Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (43 page)

‘What?'

‘You know the way he's so abrupt? He barked at me, “What have you done to your hair? It's a completely different colour from the last time I saw you.” So I said, “Yes, Philip, it's highlighted. Lots of women do it, all very normal, you know.” And he said, “You show me a natural blonde and I'll show you a dirty big liar.” Can you
believe
him?'

‘Philip Burkeisms, I call them.'

‘Whatever. He's very lucky to be with you tonight, otherwise we'd all be too terrified to talk to him.' Then she gives me a tight hug. ‘Good luck, Amelia. We're all rooting for you!'

I make it back to our table just in time, as they're rolling out the opening credits, with a fanfare of drum rolls. The lights dim and it's all very exciting, like being at the Oscars or the Baftas, I imagine.

‘Another two minutes and you'd have been late,' says Philip.

OK, now I'm starting to think asking him to be my date has been a horrible mistake.
Just wait till I get my hands on Mags when I see her in class next week …

I smile at him and grit my teeth.
I will get through this night. Attitude is everything and I have a very positive attitude – once I don't have to go up to the podium and make
a speech, that is … At least I gave Philip a whirl, so that's something, isn't it?

Our host for the evening is a well-known stand-up comedian called Jay Jones who comes bouncing out and immediately gets the party rolling with a hilarious opening set, basically slagging the knickers off everyone. He even does an impression of Good Grief O'Keefe trying to cry and I have to stuff a napkin in my mouth, I'm laughing so hard, while she just sits at the table looking stonily ahead. My mobile phone is on silent, but it lights up with a text message.

Jamie:
U R ON TV! TAKE THAT F**KING NAPKIN OUT OF YOUR GOB RIGHT NOW
!!!

Oh shit
. I look around me for the camera. There it is, right behind me, a hand-held one, circulating the tables. I shove the napkin back on the table and clasp my hands in front of me, trying my best to look demure.

The first few awards are all in the technical categories: best lighting, sound, editing and effects. This basically means that everyone not directly involved can go up to the bar to get as many rounds in before the major gongs are handed out.

‘Would somebody else mind getting this round?' says Philip. ‘I don't want to break a fifty.'

Yet another Philip Burkeism in a whole sea of them; at one point he called Dave's wife Martini. Her actual name is Olive.

Then the best actress award, which goes to an actress who played a leading role in a hospital drama series. She's a popular winner and it's the first standing ovation of the night.

‘This time next year, it'll be you,' I hiss over to Sadie and she beams and blushes.

Then best actor, which goes to a well-known theatre actor for a film where he played a gangland crime lord. I haven't seen the movie but from the clip they showed of it, the award was well deserved; he was so impressive: terrifying, chilling, scary.

Jamie texts:
OH PLEASE, THEY SHOWED THE ONLY DECENT BIT IN THAT WHOLE MOVIE AND NOW YOU ALL THINK THAT GUY'S FAB. REST OF THE FILM WAS TOTAL CRAP
.

Then a text from Rachel:
NEXT AWARD IS BEST PRODUCER. PUT LIP GLOSS ON NOW BUT CHECK NO CAMERA POINTING AT YOU FIRST
.

Then one from Caroline.
I CAN'T LOOK!!! AM HIDING BEHIND SOFA!!! GOOD LUCK DARLING. AM PRAYING FOR YOU
!!!

‘She and her friends can't go to the loo without texting each other twenty times,' I hear Philip saying to Dave.

I take a deep, soothing breath.

There's a hand-held camera pointing right at me, which I do my best to ignore, looking straight ahead to where Jay Jones is about to read out the nominees'
names. It's as if everything is happening in slow motion.

‘Best producer time,' says Jay, from the podium. ‘Don't worry; all the nominees here will have plenty of time to buttonhole them and harass them for work later. We're even showing close-ups so you all know what they look like.'

Big roll of laughter.

I look up at a TV monitor behind the stage and see myself, in glorious Technicolor. I smile and concentrate on breathing.

It'll all be over in a few minutes.

‘The first nominee for best producer is Kevin O'Dea for
Expensive Ireland
.'

Thunderous applause. I know Kevin well – we trained as producers together – and I almost blister my hands I'm clapping so hard for him.

I'd so love it if he won. Then I wouldn't have to talk in public.

A clip of his show follows, which was an exposé on how consumers are being ripped off in overpriced Ireland and was a huge ratings winner.

‘Hang on to your seats, folks, our next nominee is none other than Frederick Jordan-Murphy for
Undersea Odyssey
.'

Massive applause. Frederick Jordan-Murphy is probably the best known of all the nominees, as he scripts, presents and produces the series, which is a
widely popular nature documentary with the most stunning camerawork you've ever seen. Sharks mating in shallow water, that type of thing.

‘Fifty euro says he wins,' says Philip.

‘Our third nominee is Patrick Griffin for
The Ward
,' says Jay to even louder applause. ‘Just about the only medical drama that can make
ER
look like a bunch of under-fives dressing up as doctors and nurses.'

I look around to where Patrick Griffin is sitting at the table directly behind us, looking like he's had one or two brandies too many. He's a big, florid man, sitting well back in his chair with his arms draped around two very pretty blonde girls, who look like they're having great crack altogether. And then I see.

It's one of those weird things, almost like an out-of-body experience, where you find yourself thinking:
Is this really happening? Now? Tonight? To Me?

Striding through the ballroom door, looking like he owns the place, comes
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken.

Oh dear God, please let me be hallucinating …

No, it's him. Being pursued at a discreet distance by a hotel security guard.

I want to either (
a
) pass out, (
b
) throw up or (
c
) break into a run and, as Rachel would say, GTFOOH as fast as I can in six-inch heels. But I can't, because my award is about to be announced.

He spots me.

Before I even have time to wipe the beads of worry sweat from my face, he's over to where I'm sitting.

It's as if it's all unfolding in sickening slow motion. First of all I hear Jay Jones calling out my name. I'm dimly aware that there's deafening applause and a lot of foot-stomping from everyone at our table. Next thing,
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
is down on bended knee right beside where I'm sitting.

They cut to a clip of the show. Thank God, at least I'm not on live TV.

For the moment.

‘Amelia, will you look at me?' he's saying although the whooshing body-rush sensation I'm feeling is blocking a lot of it out.

Everyone at the table is staring at me and I just want to die.

‘What's
he
doing here?' asks Philip.

Someone must ask him who it is that's kneeling on the floor like an eejit beside me, because then I clearly hear Philip saying, ‘Her ex-boyfriend.'

It's like Chinese whispers all round the table; all I can pick up is: ‘Ex-boyfriend'; ‘What does he want?'; ‘Will someone get rid of him before the winner's name is called out?'

Then Jay makes a huge show of opening the envelope.

By now,
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
has grabbed my hand and won't let go.

‘Get off!' I manage to hiss at him, but he just grips on tighter.

‘And the winner is … oh, I'm so happy!'

‘Amelia, I want to marry you.'

‘What did you say?' I turn to him, mortified at the scene we're causing.

‘I said I want to marry you.'

I look at him, stunned. So does everyone else within hearing distance and then …

‘Best producer is … Amelia Lockwood for
Celtic Tigers
!'

A roar of applause and now I think I'll faint.

There's a camera practically up my nostril and everyone is staring at me and my phone keeps beep-beeping as a load of texts from the Lovely Girls come through and all the time
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
won't release this iron grip he has on my hand.

I stand up and try to shake him off, but I can't.

I'm in deep, total shock but somewhere at the back of my mind, I know I now have to get up to the podium where Jay is standing with a big trophy, looking at me.

They're all looking at me.

The applause gradually dies down.

The silence will haunt me to my grave.

‘I asked you to marry me,' repeats
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
, slowly, calmly. You'd swear
he had this planned. ‘I made the biggest mistake in my life when I let you go and now I'm asking. On bended knee. In front of all these people. Will you marry me?'

It's a nightmare. On the huge screen behind the stage all I can see is a giant close-up of my face, scarlet with sheer mortification and what's worse is that
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
seems to be getting a kick out of the fact that there are probably a million people watching this at home.

‘Come on, Amelia. Don't all women love big, romantic gestures?'

I don't know how, but somehow I manage to break free from him and stumble up to the stage. Jay reaches down for my hand and helps me up the steps.

I'm the only winner in history who has to walk up to collect their award in absolute, stony silence.

Jay hands me the trophy. ‘Quite a side show you had going there,' he quips. ‘I'm the draw here, you know. There'll be no upstaging.'

There's a tiny ripple of laughter and I realize that I'll have to speak. There's no way out of it.
Make a joke,
says my inner voice.
Just do it quick. Anything, absolutely anything's better than the silence.
‘Thank … thank you all so much,' I say into the microphone, in a tiny voice that you'd swear was coming from a continent away.

Three hundred faces are looking up at me.
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
is still at my table, just standing there.

‘Well,' I say, ‘as you'll all have noticed, I was very unprepared for this.'

A ripple of laughter.

‘If you saw that as a plot on
Celtic Tigers
you probably wouldn't believe it.'

More laughs.

Then someone at the very front table shouts up at me, ‘So will you marry him? Poor eejit is standing there waiting on an answer.'

Murmurings and mutterings, which in my shocked state I can somehow still take in.

‘No, I won't,' I hear myself saying.

There's an audible gasp.

‘I'm sorry, but if you all knew the full story, you wouldn't either.'

More shocked ripples and murmurings.

‘Are you with this guy? Is that what the problem is?' says
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
, pointing at Philip.

‘No,' Philip and I both say in unison.

Then, for even further public humiliation on live TV, Philip adds, ‘I'm not her boyfriend.'

‘Ahhh, go on, marry him,' someone shouts from the back row. ‘That's very romantic what he's doing. You can't dump the poor guy in public like this.'

A sort of chant starts up. ‘SAY YES! SAY YES! SAY YES!'

‘You don't understand, none of you understands,' I
almost wail. ‘He dumped
me
in the worst way possible and if it weren't for my best friends I'd never have got through it.'

‘Why did he do that?' asks Jay, who's standing right beside me.

‘You know yourself, wouldn't make the commitment. He said it wasn't me, he didn't want to be with anyone,' I answer, almost forgetting that there's a microphone in front of me. ‘And by the way, if there's anyone watching who's with a guy who says he doesn't want to make a commitment, let me translate. It just means he doesn't want to make a commitment to
you
.'

A few tsks-tsks from the audience.

‘Then, only a few months later he got engaged to a twenty-three-year-old.'

There's a tiny bit of booing from the back of the ballroom now.

‘Then they moved in right across the road from me.'

Now the booing's growing and beginning to get scary.

‘Then his fiancée got second thoughts about him and he tried to come back to me. He thought it was just going to be that easy.'

‘Don't do it, Amelia!' I can hear a woman's voice shout. ‘Say no!'

‘I am saying no. No, all the way. He doesn't love me. If he did, he'd have asked me to marry him when
we were together. He'd plenty of opportunity. We were together years. He just wants someone to pick up the pieces for him. No. Not me. It's not good enough.'

Tears are streaming down my face now and the audience start cheering. Now there's a new chant. ‘SAY NO! SAY NO! SAY NO!'

My voice sounds stronger now. I can see
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
being forcefully escorted towards the exit by security, and I smile, relieved.

Mortified, but relieved.

They're still all looking at me and I decide to go out on a gag. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,' I say firmly. ‘I'm so sorry you had to witness that. I'm used to humiliation, but not quite on this scale or in front of so large a crowd. Believe you me, I will be recounting the last few minutes of my life on therapists' couches for years to come. I will now use this award to bash my ex over the head with for putting all of you through the last few, excruciating minutes. Thank you all again!'