I Never Fancied Him Anyway (34 page)

I don’t even have to make a decision. I email back my acceptance, adding how thrilled I am that they’d want me to represent them on
Late Night Talk
, and make a mental note to try not to forget about it.

In no time, poor old Valentine’s back, looking, there’s no other word for it, pole-axed.

‘So? How’d it go?’ I ask encouragingly as he plonks down at the desk beside mine.

‘Well now, Amanda is a very . . . how would I put this in a gentlemanly way? . . . a very highly strung woman, no doubt about that.’

Should have seen her before she found love in her own locker room, I’m thinking. This is the new, improved, fluffy-bunny, cuddly Dragon Lady that you just met. But I say nothing aloud.

‘Anyway, she wants to call my column “Valentine’s Day”. Does that sound all right to you, Cassandra?’

‘Please, call me Cassie.’

‘She said she wanted it to be like
Sex and the City
except from a guy’s point of view, and I’m not joking, I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Sure, I
didn
’t know what to say to her, I’ve never sat through a single episode of
Sex and the City
in my life. The lads back home would give me a right slagging, so they would.’

‘Relax, I have the DVD box set at home. I’ll lend them all to you.’

‘Ah, you’re just great, so you are. Then she said something about trying to get an insight into the psyche of the single male on the prowl around the city. Jaypurs, you’d swear we were all animals or something. Apparently there’s some village in Cumbria where there were so few single women that the local fellas all got together to advertise, to get girls to go and live there, like. So she wants me to write about where I’m from as if that’s the way things are down there too and that’s why I was driven to the city, looking for love. But that’s not true, Cassie. The girls down home are all brilliant, so they are, just none of them were right for me, that’s all. I couldn’t go making stuff up for my column, it wouldn’t be fair. I told her that and she laughed at my innocence and said journalists make stuff up all the time. So I said she was kidding me and she said that with the possible exception of Dominick Dunne on
Vanity Fair
, they were all scum.’

‘Vintage Dragon Lady, I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘I was nearly afraid to say “Who’s Dominick Dunne?” and “What’s
Vanity Fair?
” Then she asked me if I ever
read
the gossip pages in the papers and magazines, so I’d have an idea who was who when I’m out and about, you know yourself. I said, “Gossip pages? First thing I throw out with my Sunday papers so I can get to the sports section that bit quicker.” Couldn’t help myself, Cassie. The words were just out of my mouth.’

I laugh. I love that he has a sense of humour and I think I know someone else who might appreciate it too. ‘You just be true to yourself, Valentine, and you won’t go far wrong. Trust me.’

Then out of nowhere, I get a flash about him.

Yup, there he is. I’m seeing scores of women, all vying for his phone number, with him dating one after another until he’s completely fed up and worn out from playing the field and he eventually settles down with the right one. I can’t see who she is, but I do see him in a morning suit, top hat and tails, on his way to church . . . Ooh, I can even see a headline
:
‘IRELAND’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR TO TIE THE KNOT TODAY.
’
There’s a phalanx of press photographers following him too, all dying to get a glimpse of his bride-to-be. As am I, I just can’t bloody well see her
. . .

‘Cassie, all I’m looking for is a lovely lady that’ll be happy to be with me, that’s all.’

OK, Jo, my dearest, oldest friend, I think tonight might just be your lucky night.

Why not? It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I mean, stranger things have happened. Plus, this has the added bonus of distracting attention away from the blazing row/ screaming match that’s hovering like a storm cloud over me and the Tipsy Queen.

‘Valentine, did you say you wanted to see the big Ireland match on TV tonight? Because you know you’re more than welcome to come round to our house and watch it from there.’

Chapter Fifteen

THE TAROT DECK

THE LOVERS CARD

Probably The Single most powerful card in the whole deck. If you’re unattached, you’re now being guided towards that special someone who’s destined to leave an indelible mark on your heart for ever. This card could herald you finally hooking up with your soulmate. Yes, him, the one you’ve been waiting for, the one true love of your life. So you’d just better make sure that you’re ready, baby
.

If you’re already in a relationship or if the object of your affections is for some reason out of
bounds
, then the overwhelming attraction that’s coming to you may cause trouble. Big trouble. That’s the downside of drawing the lovers’ card. It may in time bring great happiness into your life, but for the short term, it means you’re going to have to choose
.

So what’s it to be? Do you choose love over fidelity? Duty? Or perhaps even friendship?

LUCKILY FOR ME
, Valentine decided to go to the launch he was invited to at the Clarence Hotel after work, the one for toilet bleach or aromatherapy loo rolls or whatever it was. Off he went, lamb to the slaughter, while I slipped him our address and went on ahead to prepare the way.

Now, I have to tread carefully here. There is no surer way to guarantee that any set-up will fall dramatically flat on its face than if you let either party involved know that they are, in actual fact, being set up. This requires stealth, tact and diplomacy worthy of the United Nations Security Council.

OK. I have it. Brilliant. I’ll go down the faux-casual route of, ‘Oh yeah, Jo, by the way, there’s a new guy from the office who’s popping over later to watch the match, if that’s cool with you.’ Yep, that sounds good to me. Perfectly plausible. If questioned any further (Jo can be nosier than a sniffer dog if she senses there’s any mischief afoot; honestly, she’d give Jane Tennison from
Prime
Suspect
a right run for her money), I’ll just play the card of, ‘Oh, but I felt so sorry for him, the poor guy, its his first night in the city and he doesn’t really know anyone.’

Yes, bingo. Jo is known far and wide to be a great collector of waifs and strays; she’s always taking people into the house that she meets through Amnesty and who have nowhere else to stay.

The main thing is for me to be very cool and calm about the whole thing, play it all down and hopefully she won’t suspect a thing. Oh yes, and at all costs avoid eye contact with her, otherwise I’ll start to blush and she’ll cop on instantly, or worse, ask me straight out if this is a set-up, in which case I’ll start stammering and coming out with all sorts of inconsequential shit and Jo will see through me quicker than an envelope with a transparent window. I am the worst liar alive.

Anyway, I get home, fish about in my bag for door keys and, as usual, walk right into a kitchen-sink drama. A Tennessee Williams play without the hot sun and lack of air conditioning and bottles of bourbon floating around a villa in the Deep South. Jo and Charlene are sitting at our kitchen table, having a mature, adult, balanced discussion about the whole Oliver situation.

Well, more correctly, Jo is attempting to have an adult discussion; Charlene is just flicking through the pages of this week’s
Hello
magazine.

‘Wouldn’t my life be so much simpler if I’d been dating a footballer?’ muses Charlene. ‘You know, like the WAGs. All I’d have to do would be trade in Jack Hamilton for someone further up the premiership. Easy-peasy, really.’

‘Hi, hon,’ says Jo as I come into our toasty warm kitchen and stick the kettle on.

‘Hi, girlies.’

Charlene blanks me for about three seconds, then caves. ‘OK, OK, I’ll just be the bigger person here,’ she says, shoving the magazine away from her. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in work today, but I’m not sorry that I asked Oliver out. There. I hope the air is all nice and cleared. So, anyway, what do
you
think about my new date, Jo?’ she asks and I swear to God, I almost think she’s trying to goad me. ‘Do you approve? Don’t worry, if your answer is no, I won’t be upset.’

‘OK then, my answer’s no.’

‘
WHAT
DID YOU SAY?!’ she almost wails.

I just roll my eyes and try very, very hard to conceal my irritation.

‘Sorry, but I’m with Cassie on this one. Of course I’m glad you took a few minutes to mourn Jack, but from what I’ve heard, your behaviour this morning was a disgrace. Or, to put it in crude terms, make a sentence out of the following words: Shit on own doorstep don’t ever. You could easily go after someone else, Charlene. You’re not
that
ugly. Are you honestly telling me that this
famous
Oliver is the only single, available guy for miles around—’

‘I think I can die peacefully without ever hearing the end of that sentence, Josephine. Look, I’ll only say this once, because frankly I’m getting tired of
constantly
having to defend my actions all the time in this house, but you are both aware of the pressure I’m under to find my life-partner.’

‘I have a vague recollection of you mentioning that somewhere before,’ I say firmly. And if that sounds a bit rude, I’m not really all that sorry. I’m still furious with her and I just can’t help myself.

‘So, I like good-looking men,’ she goes on, and by now I swear to God I’m actually beginning to feel a vein pulsing in my forehead. ‘I don’t particularly care whether they were born good-looking or not, once they are now. Why are you both frowning at me? Those lines don’t go away, you know.’

Right, that’s it. I don’t think I can take much more. I have to say something or else I’ll end up screaming at her. ‘Charlene, two things. First of all, I like my job and I’d really like it if the producer and production team, who, let’s remember, are in fact all working professionals, didn’t have to witness you parading one fella under another one’s nose with no other end in sight than to stir up a bit of jealousy. It’s childish, it’s embarrassing, it’s stupid and, trust me, as a tactic it’s doomed to fail.’

‘Oh please, who made you such a wise woman? What, have you bypassed being a mere psychic and now suddenly you’re like this . . . shaman or something?’

I have to keep talking, I just have to, or I swear to God, I’ll smack her. ‘Number two,
Oliver
? Does it really have to be Oliver?’

She’s gone back to her magazine now. ‘Just so you’re aware, Cassie, I’m tuning you out. So you can stand there and pretend you’re talking to your imaginary boyfriend. Ooh, look, here’s an article about Wayne Rooney and his family. Reminds me of all your ex-boyfriends. A who’s who of uglyville. To these guys, every day is Halloween.’

‘What is it about Oliver, anyway?’ Jo asks, ignoring Charlene and looking at me keenly.

‘Can’t put my finger on it yet. But, don’t worry, I will. There’s something . . . I just have a horrible feeling. I didn’t pick up anything from him initially, then on the day of the clearing he was just plain irritating, but now . . . now I’m feeling a huge negative energy practically
hopping
off him. I can’t see what, at least not yet, but I think there’s something really bad.’

‘Are you even listening to this?’ Jo challenges Charlene, but, nose in her magazine, of course she isn’t. Honestly, the girl has the attention span of a malarial fruit-fly.

‘No, sorry, I’m too busy reading about George Clooney. I don’t know about you pair, but he’s kind of
beginning
to bug me. I’m getting sick of all this “Oh, the political weight of the whole Northern hemisphere is on my shoulders while simultaneously every woman in the world wants to shag me.”’

‘All I can tell you, Jo,’ I say, ‘is that if Oliver came with sound effects, there’d be thunderclaps and sinister laughter following him around the place.’

‘Well, I for one am listening to you,’ says Jo, bless her. ‘I’m all ears. Your instincts have never in all the years I’ve known you been wrong, not once. You’ve never been anything other than straight and direct about these things. About anything, in fact.’

Then the doorbell rings.

‘Who’s that?’

Shit, I nearly forgot. Well, I don’t have to be straight and direct about absolutely
every
teeny little thing, now do I? ‘You see, well, funny story actually, there’s this guy from work and he’s new and – by the way, he’s called Valentine and the thing is I said he could come over. To watch a soccer match here, that’s all. Honestly, that’s it, no other reason at all. Of course, that’s if no one minds. You don’t mind, do you?’

Charlene just ignores me but I swear it’s physically possible to see Jo putting two and two together.

‘Valentine. Hmm. Unusual name. Not an easy name to forget. So, let me just apply my mind to this. Now, this is just a wild guess, but by any chance could this possibly
be
the same Valentine who rang you on the
Breakfast Club
because he can’t get a girlfriend?’

‘Ehh . . .’

‘So he’s a single guy then, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

‘Emm . . . is he? Honestly can’t say for sure. Righty-ho, I’d better go and let him in.’ Told you I was a
crap
liar.

Anyway, in comes Valentine, looking very sharp and snazzy in a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt that he’s changed into. I make the introductions and start to open a bottle of wine he’s (very thoughtfully) brought. The girls are perfectly polite and they all shake hands and I’m madly trying to pick up any chemistry that might be going on, but no joy. Well, apart from Charlene giving him this quick once-over, up-and-down look that she does, immediately making snap assessments about him and his character based solely on his clothes, haircut, shoes, the fact that he walked here, the type of wine that he brought and his accent. Personality doesn’t even begin to come into it with her, until a guy has passed all of these initial tests. I don’t care, though. In fact, the way I’m feeling right now she doesn’t
deserve
a sweetie like Valentine.