I Never Fancied Him Anyway (30 page)

‘Hi, Lisa, it’s Cassie here.’

‘Cassie! Oh my GAWD! It’s total serendipity that you’re ringing just now! Wait till I tell you – Oh, do you have time for this? What the hell, I’ll just tell you anyway while I have you there. So, I was in Lillie’s Bordello till five a.m. this morning, came straight from there into work, and I met the most gorgeous guy. He’s a quantity surveyor or something really boring like that, but hey, nobody’s perfect, as I always say. Anyway, do you see anything in my future? With this fella, I mean? ’Cos I’ve been single for so long that I’m almost starting to wonder if dating is any different now and’ – sounding a bit muffled now, as if she’s put her hand over the receiver – ‘no Jack,
I’m
talking to her, go away. This is important, you know, how often do I meet a nice suitable fella? OK, all right then, but don’t hang up, you’re to put Cassie straight back on to me. I’m in the throes of a dilemma here, I’ll have you know.’

I barely even have time to take a deep breath before he’s on the phone.

‘Hi, Cassie, how are you? Did you get my text
message
?’ He sounds relaxed, at ease, much less stressed out than last time we spoke.

‘Hi . . . yeah . . . yes, I did.’

‘So how did you survive a day’s shoot with Oliver, then? Prime Ministers have been reduced to gibbering wrecks. Bill Clinton has never been the same since, so they say.’

I giggle. ‘It was . . . emm . . . It went well, but I don’t know that Oliver got quite what he was looking for. The woman who owns the house we visited was a bit reluctant to have it filmed, you see.’ The truth actually is, Oliver ended up not shooting anything at all. He stayed on after I left, chatting away to Liz and Louise, but that was about the height of it.

‘You didn’t answer my question. Did you survive?’

‘Oliver was a bit . . . emm . . . how do I phrase this . . .’

‘It’s OK, you can tell me.’

Shit, what do I answer here? They could be best of friends for all I know. ‘He’s . . . well . . . he’s very work focused, isn’t he? I think he wanted it to be a little more . . . dramatic than it turned out to be.’

‘Say no more. I get the impression he was looking for something along the lines of
Scary Movie
all right. But as long as you’re happy about him filming you for his documentary, that’s my main concern. He’s asked to use some footage from the
Breakfast Club
and I just wanted to ask you if you’re OK with that.’

There’s a pause and I’m thinking, He’s so sweet. I’m rarely asked how I feel about anything. People are always telling me how they feel about everything, but no one ever asks
me
. This is all new, very new.

‘The thing is, Oliver is a very trusted reporter. He’s a pro, Cassie. I think the piece is in pretty safe hands. Just say the word and I’ll tell him you’re fine with it and that he can continue with his documentary. Your wish is my command.’

I can’t help smiling. God, I could stay all day on the phone to this guy. He’s just so easy to chat to. It’s a struggle, but, as ever, I have to keep reminding myself that he’s unavailable, untouchable.

But that’s OK. I don’t fancy him anyway.

I never fancied him anyway
. . .

No. No use. My multi-purpose catchphrase just won’t work with this guy.

‘So how’s your day?’ he asks, making me feel as if he’s all the time in the world to chat.

Bugger, I almost forgot. ‘Jack, can I ask a favour?’

‘The answer is yes, what is the question?’

‘Remember Valentine? The guy who phoned in?’

‘Do I remember him? I don’t think the phone lines here have stopped hopping since. All women looking for blind dates with him. Clever bastard, whoever he is, if you ask me.’

‘My editor wants his contact number, if you’d have it.’

‘By when?’

‘By . . . emm . . . last Tuesday.’

There’s a pause and I swear I can practically
feel
him grinning. ‘Cassie, were you supposed to do this ages ago and you forgot?’

‘Ehh . . . well, maybe. I am a very busy lady, I’ll have you know,’ I say primly. ‘Just listen to this.’ I pick up a bunch of letters, hold them to the phone and flick my fingers through them. ‘They won’t answer themselves, you know.’

He whistles. ‘Very impressive. And your deadline is when?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Don’t worry, busy lady, I’ll get Lisa on to it for you. By the way, I’ve a meeting later with the Director General to try and wheedle a bigger production budget out of him, so any psychic predictions on the outcome would be greatly appreciated . . . Oh, here we go, here comes trouble, she’s back. Lisa,
I’m
talking to her. Your turn to go away.’
There’s a muffled hand-over-the-receiver sound
. ‘What? Downstairs?’ I’d swear I can almost hear him sigh. ‘OK, I’m on the way. Cassie, you still there?’

‘Yeah, are you OK?’

‘Looks like Charlene is waiting to see me downstairs. Look, I’ll talk to you again. I really have to go.’ He puts me back on to Lisa and is gone. And his tone completely changed too.

Much later in the afternoon, I get a message from Marc with a C, whose text messages sometimes run the length of one-act radio plays, as you’ll see.

S.O.S. CHARLENE HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN DUMPED BY JACK. WE’RE IN RON BLACK’S BAR GETTING V. DRUNK. A STICKY-FLOORED DIVE BAR, I KNOW, BUT SHE WANTS TO AVOID MEETING ANYONE SHE KNOWS, NATCH. UR PRESENCE ISN’T SO MUCH URGENTLY REQUIRED AS DEMANDED. OH AND PLEASE BRING CASH. WE R SMASHED BROKE. SORRY. XXX

Shit.

Even though it hardly comes as a surprise, I still really feel for her. Anyway. Charlene is my friend and she’s hurting and I should be there for her. I abandon my desk and the groaning pile of letters that’s waiting for next week’s column and I’m there in ten minutes.

The bar is dark and a bit dingy, but I immediately spot the pair of them, sitting on bar stools with a line of tequila shots in front of them, like in a saloon in the Wild West. No kidding, all this scene is missing is tinny piano music playing in the background, gunshots going off every few minutes and a blowsy chorus girl straight from Central Casting, with a
name
like Lottie-May, saying, ‘Come up and see me sometime.’

‘Hi, baby, thanks for coming,’ says Charlene dully as I hug them both.

‘So, how are you?’

‘How
am
I? OK, part of me is crushed. Part of me is in mourning. But most of me is drunk. I have to face up to the sad fact that even Pamela Anderson makes better choices about her men than I do.’

‘I have a new nickname for Jack Hamilton,’ says Marc with a C, slurring his words slightly, but then he’s super-fit, on a macrobiotic diet and therefore rubbish at holding his alcohol. ‘Assanova. Whaddya think, Cassie? Do you like it? We’ve decided we all hate him now, although . . . ooh . . . I’ve just had a rare thought. Maybe he’s gay. Or questioning. Did that ever occur to you?’

‘Definitely not gay, sorry to disappoint,’ I say, hauling myself up on to an incredibly uncomfortable bar stool beside them and ordering another round. ‘Where’s Jo?’

‘Working late, on her way.’

‘Will one of you please tell me’ – Charlene’s starting to blubber a bit. ‘Why do I have this tendency/habit/ compulsion to ruin my fabulous life?’

‘Oh, come on, sweetie,’ says Marc with a C. ‘You have to admit that it was, at best, a blocked U-bend of a relationship. May I point out that you have spent the
last
few days bashing a square peg into a round hole. Fruitless and pointless. Don’t throw good time after bad, baby. You’re not getting any younger.’

‘Shut up,’ she snaps miserably at him. ‘Don’t you know the old adage: people in last year’s Helmut Lang shouldn’t throw stones.’

‘Come on, hon,’ I say, putting my arm around her comfortingly. ‘We’ve all been there and we’re all here for you. But remember you’re not mourning the loss of a boyfriend, you’re mourning the loss of how you thought your life would be. You have to stop beating yourself up. If it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be.’

What I really mean is, yes, it’s awful, yes, it’s painful, but trust me, even if she and Jack had actually been a proper item, it would never, ever in a million years have worked out. Lovely and fanciable and all that Jack is, Charlene is looking for someone who will plonk her on top of a pedestal and idolize her. No, scrap that, she actively
needs
someone who’ll worship the ground she walks on. And ground her. And give her the one thing she craves more than anything, which the rest of us completely take for granted: a normal family life.

‘Agreed,’ says Marc with a C, taking another slug of tequila. ‘What you’re putting yourself through right now is like a brand-new form of torture the Geneva Convention should look at.’

‘Do you know what he said to me?’ says Charlene.
‘That
I was a lovely person but we were fundamentally unsuited.’

‘Ugh, snap,’ says Marc with a C. ‘I got that speech too, about three . . . no, four exes ago. Bastard dropped me quicker than ten kilos of excess flab.’

‘Remind me again who that was?’ I ask, genuinely puzzled. In my defence, though, it’s very hard to keep up with all of Marc with a C’s ex files.

‘Oh you remember, sweetie, he was in a band. Said he couldn’t commit to me because he wanted to stay focused on the music.’

‘Lousy excuse.’

‘I know. I heard the music.’

‘Can you please stop making this all about you?’ Charlene snaps at him. ‘Why does every little thing always have to be about you?’

I’m about to point out the irony of that statement to her, when I catch her looking at me funnily.

‘Hang on, I just had a horrible thought. You don’t think that Jack has met someone else, do you, Cassie?’

Thank God I’m not drinking because I’d have spluttered it out. Luckily enough, though, she doesn’t let me answer.

‘Because I’d scratch the bloody bitch’s eyes out and that’s not a threat. The only thing that’s making this misery bearable is that while we both agreed we would officially part, we would still remain completely
committed
to each other. OK, so he didn’t exactly agree and I may not have put it exactly like that, but one thing’s for certain: I’m going to have a man on my arm to flash in front of him faster than a Britney Spears divorce.’

‘Writ me baby one more time,’ sings Marc with a C.

‘Come on, guys, I need a man here and I need him
now
. What are my options?’

A long pause.

‘Well, there’s a speed-dating night at the gym next Saturday,’ Marc with a C says helpfully.

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll just choose to pretend that I never heard you or your crap lonely heart suggestions. Do you even
realize
how much is wrong with that sentence? For God’s sake, speed dating? Why can’t I just meet someone the way normal people do? Through friends?’

‘What’s so awful about being on your own for a bit?’ I ask hopefully. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it lately, what with your father and Marilyn, I mean—’

‘Subject change imminent,’ Marc with a C interrupts. ‘But our fabulously tactless friend here does make a point of sorts, Charlene. I mean, ricocheting from one guy to another is just going to look like a pathetic attempt to bolster up your shattered self-esteem.’

‘So what are you suggesting? That I become a nun?’

‘No, sweetie, you’d never be able to get your roots retouched.’

‘And I wouldn’t mind but Anna Regan’s engagement party is looming like a giant iceberg in the shipping lane of my life, may she gag on a length of Cath Kidston ribbon.’

God, at times like this, I really wish Jo was here. She’d give Charlene all the tough love, relationship perspective and hard-headed advice she needs. And there’s a chance Charlene might actually pay attention to her. Frankly, I’m beginning to feel as if I might as well be talking to the wall for all the progress I’m making in calming her down a bit or making her see sense.

Anyway, hours later, Marc with a C and I end up dragging a very drunk Charlene into a taxi and somehow getting her back to our house and into our kitchen, still in one piece. Marc with a C even manages to find a bottle of Baileys at the back of a cupboard, which is only ever produced in cases of dire emergency, and pours out a full, home-measured, tumbler-sized glass for her.

It’s late, well after ten, before Jo eventually does get home and boy am I delighted to see her. ‘Welcome to an episode of
The Jerry Springer Show
, broadcasting live from our kitchen,’ I say, going out to the front door to let her in. We hug, both utterly exhausted.

‘Is this my destiny?’ Charlene is wailing from inside, clearly audible even though the kitchen door is shut tight. ‘To live out a life of loveless, hopeless spinsterhood?’

‘That bad, huh?’ says Jo, taking off her coat and scarf and dumping a wad of files on the hall table.

‘Listen for yourself.’

‘And to think I can’t even go to Harvey Nicks and charge myself happy, as I normally would. You know how much spending soothes my battered soul?’ Charlene is bawling from inside, plastered and almost bordering on hysteria by now.

‘Mmm,’ says Marc with a C, hiccupping, completely and utterly smashed.

‘I wish . . . do you know what I wish? I wish that I could just leave my body and become emotionally dead,’ Charlene continues their duologue of pain. ‘I mean, how much easier would life be?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ sighs Jo wearily. ‘Things sure have changed here on Walton’s mountain. So come on, Cassie, where do you stand on this, the biggest overreaction to the greatest non-relationship of the century?’

I just look at her, not sure what to say. Not even sure what I think. It’s as if I haven’t even allowed myself to think the thought.

‘OK, let me offer a Jack Hamilton-related thought,’ Jo says, cool as you like. ‘You like him, he seems to like you. You’re single and now, guess what, so is he. There was one insuperable barrier between you which has now, conveniently, been removed.’

‘Jo! Number one, she just broke up with him and
number
two, will you shut up? She’s just inside. She’ll hear you!’

‘I haven’t finished. So here’s the biggie, here’s what you have to go figure. When is it OK to date a friend’s ex? And in a target-poor environment, with so many hot women and so few single men to date them, what is the statute of limitations on dating a friend’s ex anyway?’ She’s warming to her theme and might even have started one of her great debates about this topic when the kitchen door bursts open and there’s Charlene, swaying in the door frame.