I Never Fancied Him Anyway (12 page)

Now, normally I’d do my level best to bounce back and try to save face by claiming I never fancied him anyway, but somehow, I feel that kind of advice just isn’t good enough for this poor woman.

OK, Cassie, you’re on, hop to it
.

I sit and finger the paper, madly trying to get a picture of her as she wrote me this heartbreaking letter with such searing honesty.

Nothing.

OK. I try not to get panicky and instead focus on how intelligent and articulate she comes across in her letter.

Still nothing.

Shit, you wouldn’t exactly have to be psychic to come to that conclusion about her character, now would
you
? Come on! The silence in the office is almost like a mortuary at this stage and you’d think that would help me concentrate, but it doesn’t.

Oh hell, now I’m really in trouble.

I’m frantically racking my brains, trying to pick up something, anything, a feeling, a face, an initial, a star sign . . .

Still nothing.

Right, now I’ve bypassed panic and am starting to feel terror, real terror. This could really be it. This could spell the end of my career. My palms are starting to sweat, my mouth is all dry and I’ve barely even noticed the Dragon Lady stepping out of the lift and into the main office.

Keep the head, Cassie, keep the head. You can do this
.

Another deep, soothing breath. I remind myself that an awful lot of the advice that I give readers is just plain, practical common sense.

Right then, good start. What would I say if it was one of my pals in this position? Charlene, for example? Oh God, we’d all give her a dog’s abuse. I can just hear Marc with a C slagging her off and saying things like: ‘Isn’t it such a shame that we don’t live in a universe where needy and desperate are turn-ons?’

I pick a pen and paper and start drafting a rough response. Really rough.

Dear Barbara,

I felt so sorry for you, reading your letter. We’ve all been in that awful, post-break-up dark place where it’s nigh on impossible to see the wood for the trees. And anyone who says they’ve never got in-text-icated and sent a few messages they shouldn’t have, particularly after a few glasses of wine, is a dirty big liar. But then, it’s only when you come up for air that you really get true relationship perspective and think: What was I doing? You really should listen to your friends and even though it probably feels like medieval torture, try to get yourself back out there again. You’re only mid-thirties and, sure, that’s nothing. You could try joining a book club or a gym. My friend Marc with a C says the fitness centre he works at is a total pick-up joint and that if they turned the lights down a bit lower and put Barcardi Breezers in the water coolers instead of Volvic, there’d be more mad coupling going on there than in Lillie’s Bordello, any night of the week.

I stop for a sec, reread what I’ve written, scrunch it up and throw it in the bin. Total crap; my granny could have come up with that gem of advice. To get over a guy you should try joining a gym? Ugh, vomit. Can’t believe I even bothered writing that.

‘Morning Cassandra. Having difficulties readjusting to your day job after all the glamour of television?’

Oh shit, I don’t believe this. It’s the Dragon Lady herself, standing over my desk and glowering down at me, all five feet ten of her. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.

‘Oh hi, emm, morning . . . emm’ – at this point I’m frantically racking my brains to remind myself to call her by her real name – ‘Amanda.’ I beam, trying to sound all cheery and confident and upbeat, as if she comes over to talk to me every day.

Which she doesn’t ever, to anyone. Not unless you’re in
really, really
majorly big trouble. Like the last time I missed my deadline and there was blue murder.

It was through no fault of my own, you understand. I just left everything till the last minute, as per usual, but I had a watertight schedule all worked out in my head – I was going to get up at four a.m. on the morning my column was due – but then something urgent came up and I ended up delivering it late. Very late. Flirting with disaster late. Can’t even remember what it was that delayed me now . . . Oh yeah. Charlene threw a surprise party for herself (to mark the fact that it was exactly six months to the day between her last birthday and her next birthday). I’m not joking, there were guests still wandering around her house/mansion three days later, which in Charlene-land is the mark of a triumphantly successful night.

Anyway, I knew I had a very good reason for being so – ahem – eleventh hour.

That time.

‘Earth to Cassandra?’

Oh shit. She’s still here, still standing in front of me, and now I’m dimly aware that most of the office is looking over. Nor can I blame them; whenever the Dragon Lady decides to tear strips off any of us, you’re pretty much guaranteed a highly entertaining side-show.

‘If your head hasn’t been completely turned by your fifteen minutes of fame, perhaps you’d step into my office for a minute?’

And with that the old Nazi in nylons strides off, at her usual two steps at a time, leaving me to trail behind her in my little kitten heels with what feels like the whole office staring at me. I’m not joking, it’s just like in that film,
Dead Man Walking
.

As the Dragon Lady makes for her office/torture chamber, Lucy from Features has the misfortune to look up and catch her eye. ‘Morning, Amanda,’ she chirrups brightly.

Whereupon the Dragon Lady barks back at her: ‘Nothing to see here, dearie, so why don’t you just go back to flicking through your Gary Larson desktop calendar and saying, “I don’t get it, I don’t get it,” over and over again.’

Jesus, she’s really in a firing humour this morning.

Poor Lucy looks really shaken at her sheer rudeness and I give her a weak smile as I walk past her.

Lucy’s only been here a few weeks, I should point out. No one who’s worked here for a long time would ever dream of trying to exchange pleasantries with the Dragon Lady. Complete waste of time trying to be sycophantic with her.

Everyone’s looking at me and everyone, myself included, is thinking the same thing. There’s really only one reason why you get hauled into that office and it begins with ‘F’ and ends with me standing at the back of the dole queue.

So, trying really hard not to throw up with nerves, I step into the lair of the she-wolf, she bangs the door tightly behind me and I’m immediately struck by the sheer horribleness of her workspace. It’s sparse and clinical, a bit like a doctor’s surgery, with not as much as one item that would personalize the place and – I dunno – humanize the Dragon Lady a bit more. Like a family photo or a novelty mouse mat. Or even a mug that says ‘World’s most terrifying boss’. Something. Anything. This place is about as close to a prison cell as you can get. There are two empty seats across from her desk and as I make to sit down on one of them, her mobile rings.

‘Not there,’ she growls at me before answering her call. ‘Do you mind? That seat is reserved for my bad mood.’

Oh help, I must really be for it.

I do my best to keep a cool head as I slither into the
chair
furthest away from her while she snaps away at some poor eejit down the phone.

‘Well, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that this is a phone call of apology,’ she’s snarling and, I swear to God, she sounds just like a female version of Alan Sugar or Donald Trump or one of those I-eat-your-type-for-breakfast types. If you know what I mean. Anyway, while she’s verbally savaging away, my mind races.

OK. I can think of two possible reasons why she wants to see me and, let’s face it, neither one of them will have me coming up smelling like guest-room soap.

Can this really be happening to me? In a single morning, I lose my job, my psychic ability and my livelihood? Oh God, this is a living nightmare. I’ll have no money, Jo earns even less than I do so she won’t be able to support me so I’ll have to move back in with my parents and be twenty-eight and pathetic with no career, and I’ll have to go and stack the shelves part-time in our local Tesco and every time I get sent by the dole office to a proper job interview, I’ll tell them I used to be psychic but completely lost it and they’ll all roar laughing at me.

Sing, fat lady, sing, my career is almost at an end . . .

OK, there’s nothing else for it. I’ll just have to beg/ grovel/plead to hang on to my column with the added condition thrown in that I will never, ever, as long as I live, miss any deadline
ever
again. Really, truly, cross my heart.

If I can just get my gift back and hang on to my job, I will become a model employee. I will never disappear off for long chats and cups of leaf tea with Sir Bob, sorry Bob. I will stop using
Tattle
magazine time to surf the net looking for cheapie flights/holidays/discount sample sales. I faithfully promise.

And if the Universe lets me cut a deal and sees fit to give me my life back, I will start helping Jo out in the charity shop at weekends. And not moan about it, like I normally do. And generally become a much better, kinder, more philanthropic member of society who gives free psychic readings in old folks’ homes in my spare time . . .

Oh for God’s sake, who am I kidding? I can’t just cut a deal; this is the Universe, not the Mafia, I’m dealing with.

‘Surely after all these years I don’t need to explain to you how valuable my time is?’ The Dragon Lady is still ranting down the phone. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you think it’s OK to keep me waiting for
twenty-five minutes?
When, as you well know, I have zero tolerance for unpunctuality in any form?’

Must be her accountant or her bank manager, I’m thinking, God help them. Although a tiny part of me wishes I could be as assertive as that next time I’m looking for an extension on my overdraft.

I come back down to earth as she winds up her call.

‘Right. Well, thanks for nothing, Mum, and I’ll see you for lunch on Sunday as usual.’

Bloody hell.

OK, deep breath and remember, I’ll do my level best to plead with her but if I am for the chop, I’m determined at least to leave here with my dignity intact. I will
not
let
her
bully me or reduce me to tears, if it’s the last bloody thing I do. I’ll save my tears for the dole queue.

‘So, Cassandra,’ she says, kicking off her horrible, chunky, sensible shoes and putting her feet up on the desk. I attempt a watery smile. ‘It’s very hard for me to compliment you on your television performance this morning since, as you are no doubt aware, your column personifies everything I resent in the print media.’

Now, although this is fabulously rude, it doesn’t actually come as a surprise, mainly because, for as long as I’ve worked for the Dragon Lady, which is . . . oh, years now, she has always told me straight to my face that astrology, palmistry, clairvoyance and basically everything that I write about are a complete load of dog poo. In her opinion.

(She
would
think that, though, because I happen to know she’s Virgo with Saturn as her ruling planet, which means she was bound to end up really cynical and disbelieving about anything remotely spiritual or other-worldly.)

‘However, I do know about selling magazines and for whatever dim-witted reason, readers seem to actually enjoy “Ask Cassandra”.’

‘Emm . . . well, emm . . . thanks. I suppose.’

‘Normally I tell my journalists what to write about, but with you I can’t. You’re an unknown quantity and I don’t particularly relish dealing in unknown quantities.
However,
people buy
Tattle
to read you and although personally I don’t get it, I can’t argue with it either.’

Am I hearing things or did that actually sound like a backhanded compliment? From the Dragon Lady? No, I must need my ears testing . . .

‘So all I’ll say about your TV debut this morning is, the duck took to water.’

I’m not imagining things. That actually sounded . . . OK. Quite nice, in fact. Didn’t it?

‘Oh right. Ehh, thanks. So, emm . . . I’m not in any kind of trouble then, am I?’

She looks at me as if I’m a few coupons short of a special offer. ‘Oh please, where do you think you are, boot camp? All I’m saying is, I know the media and how it works and, based on your performance this morning, I’d be astonishingly surprised if they don’t want to have you back on that show.’

Bloody hell, she should be the psychic, not me . . .

‘So. Am I right? Cassandra? Hello? Are you still in the room? Not having some out-of-body experience, or anything, I trust?’

‘Oh sorry . . . Well, actually . . . emm . . . well, you see, the producer
did
mention something about that, but I didn’t say yes or no . . . In fact, I didn’t give him any kind of answer . . .’

‘So here’s my question. Are you deserting us for the bright lights of television? Or to put it more bluntly, do
I
need to go out there and start hiring another psychic? Because if it’s a question of matching an offer that a TV company is making you, you need to let me know.
Tattle
magazine will not want to lose Cassandra.’