Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (41 page)

‘Put it this way: poppy-seed bagels are officially now back on the menu. Either she's getting sense or he's physically boring her and her friends to death. His basic tack was: “My engagement doesn't seem to be working out, so here I am, please disregard everything I ever said about not wanting to make a commitment to you and take me back.” '

‘Do you want me to sort him out for you? Believe you me, by the time I'm finished with him, the rabid dogs on the streets will refuse to feast on his rotting carcass.'

‘Bless you for that lovely sentiment, but I think even he must have got the message by now. I practically slammed the door in his face. OK, I'm coming out now, ready or not.'

I step out of the fitting room and Rachel physically gasps.

‘Bloody hell,' I say when I see my own reflection in the mirror. ‘It's
stunning.
The dress, I mean, not me.'

‘You're breathtaking,' she says, which makes me feel doubly good because Rachel's not given to using superlatives, ever. ‘Just don't let Philip Whatever-his-name-is get drool marks all over it when he's ogling you. It's only borrowed.'

‘Oh, Rachel,' I say, ‘I solemnly swear I will give you my first-born child if I get as much as a stain on it. I'll even send it to that posh dry-cleaner's in Paris where
Rania of Jordan gets her clothes dry-cleaned. I have never felt this good in anything in my entire life.'

She winks at me just as a last-minute customer comes in who she has to go and deal with. I loiter in front of the mirror, feeling utterly sensational in the dress and doing a quick creative visualization on me standing on the podium, receiving the award.

‘Ahem, ahem. I'd like to thank my best friends for putting up with me over the last few weeks, when I've been such a complete nightmare to be around. Not only because of the long hours I've put in on
Celtic Tigers
, but because, you see, I've been doing a night course where you have to track down all your ex-boyfriends, with hilarious and sometimes quite crushing consequences. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize unreservedly to my nearest and dearest for being such a pain in the face while I gamely endured humiliation after humiliation in my quest to find a husband. Oh, and by the way, if there are any kind-hearted, single male viewers watching who would be at all interested in taking me out on a date, my mobile number is now being flashed across the bottom of your screens. Or you could always text your number, along with a brief biography, to DESPERADO 1850 321321 and I'll be in touch. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you.'

Don't worry; I didn't say any of this out loud.

Rachel is a good while dealing with her customer, so
I carefully step out of the dress and put it safely back into its plastic covering.

Nine ex-boyfriends done and one to go, I start thinking as I patiently wait for her by the cash register. I start humming that Frank Sinatra song, ‘My Way', you know, the line about the end being near and having to face the final curtain.

And then, what do you know, I'm off again …

THE TIME: December 1999.

THE PLACE: The
News Time
TV studio.

THE OCCASION: The end of a very heated debate between the Minister for Health, the editor of the
Irish Press
and a young, up-and-coming county councillor by the name of Bill Yeats …

‘And we're out,' I say into the headset as the programme wraps. ‘Well done, everyone, what a fantastic show!'

The debate made for electrifying television. If the Minister thought he was in for a very easy ride on tonight's show, boy did he have another thing coming. Bill Yeats went for him like a dreadnought. You name it, he tackled it: every issue you could think of from the Y2K bug to the social-housing issue, from immigration to people dying on hospital trolleys, Bill Yeats kept the questions coming like bullets from a sniper. At one point, the camera actually caught
droplets of sweat rolling down the Minister's heated, red face.

Needless to say, he didn't linger long after the broadcast.

No sooner were we ‘out' than he left the studio and disappeared off into the night in the back of his government Mercedes. I never even got the chance to thank him for agreeing to do the show, which is a shame because it's highly unlikely he'll ever want to come back on again. Not after tonight.

‘Looks terrible that he didn't even stay for a drink afterwards,' says Anne,
News Time
's incredibly hardworking production assistant.

‘Yeah, doesn't it?' I agree. ‘The incredible sulk.'

‘But what about Bill Yeats?' she says. ‘Isn't he something?'

I know just what she means. Without being handsome in a conventional way (think less Alec Baldwin and more Billy), he has the ‘it' factor in spades. Charisma, energy, fire and passion. That along with a great body and the deepest green eyes you ever saw.

Anne and I both look at each other and ask the question simultaneously. ‘Wonder if he's single?'

We make our way downstairs to the hospitality room, or the hostility room as I've nicknamed it. Predictably enough, it's packed with all the crew, dying for a well-earned drink after such a rollercoaster of a show.

There's a group of girls from the make-up department clustered around Bill Yeats, all proffering giddy, hysterical congratulations. Anne and I both head for the bar and I'm just about to order some drinks when there's a gentle tap on my shoulder.

It's him, Bill.

‘Hello. Amelia, isn't it?'

‘Yes, hi, lovely to meet you. Well done out there tonight. You were so …' I want to say sexy but have to remind myself that I'm a fully fledged producer now and producers don't come out with that kind of teenage drivel. ‘… so … emm … great.'

Well done, Amelia. Big improvement on ‘sexy'. Way to go …

‘I really just wanted to thank you for inviting me on to the show tonight. Sure, I couldn't buy a slot like that. I was dying to have a go at the Minister and you were great to let me loose at him. Plenty of producers would have gone for the safe option and cut to an ad break.'

‘Are you kidding me? This will be such a ratings hit. Audiences
love
this kind of thing. I'm really pleased with tonight's show. Wish they were all like this.'
Wish all the guests were like you, is what I really mean to say, you get my first preference in an election any time.

‘It's fierce crowded in here altogether, isn't it?' he says. ‘And to be honest with you, I think I've done enough networking for one night. I don't suppose you
fancy going back to my local for a quiet jar? Sure, the least you can do is let me buy you a drink. After all the great exposure you're after giving me on the show, like.'

It was as simple as that.

He took me to a pub on Parkgate Street and we spent the whole night chatting. When I look back on it, we had so much in common back then. We were both young, hungry and with that single-minded determination to succeed that you only really get once in your life. It's as if we both knew we were on the right course career-wise and, by God, we were going to make it work.

Before long, he was my proper, official boyfriend.

We made a great team. Every local protest meeting or fundraising do he had to go to, I was at his side. (Well, I always fancied being a politician's wife, except I was thinking more in the Jackie Kennedy/Eva Peron mode.) I must have canvassed the length and breadth of his constituency with him and he in turn would come to each and every one of my
News Time
broadcasts and coach me in how best to sharpen my questions and tighten up the show's format.

Jamie even had a nickname for us: Bamelia. You know, like Billary for Bill and Hillary Clinton. I loved it. Bill and Amelia … Bamelia …

‘Amelia?'

‘Oh, sorry.'

‘You'd drifted off there,' says Rachel. ‘Come on, I'm all locked up. Let's GTFOOH.'

(That's her codeword for ‘get the f**k out of here'. Very handy in nightclubs when we both want to make a speedy getaway without attracting attention to ourselves. Her other great one is MEGO, meaning ‘my eyes glaze over'. Equally handy for indicating when someone's boring the arse off you.)

Leaving the shop is a bit like one of those World War One movies where the infantry ‘go over the top', as Rachel has to check and double check that poor Gormless Gordon isn't looking out the window of the bistro he runs across the street, in the hope he can catch her. Rumour has it that he has binoculars trained on the door of Urban Chic at all times.

‘Coast clear,' she says. ‘On my count, run for it. One, two, three, GO!'

We make it safely to my car without being accosted.

‘I was just thinking about my last and final ex-boyfriend,' I say, starting up the engine.

‘Oh yeah, the politician guy. Bill, wasn't it? I love politics. It's kind of show business for ugly people. Remind me why you broke up with him?'

Rachel was still in Paris when I was seeing Bill and so was kind of out of the loop, gossip-wise.

‘It was a classic case of relationship fizzle,' I say thoughtfully. ‘There was no falling out or argument, nothing like that. Our careers just took each of us in
very different directions. At the time, we were both flat-out workaholics. He's done very well for himself since though, so not being with me clearly agreed with him. He's a backbencher now but, mark my words, he'll have a ministry one day.'

‘Isn't he married to that awful woman? What's her real name again?'

‘Ugh, Claire. Yup, they're still married. Do you think she'd let a guy like that out of her sight?'

If ever there was a straw poll taken of Ireland's least popular public figures, Claire Yeats would be right up there along with the two fellas who put VAT on children's shoes and banned smoking in the workplace respectively.

She came from a political family, her father was Minister for Finance and her grandfather had been one of the founders of the fledgling State. Nothing would do for her though but to become a household name in her own right, so, a few years back, she invited a documentary team into her home to film a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Bill came out of it smelling of roses but, unfortunately, Claire's attempt at styling herself as a ‘people's politician's wife' was a public-relations disaster. I remember seeing the programme at the time and a few choice quotes of hers still linger in the memory.

‘We paid five hundred thousand for this house and now it's worth three million, I'll have you know,' she'd
said to camera, ‘so ye needn't all hate me just because I bought at the right time. The cost of keeping it up is ridiculous. Sure, I have to employ a full-time housekeeper, an ironing lady
and
a gardener. The villa in Marbella costs a fortune to run too and we're expected to entertain when we're down there so it all adds up. And that's all coming out of a politician's salary, you know. Sure, by the time all the bills are paid, I barely have enough left over to run the Mercedes and the BMW. You needn't talk to me about the poverty line.'

The papers had a field day as you can imagine. They crowned the programme with the nickname ‘The Claire Witch Project' and the name stuck. Now every time you see a picture of her and Bill in the tabloids, the tagline always reads: ‘Mr Bill Yeats and his wife, the Claire Witch'.

‘Last on your list, I can't believe it,' says Rachel, rolling down the car window so she can have a fag. Then she looks at me astutely. ‘So, now. Tell me honestly. As one who was violently opposed to you doing the whole bloody course in the first place, here's the million-dollar question. Was it worth it?'

Just as I'm about to answer, a not-at-all-bad-looking guy smoking outside a pub spots Rachel and shouts at her, as we're sitting stuck in traffic, ‘Heya! Gorgeous! Are you coming in? I'll let you buy me a pint.'

‘Piss off,' snaps Rachel without a second glance.

All perfectly normal, just the lethal Rachel pheromone in action on a Friday night. I turn to face her. ‘I'll tell you what I've learned,' I say, slowly. ‘Romance is very much alive and well. It's just not returning my calls.'

 

I've come this far, I think the following morning as I pull my car up outside Bill's constituency office in Phibsboro. I've nothing to lose.

I had rung his office that morning, fully expecting an answering machine, but to my surprise, his secretary answered and said he was having a clinic from ten till four. Brilliant. It's a good sign.

I go inside the office, which is dark, a bit dingy and unwelcoming, like a doctor's surgery. There're three other people sitting on very uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs and I join them.

I notice I'm the only one under the age of about seventy, but then I'm not here on constituency business. Not by a long shot.

There's a lot of coughing and shuffling and the wait is so long that I'm seriously thinking I might just chicken out and leave a message with his secretary instead, but then my recurrent image comes back to haunt me. The headless groom, the Vera Wang … Except in this head rush, I'm almost on the verge of turning into Miss Havisham, with rotting teeth and cobwebs all over my decaying dress and rats eating the wedding cake …

The door opens and out comes Bill, shaking hands with an elderly pensioner. ‘Don't be worrying now, Mrs Murphy, we'll sort out that medical card for you in no time. Go on home now, love, and remember the council elections are coming up soon and you know what we always say to the party faithful. Vote early and vote often!'

He spots me (well, I must look like a foetus compared with the rest of them) and is over to me like a shot. ‘Amelia Lockwood! Well, look at you! It's only great to see so, so it is! Come in, come in, till I chat to you properly,' he says, steering me into his office.