I Never Fancied Him Anyway (3 page)

But she’s lost me. I pick up the blue envelope and tear it open. A strong smell of lily-of-the-valley perfume hits me and immediately I get a sense that the lady who wrote this doesn’t live alone. There’s a man around her, older still, authoritarian, a bit of a bully. For some reason, I’m picking up a strong negative energy and I’m not quite sure why.

Dear Cassandra,

Even as I put pen to paper, I’m aware of how hopeless and pathetic this must sound. Not only am I begging for your help, I’m also shameless enough to ask that you won’t actually print this letter. You have no idea how annoyed my husband would be if he thought I’d turned to a national publication in my sheer desperation. I can
scarcely
believe I’m doing it myself, but if you can’t help me, Cassandra, I honestly don’t know where else to turn. You’re busy, so I’ll be brief.

The problem started three months ago, back in July, when we first moved into our new house. Our beautiful retirement home, which cost all of our savings and where I hoped we could see out the rest of our days in peace and serenity. Not to be.

I don’t believe in ghosts or hauntings in the real world, Cassandra, but please believe me when I tell you that there’s just something about this house. I can’t put my finger on it and yet here I am, writing to you, praying that you’ll understand and be able to help me.

‘Ooh, haunted house?’ says Charlene, already bored with her own letter and now reading this over my shoulder. ‘Loving it, very
Afterlife
. So what are the symptoms? Or is that the word you use? Hard to know.’

I read on, completely absorbed.

Even though the heating is on most of the time, the house is permanently freezing, there are strong smells coming from one room in particular and, worst of all, things keep getting hurled around, heavy things too. On the rare occasions when we do have people to visit, they
never
seem to want to stay, nor can I say I blame them. No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of this awful, chilling atmosphere. It’s suffocating; almost as if the house is trying to drive us away and I don’t know why.

I’m frightened, Cassandra, and I’m pleading with you to help me. I would gladly put this house on the market tomorrow, but my husband won’t hear of it. He gets very angry with me for even suggesting that there might be something wrong with the place so, for the sake of a quiet life, I put up with it and say nothing.

But I can’t take much more. I’m giving you my home number and hope that I’ll hear from you. Call any time and if my husband answers the phone, don’t worry, I’ll think of some excuse to tell him.

Thank you so much. Please understand I’m at my wits’ end and have no one else to turn to.

Sincerely,

Worried in Rathgar

‘Wow! How cool is that!’ says Charlene, kind of missing the point. She leans over and takes the letter from me. ‘Your very own personal ghost. Must be like permanently living at Hogwarts.’

I take the letter back and hold it in both hands, turning it over and over, madly trying to tune her out so I can pick something up.

It was late at night when this poor woman wrote to me and the sheer sense of terror I’m feeling around her is making my heart race
. . .

‘You could always advise her to move.’ Charlene twitters on. ‘You know, like the time I sold the penthouse in Marbella after I saw a cockroach run across my parking space.’

‘Shh!’

‘Oops, sorry. Was I personalizing?’

‘I need to go there. I feel I need to visit this house,’ I say eventually.

‘Why?’

‘Because . . . I dunno. I can’t make up my mind about this one.’

‘You think that’s bad? I still can’t make up my mind about where I stand on the Paul McCartney/Heather Mills split.’

I’m not even sure I can put into words what’s worrying me. All I know is that I have the strongest instinct to go to this house and I’m a great believer in always, always following your gut instincts.

‘Oh, it’s nothing scary or creepy, it’s just that . . .’ I look at her, weighing up whether or not I should tell her what’s forming at the back of my mind. I decide to go for it, on the basis that no matter how bizarre my job gets (and at times, you just wouldn’t
believe
some
of
the letters I’m sent) Charlene never
ever
makes disparaging comments or dismisses what I do for a living. That’s the absolute beauty of her. Yes, she’ll put down my hair/clothes/long-term single status without batting an eyelid, but I’m well able for that and will tease her right back, and we’ll end up having a laugh, like really good friends can, without anyone taking offence. It’s only when people slag off the supernatural and make me feel like a chancer/charlatan/con artist that I get a bit upset. You know, the type of people who, when I tell them what I do for a living, look at me as if I’m barely on nodding terms with reality. It happens, believe me.

‘I think I might need to do a clearing,’ I say simply. ‘There’s something in this house, someone trapped. Maybe a spirit that hasn’t passed, or rather, that’s passed on, but maybe just . . . doesn’t know it yet.’

Now I have Charlene’s full attention. ‘Wow. Dead and doesn’t know it. Kinda spooky.’

‘Nothing spooky about it in the least. Happens all the time. Spirits are our next-door neighbours, honey, that’s all. We’ve nothing to fear from them; in fact, most of the time, they only want to help us.’

‘So you want to go there and do a sort of spiritual spring-cleaning?’

‘Ehh . . . yeah, kind of. If you want to put it like that.’

‘Right, well, I think I’ll come with you for moral support,’ says Charlene. ‘Over my drop-dead gorgeous
body
am I letting you face into that alone. Cassie, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times. You are so amazing at this stuff, why aren’t you doing this on television?’

I’m silently blessing her for being such a trooper when she picks up another letter from the groaning pile on my desk and reads it out.

‘Dear Cassandra,

I’ve been seeing a guy for almost two months now and I’m starting to think there’s something up. In all that time, he’s never as much as laid a finger on me. Not once. He keeps saying it’s because he respects me too much and that he’s much happier just chatting to me, but I’m a normal woman with normal needs and desires, if you know what I mean, and this is starting to become an issue. Oh, and just to anticipate what any of your readers may think, yes of course I am aware that there are “shag-dodgers” out there, I just didn’t think I’d end up going out with one, that’s all.

Take my birthday last week, for instance. He came over, watched
Brokeback Mountain
on DVD, then gave me tickets for the two of us to go and see Cher in concert at the Point Depot. I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t even like Cher. I’d have far preferred to see U2. Then when I tried to kiss him as he was leaving, he gave me a Mediterranean peck on each cheek, told me my
make-up
was just a shade too dark for my skin tone, and was gone.

It’s really starting to drive me mental, Cassandra. This guy can bring me down faster than a bad hair day. If you have any psychic feelings on the subject, I’d be most grateful.

Concerned in Castlebar’

‘Well, there’s one you don’t have to be psychic for,’ says Charlene. ‘Gay and doesn’t know it yet. Gay as Christmas in Bloomingdale’s, if you ask me.’

‘Hold on, there’s a PS,’ I say, grabbing the letter from her. ‘“PS: I don’t know if this is any help to you or not, but for some reason, he always smells better than most women.” Yup, I’m afraid you’re one hundred per cent on the money with this one,’ I add, pitying the poor writer but somehow feeling that there is great happiness ahead for her with someone else. Someone foreign – French, I think. I’m seeing dark eyes and olive skin. And I think he could be Scorpio.

‘So, do you want me to predict your future?’ says Charlene, with the devil in her big saucery eyes.

‘What?’

‘You and I are going to leave the office right now and go for a lovely soothing glass of champagne in the Odessa bar.’

I groan, staring at the towering pile of letters I haven’t
even
touched yet. (For some reason, every week I seem to get sent more and more. The Dragon Lady used only to publish about five each week but now it’s more like twenty-five and counting.) So much to do . . . but then a nice glass of champagne just sounds sooooo tempting . . .

‘Oh come
ooooon
,’ pleads Charlene, seeing me wavering. ‘When do I ever ask you for anything?’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in “just the one”, is there? Sure I can always come back to work later, can’t I? Right then, here’s the deal,’ I say, assertively. ‘One quickie and I’ll be back at my desk in half an hour.’

‘That’s the girl. I’ve just lost my job and the way I feel right now, Bollinger is my only ally.’

‘I’m not actually drunk, I’m more . . . sedated from my misery. But I don’t want you to worry about me, ladies. Once I drink myself to sleep, I’ll be just fine.’

Six hours later and I’m still plonked on the same big, comfy sofa I’ve been sprawled out on all evening, a bit pissed and surrounded by the gang, or as Charlene likes to call us, her little circle of love and dysfunction. We’re all listening to her best friend and personal trainer who’s making us all roar laughing, without intending to, telling us about his latest break-up.

He’s chunky, dark, bulked-up, perma-tanned and although his name is Marc, everyone calls him ‘Marc
with
a C’. As well as being hysterically funny, he’s also incredibly good-looking, a straight-gay type, which leads to huge confusion in the gym he works at, where his clients include a long list of recent divorcees and newly separated women, all wanting a killer body and a good old self-esteem-boosting flirt at the same time. Marc with a C is always more than happy to oblige because, underneath that wall of muscle and the butch physique, he’s actually a sweet, sensitive soul, which kind of explains why his closest pals are all women. I’d nearly go for him if he were straight, and constantly have to remind myself that he’s unavailable to me and how much simpler life would be if only he were just a little less attractive and a lot more camp. In fact, not just
camp
, but shortbread-biscuit-tin-covered-in-whitepaper-doilies camp.

We’ve all known him for years, ever since Charlene first converted a room in her house into a personal gym and then hired him to train her there, four times a week. He slags her off something rotten though, saying that the only reason she won’t use a public gym is so that no one will see her (a) sweaty and (b) without full make-up.

‘Are we
still
on this?’ says Charlene from the armchair across from us, sounding, if possible, even more pissed than I feel. ‘You broke up with a guy you went on three dates with, one of which involved him sitting through
your
spinning class, so that doesn’t even count. How long since you saw him?’

‘Four full days,’ says Marc with a C.

‘And how long since final contact?’

‘One text from me yesterday, to casually remind him about a fitness assessment we had scheduled, which he chose to ignore.’

‘Tell the truth.’

A pause.

‘OK, seven texts. And before you judge me, just remember you had a fringe in the 1990s.’

‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s hardly a tragedy.’

‘Cassie, I want you to ignore the Tipsy Queen over there,’ he says, ‘and just tell me if you see a knight in shining Armani in my future. I don’t ask for much out of this life, all I want is to be in a deep, committed, loving relationship, for . . . ooh, I dunno, about a week or so.’

‘I wish I could,’ I say, slurping away on a half-empty glass of champagne, all thoughts of my deadline gone right out of the window, ‘but I’m never able to see things when I’m a bit over my limit. You know, like the way you can’t drive or operate heavy machinery when you’re pissed, you can’t make psychic predictions either. Sorry, hon.’

‘Yeah, now drink your dinner and leave her alone,’ laughs Jo, my best friend and flatmate. ‘Cassie’s not a performing seal that turns tricks on demand. Besides,
the
week’s only just started; you know perfectly well you’ll be back in the saddle by the weekend, you big manaholic. Try walking in my shoes for a bit and you’ll appreciate how good you have it. Humpback whales do it more than me.’

‘Congratulations, Jo,’ says Charlene from where she’s now slumped into her armchair. ‘I think you just found the title for your autobiography.’

Everyone cracks up laughing and we order another round. Tonight’s turned into one of those completely spontaneous evenings that are always far more fun than anything planned and I’m so glad Jo’s popped in for a few drinks on her way home from work.

Let me tell you a bit about Jo. She’s probably as different from Charlene as you can get, both physically and personality-wise. Sharper than a chilli finger poked in your eye and smart as a whip, she’s dry-as-a-bone funny, the sort of woman who should be awarded a black belt in tongue-fu. Honestly, she can have you doubled over with some of her one-liners, although God help you if you find yourself on the receiving end of her merciless teasing, as Charlene frequently does. Looks-wise, she’s small and naturally pretty with croppy light brown hair which I cut for her (badly) as she point blank refuses to set foot inside a hairdresser’s until Tibet is free. To give you a quick mental picture, if ever they were casting for a Jodie-Foster’s-little-sister type, then
Jo’s
your woman. A fundraiser for Amnesty Ireland, she’s also hard-working, intense, disciplined, deeply passionate about human rights and with a social conscience that Nelson Mandela would be proud of.

Put it this way: whereas Jo’s personal belief system is that the lack of political will to regulate the arms trade is a major contributory factor to the abuse of human rights in the world, Charlene’s is that if Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie can’t make peace, then what possible hope is there for the Middle East? Jo spends her Saturdays doing voluntary work in our local Oxfam; whereas Charlene believes that wearing second-hand clothes can give you hepatitis. Generous to a fault, Jo would give you her last red cent whereas Charlene practically makes you leave your driver’s licence if you dare to borrow anything belonging to her. Two full rooms in her house are devoted to her clothes, which are categorized according to season/day and season/night (not to even get started on her shoe collection, which is stored in a separate walk-in closet approximately the size of our living room), whereas poor old Jo still has the same battered pair of jeans she’s been wearing for about five years now.