I Never Fancied Him Anyway (24 page)

I even remember one Christmas when I presented her
with
Nigella Lawson’s
Domestic Goddess
book and she handed it straight back with ill-concealed disappointment, saying ‘Oh look, a gift gag. So where’s my
real
pressie then?’

Anyway, we make the deal, both Jo and Charlene look at me just to double-check that I’m not getting any flashes along the lines that our house goes up in flames and we all end up visiting Charlene in a hospital burn-victims unit, which I’m not. I am, however, getting a very clear flash that Marilyn will call me later on, but more about that anon . . .

After the tears and drama of last night, Charlene, amazingly, comes out full of fighting spirit this morning, brave heart that she is. Jo fishes out a pair of yellow Marigolds and hands them to her and she immediately puts them on and starts strutting around the kitchen saying, ‘Look at me! I feel like I’m in a play!’ So off to work we go, with Charlene squealing down the driveway after us, ‘Doesn’t this just feel like the nineteen fifties, starring me as the stay-at-home wifey? If I knew a Doris Day song, I’d sing it right now!’

‘Stepford wife, more like,’ Jo quips to me as we both hop into my car.

‘Don’t be like that,’ I say defensively, ‘this is a really good thing we’re doing, you know. Speaking for myself, I’ve never felt so noble in my entire life. I feel like I’m all profile.’

Anyway, I drop Jo off, make it into the
Tattle
office, head for my desk and get stuck right into the stack of letters that’s waiting for me. (Is it my imagination, or am I getting sent even more than usual ever since I started going on TV? Hmm, the plot thickens . . .) And, miraculously, for once I’m not late for my deadline.

Well, not all that late. My deadline is tomorrow morning and it’s not as if I don’t have the whole day ahead of me. Ah sure, I’ll be grand, won’t I? I mean, it’s only half-nine and if I chain myself to the desk, work right through lunch and everything and don’t get stuck into major long gossips with Sir Bob, and stay here until really, really late tonight, honour will be saved.

‘Hello there, old thing,’ Sir Bob, the man himself, interrupts me. ‘How’s the life of a telly-box star treating you, then?’

‘Morning, Sir— oops, sorry, I mean Bob,’ I answer cheerily.

‘Fancy a spot of tea? I’ve got such a lot of delicious scandal to impart.’

‘Ooh, what are you waiting for, then? Stick that kettle on this minute.’ What the hell. Sure, I’m only having a teeny, weeny little tea break. Five minutes of chat, then back to work. Promise.

‘Goodness, what a veritable mountain of letters you’ve received, my dear,’ he says, rifling through my pile and picking a few up at random.

‘I know. Course, they’re not all going to get published but I do try to get around to answering as many as I can.’

‘Jolly nice of you too, old thing. Golly, just look at this one.’

‘I think I’m in love with my dead husband’s brother. Please can you contact said late husband in the spirit world to see if he’d approve,’ I read over his shoulder. ‘Bloody hell, I’ll have my work cut out with that one.’

‘No, no dear, I meant this one,’ he says, leafing through the pile.

‘I married for a passport then fell in love?’ I ask him, singling out another one and instantly getting a feeling that it was written by someone Russian.

I’m suddenly seeing a tall, brown-eyed woman with long blond hair and short black roots. From Moscow, I think. Sagittarius
. . .

Oops, sorry, I was getting so caught up in my flash I almost forgot Sir Bob is standing right in front of me. ‘That’s mild compared to some of them, believe you me.’

‘No, you goose, this one here,’ he says, handing one over to me. ‘It was the red pen on top of it that caught one’s attention. Now, I do hope you don’t think it’s terribly rude of me to read it, but then it is about to
receive
national publication, is it not? I think the laws of privacy can be waived a little here, don’t you?’

I grab the letter from him and groan. Oh shit and double shit, how could I have forgotten? This letter must have been sitting on my desk for ages now and I know that I must have had a flash about it, because I’ve scribbled across the top of it in red Biro, as I always do whenever I see something, so that I’ll actually remember that it’s done and dealt with and not end up just shoving it into yet another pile at the back of my desk. As I obviously did with this one. ‘Writer desperately worried about the house she’s just moved into. Real fear at play here. Poor woman genuinely terrified.’

That’s not what’s making me bang my head off my forehead in frustration, though. It’s this: ‘Memo to self: must phone her to arrange suitable time to call to house and possibly do an energy clearing. Important. Discretion required. Her husband sounds like a right bully. Do not shove at back of desk and forget about.’

Rats, rats, rats, why am I so bloody
scatty?
Story of my life. It’s like the Erma Bombeck principle, which clearly states that the supermarket queue you’re
not
in is always the one that will move the fastest. Same with me. The more important and critical a job is, the more likely I am to clean forget all about it.

OK, nothing for it but to ring this poor woman now and put her out of her misery. Right now, before I forget
all
about it again. Except I can’t because Sir Bob’s still here.

‘Shall I toss you a sneak preview of last night’s salacious news, my dear?’

Oh, what the hell, that woman has already waited over a week to hear back from me. Sure, what’s another five minutes?

‘That you even need to ask that question shows just how little you know me,’ I reply, dying to hear all. God, I just love Sir Bob. Well, you couldn’t not. He’s so full of all the juiciest, grade-A gossip. He’s also a brilliant mimic, so when he’s dishing the dirt on some minor celeb, you almost feel as if they’re in the room with you.

‘Well, I had to attend the dreariest launch party yesterday evening, one of those ghastly soirées where one comes home and says to oneself, “Thank you, Satan.” Thing is, though, while I was there I did happen on the most amusing anecdote, concerning a certain acerbic breakfast telly-box presenter with whom, I believe, you were once acquainted, my dear?’

I look at him blankly, a bit like early man being taught the meaning of fire.

‘Who, shall we say, enjoyed a dalliance with a gentleman who was married? Contract not renewed? Am I ringing any bells, my dear?’

My eyes immediately light up. ‘Ooh, yes!’ Then I mouth a single word at him, silently. ‘Maura?’

Sir Bob just taps his index finger sagely against his nose and nods like bookies do in their secret sign language at the races. No kidding, he’s getting more and more like John McCririck every day. ‘Well, she was, in polite parlance, three sheets to the wind last night and she practically assailed a certain ruggedly good-looking member of a rather popular Irish boy band, who seem intent upon world domination . . .’

Ooh, yes, I know exactly who he means. Howard Woodward. Huge with pre-teens. His poster is probably hanging on the bedroom wall of every ten-year-old in the country. Oh yes, and a while ago, he went into one of those super-posh rehab clinics like the Priory to wean himself off what’s politely described as his very trendy ‘addiction to prescription painkillers’.

‘And she told him he’d never amount to anything because his name sounded like a dog farting in the bath.’

I’m guffawing so much I have to stuff a tissue in my mouth.

‘To which he replied, in psychobabble of the highest order, “Excuse me, are you trying to derail my self-esteem train?”’

‘Oh Bob, you couldn’t make it up. Are you going to write about it?’

‘All in the line of duty, my dear. Do you wish to answer that?’

Damn, my mobile’s ringing and I never know how to react when that happens around Sir Bob. Not that he minds, it’s just that he’s probably the only journalist in the country who absolutely refuses to use a mobile and has all these rules and regulations about the correct etiquette involved with them. When to take a call, when it’s impolite to, the general rudeness bordering on thuggery of people who insist on answering them in restaurants and don’t even get him started on phones that go off at the theatre . . . I’m telling you, it’s a social minefield.

‘Do you mind?’ I say, figuring it’s probably OK, given that I am in an office with phones ringing all around us. Plus, I have an overriding instinct that this call is important.

Sir Bob nods and wafts off, hanky in hand, looking as if he’s off to tea at Buckingham Palace, as he normally does, and I answer.

And thank God that I did. It’s the Dragon Lady, calling me from somewhere really noisy. I really have to strain to hear her. And then I get a flash.

She’s at the airport, on her way to . . . somewhere mountainous. I can see green hills and pathways and a gorgeous chalet in the background . . . Austria. That’s it, got it. I knew it looked like the set of
The Sound Of Music.
All that’s missing is the von Trapp children running around wearing the curtains and singing ‘Do-Re-Mi
’.

‘Cassandra? It’s me.’

I recognize her voice instantly but, as usual, I have to rack my brains to come up with her proper name. Shit . . . ‘Hi . . . emm . . .’ Come on,
think
. ‘Emm . . . Amanda.’

‘Can you hear me? I’m at the airport.’

Knew it. Bugger, why is she ringing me? Must be something really important. No, I’m not picking up a single thing, nothing. Rats. All I can see is a pair of hiking boots and thick woolly socks, which, come to think of it, she could very well be wearing right now. This is not exactly a woman who’s known and lauded for her dress sense and ability to accessorize. ‘Yeah, I can hear you . . . Amanda.’

‘Look, I’ll keep this short and snappy because I’m on my way to a
very
important work conference in London.’

Oh, you dirty big liar, I’m thinking. You’re on your way to Salzburg for . . . it’s coming to me . . . yes, got it: for a mountain hiking trip. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: why do people bother fibbing to psychics? Such a waste of time, on every level.

‘That guy who rang into your
Breakfast Club
slot yesterday, do you remember? The one who couldn’t get a date for love nor money?’

I remember immediately. Well, it’s not exactly a name you could forget in a rush, now is it? ‘Yes, Valentine, wasn’t he just so sweet and cuddly and adorable?’

No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I instantly regret them. Note to self: the Dragon Lady does
not
do girlie talk, ever, ever,
ever
.

‘Ugh, please don’t start a puke fest with me,’ she snaps back. ‘I’m a bad enough flyer without your teenage imagery going through my head.’

Serves you right, Cassie, you should have known better
.

‘So here’s the deal. I want to offer that guy a weekly column, chronicling his adventures in the dating world.
Sex and the City
, except written from a man’s point of view, in a society where they’re in a buyer’s market.’

God, she’s good, I’m thinking. Fantastic idea. I’m already hooked and dying to read it. In fact, I had a flash live on TV that this would happen. I just didn’t think it would happen on my own magazine, that’s all. Bloody hell . . .

Anyway, Valentine really sounded lovely and this is great news for him. Ooh, added bonus: all the single gals in the office will get to meet him. Myself included.

Well, aren’t I a single girl? Course I am . . .

‘Cassandra, are you still on the line?’ the Dragon Lady barks at me.

‘Yes, still here. So . . . did you want me to get his contact details from the
Breakfast Club
for you?’

‘Precisely. You can email them to me and I’ll pick them up on my BlackBerry. And you can tell everyone in that office, your best buddy Sir Bob included, to get
straight
back to work. Fortune does not favour the bone idle.’

‘Ehh . . . yup, will do. So, safe trip and enjoy Salzburg!’

What can I say? The words are out of my mouth before I even get a chance to think. There’s a tiny, barely perceptible silence before she hangs up.

Cassandra’s new and improved time-management skills in action

Doddle, really. Easy peasy.

My God, I should really be at some management institute, giving seminars, lecturing accountants and whiz-kid business types on how to extract the most out of each day. And all I had to do was not talk to anyone, skip lunch, switch off my mobile, not answer my office phone and limit my chatting time with Sir Bob to precisely five minutes. On the plus side, though, I’ve got through most of my letters pile, my column’s almost finished and all I have to do is write everything up. Which I can easily do at home, later on tonight. Great idea. Fab. Only one more call to make and then I can skive off for the rest of the day with a clear conscience.

Well, a clearish conscience.

I pick up the letter Sir Bob drew my attention to earlier, check the phone number scrawled at the bottom and dial. It rings and is answered almost immediately. A man’s voice, gruff, impatient.

‘Yes?’ With a single word, I swear, he almost takes the nose off me.

‘Emm, hello, I wondered if I could speak to . . .’

Oh hell, what do I say now? The letter is signed ‘Worried in Rathgar’ and I can hardly ask to speak to Mrs Worried, now can I?

Got it. God, I’m so smart. ‘I wondered if I might speak to your wife, please.’

‘In connection with?’

Shit. His manner is bordering on rude and now I’m starting to feel like some kind of nuisance telesales caller. I also have a strong feeling that if I tell him the real reason for my call (‘Hi there, I’m a psychic and am ringing about a letter I got from your wife, where she tells me she’s really concerned that there may be some kind of energy disturbance in the beautiful house you’ve only just bought’) he’ll bang the phone down on me and call the nearest mental hospital to check they’ve no escaped patients wandering the streets. People who don’t believe in psychic phenomena tend to treat you like a cross between a weirdo and a con-artist and something is telling me that this man is most definitely a non-believer.