I Never Fancied Him Anyway (33 page)

FOR ONCE I’M
actually delighted to get into the office and put Charlene and her antics behind me. I make a mental note to phone Jo and arrange to meet her for lunch, mainly so I can let off steam before we get back to the house and face into yet more histrionics. Bloody hell. This sure as hell feels like a high karmic price to pay for fancying her ex.

Anyway, onwards and upwards. Have to put her out of my head. I’ve a full day’s work to get through.

The minute I step out of the lift and head into the office, I immediately sense that there’s something up. God, the place is really buzzing, Sir Bob is here, Lucy from Features and Sandra Kelly, our resident restaurant critic (ringlety red wig today, which makes her look very Nicole Kidman in her Tom Cruise days, by way of Little Red Riding Hood). Anyway, the gang of them are all clustered around the desk beside mine, over by the window.

‘And here’s our resident televisual star,’ says Sir Bob, in that cute way he has of making it sound as if television was only invented yesterday. God only knows how he
ever
came to terms with the internet or mobile phones or the three-pin plug. ‘Come over, dear, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.’

They part like the Red Sea and there he is.

‘Cassandra, this is Valentine. Valentine, meet Cassandra.’

Ooh, here we go
. . .

Now
I see what all the fuss is about. OK, so he may not be good-looking in a movie-star way, more cuddly in an introduce-him-to-your-mammy way, but he’s incredibly attractive, really tall, light brown hair, twinkly blue eyes and a lovely warm smile.

‘Ah, now, the famous Cassandra,’ he says, standing up to shake my hand and making direct eye contact – and it’s for real and not a put-on act, like some people do. (Well, when I say some people, I’m really referring to the professional slick-ass type of guy that’s out there, namely Oliver.
Ugh
.)

‘Sure, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here in the first place.’ Valentine smiles warmly at me. ‘You’re like my lucky star, so you are.’

I laugh, instantly liking him and his gorgeous soft West of Ireland accent. You know how sometimes you meet new people and you feel as if you’ve known them for years and years? There’s a theory that when this does happen, it’s usually because your paths
have
actually crossed somewhere before, in a past life. Well, I dunno, who’s to say? Maybe Valentine and I were
slaves
manacled together in ancient Egypt building the pyramids or something. Frankly, who cares. He seems like a lovely guy, I get a great feeling about him and – let’s be honest – sweethearts like him are fairly thin on the ground in this city.

‘Welcome to the wonderful world of
Tattle
,’ I say, grinning at him. ‘It sucks; you’re going to love it.’

‘And if there’s anything we can help you with,
please
let me know,’ Lucy purrs at him, eyelashes batting like butterfly shutters on a digital camera. She might as well have a thought balloon coming out of her head, like you see on cartoons, that says, ‘Let me pinch you; you’re not real!’

‘Hey, maybe we could take you out after work?’ says Sandra hopefully. ‘You know, just to celebrate your first day here. I know a great Italian place, Dunne and Crecenzi’s,
the
best arrabiata in town, without question, no dress code, very relaxed ambience—’

‘Or else I just got an invitation to a fashion show this evening,’ says Lucy, determined not to be outdone. ‘It’s in CHQ, which is like this wayyyyy cool venue and there’s an after-show party . . .’ She trails off and this time her thought balloon is saying, ‘Wait up, hang on, get smart; if it’s a fashion show there will be models there, models equal competition; do I really want to introduce this hunk of West of Ireland gorgeousness to other attractive women?’

‘Or we could take you to a rather interesting gallery opening I’ve been asked to tonight,’ says Sir Bob, and I’m thinking,
Et tu?
God, if you’re a single man in this city, all you really have to do is pick and choose. Gay, straight, whatever your preference really.

Anyway, I don’t have any glamorous invitations to throw into the mix – well, apart from coming back to the madhouse I live in to chance his arm with Charlene’s cooking. Plus the cat fight we’ll most likely have later on. No, not a very tempting offer.

‘Ah, you’re awful good,’ says Valentine, smiling his big twinkly-eyed grin at them all. ‘But, sure, would you look at the amount of yokes I’m after getting asked to just this evening alone.’ He picks up just one invitation from a groaning pile on the desk and reads it aloud. ‘“You are cordially invited to an event to mark the launch of AROMATHERAPEE, our stunning new range of bathroom fragrances, for him and for her. Clarence Hotel, six p.m”.’

‘Goodness me,’ says Sir Bob, ‘bathroom fragrances, what on earth can that be?’

‘Posh word for air freshener?’ says Sandra helpfully.

‘Or toilet bleach?’ I offer.

‘Then I’ve to go to speed dating at eight,’ says Valentine, wading through yet more gilt-edged invites, ‘and I’m supposed to be at the Comedy Cellar at eleven to see a comedy improvisation troupe or something.
Apparently
the girls that perform in it are all single too. Honest to God, lads, I don’t know how I’ll last the pace. And Ireland are playing Cyprus tonight and all, so I’ll have to fit that in somewhere too. Jaypurs, I’ll be lucky if I’m still standing by the end of the night.’

‘Soccer? Really, how interesting,’ says Sir Bob, smiling politely but (I sense) losing all interest in the conversation.

‘Piranha in the tank!’ Lucy squeals as a text message comes through from the receptionist at her desk outside by the lift to let us know the Dragon Lady is on her way in. ‘Quick, back to work!’

We all scatter to the four winds and poor Valentine is left looking a bit lost.

‘I’ll explain to you later,’ I whisper, plonking down at my desk and whipping off my jacket to make it look as if I’ve been hard at work for ages. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just our editor on her way in. She’ll probably go easy on you ’cos it’s your first day.’ I almost have to laugh at how bewildered he looks.

‘Piranha in the tank?’ he asks me.

‘Yeah, it’s our code word for “Get back to your desk and look as if you’re actually doing something for a change.” Kind of like those early-warning systems they have in military bases. Of course, normally she would send ahead her team of flying monkeys.’

‘Oh right.’

‘Valentine! I’m messing!’ Aw, I’m thinking, you should just see him. He looks so adorably cute when he’s thrown in at the deep end like this: one of those guys who just brings out the nurturing side in women. Honestly, all you want to do is bring him home and feed him a big meat and potato dinner.

Anyway, in bursts the Dragon Lady, in a very fetching bright red Chanel-type jacket, the first time I think I’ve ever seen her actually wearing a colour and not head-to-toe in black. She spots him instantly with that radar she has and is over like a bullet.

‘You must be Valentine. Come this way,’ she says, walking right past him without stopping. He looks imploringly at me and I make a face that he should follow her into her inner office/lair of the she-wolf/ torture chamber, and off he goes, with every female eye in the office following after him.

The oestrogen level in the office drops considerably the minute he’s out of sight, and the silence helps me think. OK, so I know I saw tons of single women all hurling themselves at Valentine like brickbats and, yes, that’s still most definitely on the cards. For the foreseeable future. In the short term. But I can’t help wondering if, further down the line, he might just turn out to be a nice fella for our Jo . . . Mmm, the plot thickens . . .

Anyway. To work. You should just see the amount of
letters
waiting for me. And not only that, but there’s a yellow Post-it sticker from the lads down in the dispatch department that says, ‘Cassandra, this represents only about 40 per cent of the letters that arrived for you. Can’t fit the rest of them on your desk.’

Bloody hell. That’s not even including the emails. Ho hum, that’s the power of television for you.

Right, concentrate. OK, computer on. I will remember that I’m a serious focused working professional and will resist the temptation to check out my favourite website: www.lastminuteholidays.com

I do not believe this. Fifty-seven emails waiting for me.
Fifty-seven
. I seriously do not get paid enough and will definitely ask the Dragon Lady for a pay rise next time I’m feeling (a) kamikaze enough or (b) am just slaughtered drunk and will do just about anything.

I randomly click on one from my mum, which was just sent this morning.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
Opening night!

Hello darling,

You were great on the telly this morning; although I had my heart in my throat when you told that rude caller you couldn’t
see
anything. Margaret was here and she said it served her right. By the way, she says to tell you the operation on her veins was 100% successful and to thank you so much for telling her she’d be grand. She’s here beside me now telling me you were dead right, the surgeon was a Pisces with dark eyes and from Ghana.

Anyway, love, just to remind you that the opening night of the musical society show is the weekend after next, on Sunday. I’ll put you down for four tickets, for you and all your friends. It’s
The Sound of Music
this year, you’ll remember, and I’m playing two parts, third nun and elegant lady at the von Trapps’ party. We had to get a professional singer to play Maria, you know yourself, because unfortunately that character holds the whole show together really, and you’ve no idea how difficult it is to find someone who not only looks right but who can sing and dance AND act. Triple threat, as our director Mrs Nugent says.

Margaret feels very strongly about this, though, because she IS a trained soprano and feels she would have been absolutely perfect in the part. Sure, under stage lights and in that hall where the front row is miles away from you, anyone can look early twenties if you ask me.

Anyway, I’m going back to make the costumes. The nuns’ habits are a doddle but we’re having a nightmare with the Nazi
uniforms
. Much love to our little princess and I’ll see you at the show!

Mum xxx

Thank God she emailed to remind me. I had
totally
forgotten. Memo to self: be less scatty and remember to prioritize family commitments.

Then another email catches my eye but for very different reasons.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
Guest speaker

Dear Cassandra,

Firstly please excuse my writing to you care of the magazine you work for, but unfortunately I didn’t know how else to contact you. As a like-minded person, it is my great pleasure to invite you to our inaugural ‘Ghost Convention’, this Halloween, October 31.

At this point I have to stop and rub my eyes in disbelief. There’s a National Ghost Convention?

We’ve chosen the eerie Kilmainham Jail in Dublin as the
ideal
venue because of the number of reported sightings, which have included nineteenth-century prisoners and guards mingling with the tourists. In what promises to be a highly ‘spirited’ affair, guest speakers – including witches, wizards, psychics such as yourself and academics – will gather we hope to swap ghost stories and, as the song lyric goes, ‘break on through to the other side.’

We’re particularly excited as, to mark our convention, we have been asked to nominate a guest for a Halloween special on television. The
Late Night Talk
show, to be exact. Dear Cassandra, we would be deeply honoured if you would consider appearing on our behalf. You already have such a wonderful television profile, which would be a huge asset to us.

May I add on a personal note that through your highly successful
Breakfast Club
appearances you have done a huge amount to dispel once and for all the myth that psychics and clairvoyants are mere charlatans, unscrupulously cashing in on a gullible public, hungry for answers. Gone for ever is the image of a gnarled spinster cradling a cat with one hand whilst stirring a cauldron with the other, casting wicked spells, when we have a beautiful, glowing young lady such as yourself speaking such sense and wisdom about all things spiritual and making such accurate predictions on television every week.

As I always say, spirits are our next-door neighbours. We are all going where they are some day and, in my experience, they’re never here to cause us harm. In fact, invariably the opposite is the case.

Many thanks again, Cassandra, and I look forward to hearing from you,

Richard Bryan

Acting President, the National Ghost Convention

Wow. I immediately click on the ‘Reply’ key to accept the invitation. The convention sounds fun, somewhere full of, as he says, like-minded people. And then to be asked to go on
Late Night Talk?
Way-hey, what an honour!

Late Night Talk
, I should explain, is a hugely popular chat show, very prestigious, almost like a national institution. It’s completely unique as a programme because, in the space of a single show, you could have Bill Clinton plugging his new book, followed by a hot movie star, followed by a debate about the rise in the price of stamps in which the audience are allowed to join in and, well, things can get very heated. You get the picture.

Put it this way, my mother will be boasting about this to Margaret and the entire cast of
The Sound of Music
from now till opening night.

And yes, he did give me a sweet compliment in his email but somehow the picture I’m getting of Richard Bryan is . . . yup, there he is, I see him. Seventies, but looks trim and fit, white-haired with deep blue eyes.

Oh shit, is that him I’m seeing or Ian McKellan as Gandalf in
Lord of the Rings?
Nope, definitely Richard.