‘NO PRESSURE ON
anyone, it’s all going to be very relaxed and informal, just a typical, normal evening in the mansion. A typical
black tie
normal evening, that is. And, of course, a sit-down dinner. I think you’re all aware that I’m allergic to buffets.’

It’s only lunchtime on Saturday and already Charlene has gone into introduce-the-new-boyfriend-to-everyone-I-ever-met-in-my-entire-life overdrive.

‘Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘tonight’s the night when Jack will realize that I have an undisputed reputation as a CH.’

‘Celebrated hostess,’ Marc with a C chips in, correctly interpreting our blank expressions, as we all finish up brunch, or our bi-monthly bitch-brunch as he insists on calling it.

‘Hold on one second,’ Jo thunders across the table at her. ‘Does Jack Hamilton actually
realize
that he’s going to be centre stage in some sort of sick parade ring for the night, with everyone gawping at him? Or maybe you’re actually physically trying to drive the poor guy away? Could that be your cunning master plan?’

‘Josephine, I’ll have you know I’m operating a watertight schedule here. If I want to be married by thirty, then I need to get engaged this Christmas, because, number one, I want to be a fiancée for as long as I can. I mean, everyone knows all they do is have parties thrown in their honour whilst getting showered
with
fabbie-dabbie gifts. And number two, it takes a minimum of two years to book a wedding – at least, the kind of five-day extravaganza that I’ll be hosting, Liz Hurley eat your heart out. Try to keep up, will you, sweetie? This is hardly advanced maths.’ Charlene smiles sweetly back at her.

‘My God, you’re like some kind of heat-seeking romance missile. And how, might I ask, does Jack feel about a fancy, posh dinner party being thrown in his honour barely a week after you even met him?’

Charlene looks a tiny bit shifty and her freshly exfoliated face starts to blush a bit, which eagle-eyed Jo instantly picks up on.

‘Oh, I
do not
believe you. You haven’t even told him, have you?’

‘Now don’t be cross, but you see, the thing is . . . well, I didn’t want to scare him off. He thinks he’s popping in for a glass of wine and a slice of pizza on his way home from work.’

‘Poor Jack Hamilton,’ says Jo, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I never would have thought it possible that I’d feel this sorry for someone I haven’t even met yet. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have a heart attack on the floor of your one-hundred-thousand-euro conservatory.’

‘Besides, can I remind you that you’re still only twenty-eight?’ I say, munching on a Danish and, if the truth be told, hoping we can get off this subject,
which
is starting to make me feel a bit queasy. Fat chance, though, as Jack has pretty much been Charlene’s sole topic of conversation for the past few days. It’s almost as if, now that she doesn’t have the bothersome distraction of a job to go to, she’s channelling all of her considerable energies into her quest to become a bride. And I’m going to have to go to this bloody dinner tonight whether I like it or not. There’s just no way out of it.

That is, not unless I think of something, very,
very
fast . . .

‘Quite apart from the fact that you’ve only just met him, what’s the mad rush?’ I add lamely.

‘I’m one hundred per cent with the girlies on this one,’ says Marc with a C, who’s looking very fetching today in a black Lycra Spandex all-in-one gym suit, which leaves next to nothing to the imagination.

‘Please, not girlies,
women
,’ Jo interrupts him. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Sorry, Millie-Tant. Excuse me for breathing. Of course I meant to say
women
. Anyway, let’s face it, Charlene, I’ve seen you let good men go and bad men stay. And the ones in the middle, you’ve been mean to. So can I just be frank here, please?’

‘Only if it ends up with me getting what I want,’ says Charlene, looking angelic.

‘Will you please tell me what’s so special about this
one
? What makes you think that Jack Hamilton is a keeper?’

Jo shoots me a tiny, barely perceptible look.

Needless to say, neither of us has breathed a word to Marc with a C about the flash I had/the whole Jack Hamilton situation. We jointly decided that, in this case, discretion is most
definitely
the better form of valour, mainly because, much as we love Marc with a C dearly, he’s genetically incapable of keeping anything to himself. Even labelling something as ‘highly confidential’ is absolutely no use; that just means he’ll only tell one person at a time.

‘Because I’m a romantic,’ Charlene says a bit defensively, ‘and he just
is
, that’s all there is to it. And when the happy day comes when each of you meets THE ONE, you’ll know just the way I do. A woman’s instinct is never wrong.’

‘Would that be the same instinct that chose those shoes?’ says Jo.

‘Shut up, you. Look, so far, of all my friends, Jack has only met Cassie and look how well that turned out for all concerned. When I called him last night all he could talk about was Cassie this, Cassie that. All his big plans for her TV slot, which as we know, is largely down to me.’

Another glance from Jo, which only makes me redden even more.

‘But I want him to meet you guys as well as my other, shall we say, less economically challenged friends,’ Charlene goes on, luckily not noticing that I’ve turned the colour of gazpacho. ‘And I want him to see my humble abode slash mansion. The theme of the night, people, will be L.A.M.B.’

‘L.A.M.B.?’ we all chant in unison.

‘Yeah. Look at my billions.’

Jo shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Charlene, I know the cornerstone of your whole belief system is that there’s very little money can’t buy, but
a husband
?’

‘Jo has a point, babes,’ says Marc with a C, nodding in agreement. ‘Apart from the night you met, and the morning you took Cassie into the TV studio, may I point out that not only have you not slept with him, you’ve only been on one date. Which was a quick drink, entirely arranged by you, so that doesn’t really add up to much, now does it?’

‘Kindly clarify, please?’ says Charlene, playing with a long Titian coil of her hair. It’s a characteristic gesture of hers, whenever she feels the rest of us are ganging up on her and she knows, deep down, that she’s in the wrong.

Marc with a C sighs as if he’s trying to explain quantum physics to a six-year-old. ‘Everyone knows that one dinner date equals three drink dates, which in turn equal half a dozen coffee dates. So you do the maths, sweetie.’

‘If I give you money, will you stop talking?’

‘Now, don’t get angry with me, babes,’ says Marc with a C, cool as a breeze. ‘You look older when you’re angry.’

‘My Lycra-clad friend here has a point,’ says Jo, with just the teeniest glance in my direction.

‘Not Lycra, on a point of order, this is Spandex actually,’ he replies, snapping the fabric off his thigh. ‘And if we ever manage to get off the everlasting subject of Jack Hamilton, I need you all to tell me honestly whether or not you think I’m gaining weight. I feel beaten into this like a blood sausage. Why oh why can’t I be manorexic?’

‘Sorry to have to spell it out to you,’ says Jo, completely ignoring him, ‘but let’s be brutally honest here. Jack isn’t exactly jumping in feet first like you are, now is he?’

‘Thanks so much for that, moment-stealer,’ says Charlene, making a winced-up face at the direction this conversation is taking. ‘Could you back me up here, please, Cassie? Seeing as how you’re the only one who’s actually met my boyfriend?’

Shit. I’ve got to think of something fast. Something that won’t upset her but at the same time sounds vague and non-committal and might, just might, get her to cancel or at least postpone tonight . . .

Yes. Got it.

‘Well . . . emm . . . what’s wrong with taking things nice and easy?’ I say, doing my best to sound supportive in a casual, disinterested way, if you know what I mean. Bloody hell, it’s like walking a tightrope. Over a minefield. During an earthquake. ‘After all, you don’t want to put pressure on the guy, do you? He gets enough of that in work, I’d say. Why not have this big, scary, formal dinner another time? Down the line, I mean, maybe in a few months, you know, when you know each other a bit better.’

Charlene looks at me a bit funnily. ‘You’re not getting any flashes about Jack, are you?’ she asks me directly and I swear I want to crawl under the table and die.

There’s a horrible pause and they’re all looking at me and I just catch Jo’s eye and see her shaking her head and silently mouthing ‘no’.

‘Because, if you are,’ Charlene goes on slowly, ‘under no circumstances are you to tell me. I don’t want to know. Number one, it brings dating bad luck and number two, you’re the one who’s always saying we choose between fate and destiny, aren’t you? So Jack Hamilton is my destiny and I’ve chosen him, whether the Universe likes it or not.’

There’s another pause while it sinks into the rest of us. Shit. She’s serious. Deadly serious.

But that’s just fine, I hastily remind myself. After all, what have I done wrong? Nothing. All I’ll be doing is
working
with him. That’s it. All above board with absolutely no hidden agenda. Yes, he’s attractive, but then so are loads of other fellas. We all have control of our own fortunes and, while wishing Charlene the very best of luck, I choose to stay as far away from this icky situation as I possibly can.

Great. All I need to do is keep saying that over and over and I’ll be absolutely grand. Now if there was only some way I could get out of going to this God-awful dinner tonight . . .