I Never Fancied Him Anyway (11 page)

She pauses to weigh up her answer and I know I won’t necessarily like what’s coming, but I’m actually pleased. Jo has never told an untruth in her entire life and, good or bad, I know she won’t start now. For God’s sake, this is the woman who told me, to my face, that my last haircut was less Cameron Diaz and more Myra Hindley. Ouch.

‘OK, Cassie, you asked. I knew there was something up as soon as that last caller rang in. There was just this really weird look that came across your face.’

‘Raw panic?’

‘No, more like—’

‘Like someone who mixes medications?’

‘Will you let me answer? You looked like you’d had an epiphany, if that doesn’t sound like something a television evangelist would come out with. Frightened, yes, rabbit-in-the-headlights, yes, but there was something else . . .’

For a second, I can’t talk. Because she’s hit the nail on the head. That’s exactly what it felt like when I first locked eyes with Jack Hamilton. As if I’d just met something I’d been unconsciously searching for.

Oh hell, Jo’s right. It does sound like the verbal equivalent of one of those John Hinde postcards; you know, the ones with donkeys carrying bales of turf on them and girls with red curly hair.

‘Of course, that’s if you happen to believe in predestined romance and all that malarkey, which, as you know, I don’t,’ she adds, bringing both of us right back down to earth with a big, unsubtle bang. ‘It’s utterly demeaning to presuppose that we’re not rational beings with free will who make our own life choices, instead of being at the mercy of a random cosmos.’

‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose,’ I say, desperately trying to see something positive about the situation. ‘For a minute there, I thought you were going to tell me I looked like I had a dose of quadruple diarrhoea and that the nearest loo was in Kazakhstan.’

‘Hmm, now I may not be psychic, but—’

‘I may not be either after this morning. I’m so afraid
I’m
losing it, Jo. What will I do if I can’t see things any more? I’ll lose my column, I’ll be unemployed, I won’t be able to pay our rent—’

‘Oh, come on, you had one tiny blip, you stage-panicked yourself into a spin and now you’ve put two and two together and come up with forty million. Honestly, we should nickname you Hector Projector. In another minute you’ll be visualizing yourself on the side of the road in a cardboard box living off parish relief. Who do you think you are, Heather Mills?’

‘Sorry, hon. That’s what panic attacks do to me. Oh Jo, I wish I knew what happened to me back there. Why couldn’t I see anything?
Why?
’

‘That, I cannot say. However, I’m sensing we need to discuss this further. Meet me for lunch?’

‘Defo.’

‘Usual place?’

‘You got it.’

‘Should I bring valium/alcohol/max-strength rhinoceros tranquillizers?’

‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

‘Keep the head. Stay cool and I’ll see you later!’

She’s probably right. It was only one blip. One small, barely noticeable, teeny-weeny blip. Perceptible only to the select few who know me intimately. Hopefully. With a bit of luck.

I’m sure it was just my nerves playing up and that I’ll
be
back to normal and getting my usual hit rate of flashes in no time. And no, I won’t end up jobless, unemployed and sleeping rough under a bridge with a cardboard sign saying, ‘I used to be psychic but mysteriously lost it all, please give generously.’

Come on, Cassie, pull it together. If you imagine the worst, then that’s what you’ll create
.

Right. Nice, deep, soothing breath.

I hang up the phone and turn to the taxi driver.
Brainwave
. I’ll get him talking and see if I can see anything about his life. Dublin taxi drivers are well known for loving the chat, aren’t they? I mean, I’ve had times when a ten-minute taxi ride ends up taking half an hour because I’d get into such a deep conversation with the driver; they end up telling me their innermost secrets and I get flashes to beat the band. And the last time I got into a big conversation with one, I accurately predicted that he’d get five numbers on the Lotto that Saturday night. He even sent me a bunch of flowers care of the magazine as a thank you and I was only raging that I didn’t think of asking him what the numbers actually were, so I could have made a few extra quid on the side myself.

‘Ehh, sorry about that. Had to take that call,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at him and sitting forward, all set for a good chin-wag.

‘No worries, love.’

‘So. How are things with you then?’

‘Grand.’

‘Busy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you married then? With . . . emm . . . kids, maybe?’

‘Ehh . . . no.’

‘Oh, right.’

A pause.

‘So, no holidays planned or anything?’

‘No. Sorry.’

OK, now he’s looking at me through the rear-view mirror as if I’m some sort of pathetic saddo that’s desperately trying to pick him up. We drive the rest of the way in total silence.

Shit, shit, shit. Just my luck to land the only non-talkative taxi driver in the whole of the greater Dublin area.

When I finally get to the office, I grab the lift, jump out at the fifth floor, Arts and Features (yes, I know a psychic column doesn’t strictly fall into either category, but that’s just where my desk happens to be), and – you won’t believe this – get a big round of applause from everyone who’s there.

‘Heartiest congratulations on a sterling performance, Cassandra my dear,’ says Bob Thornton, the social diarist, coming over and pecking me elegantly on each cheek. ‘Caught the show on the old telly-box just now and may
I
just say, you were the absolute epitome of grace under pressure.’

‘Oh, thanks . . . emm . . . Bob,’ I mutter, mortified at everyone looking at me and feeling, as I always do, cheeky for even calling him by his first name.

Bob, I should point out, is actually Sir Bob, although he doesn’t use his full title as he considers it vulgar ever since, as he puts it, the Queen started knighting supermarket barons and soap stars. He’s wearing a beautifully cut, slightly crumpled white linen suit today, with a pink hankie just peeping out of the top of his breast pocket. In short, he looks as if he just stepped off the set of a Merchant Ivory movie and is having a nice little breather before he goes back to governing India with the rest of his pals from the Raj. All the girls in the office think he’s adorably sweet and cuddly, which, as we all know, is girl-code for: ‘Hmm, very nice guy, absolutely lovely, but let’s face it, probably gay.’

‘May I offer you a refreshing cup of peppermint tea after your ordeal, my dear? I’ve just infused some.’

That’s the other thing about Sir Bob – sorry, I mean Bob. He categorically refuses to go to Starbucks downstairs like the rest of us because he feels it’s tasteless and crude to drink out of paper cups with bits of cardboard wrapped around them. Instead he brings his own cups and saucers to work, on the grounds that the correct way to drink herbal tea is out of posh china and nothing else.
I
wouldn’t mind, but he can’t be any more than about thirty.

‘Oh thanks, Bob, you read my thoughts,’ I say. ‘I’d love one.’

‘Cassie! I’m so bloody
proud
of you!’ squeals Sandra Kelly, coming over to give me one of her trademark bear-hugs. Sandra is the magazine’s restaurant critic and for a split second I have to squint hard to recognize her; not that I’m losing my marbles, at least not entirely, you understand, it’s just that today she’s resplendent in a jet-black, bobbed wig with a huge, face-covering pair of wraparound sunglasses. Sandra, who’s known and feared throughout the restaurant community, once read about a critic in New York who disguised herself every time she went out to eat, on the grounds that this meant she was treated exactly the same way as any other punter, for better or for worse. Worse, usually. Sandra’s reviews have been known to make or break a kitchen and one well-known restaurateur has even nicknamed her Foodzilla of Fleet Street.

‘Saw the
Breakfast Club
and you were a total wow,’ she squeals, thumping me on the back. ‘When you saw yer one’s engagement ring inside her gardening gloves, you should have seen that snotty presenter glaring daggers at you. What’s her name? The one with a face like a beaten tambourine?’

‘Oh, you mean Maura,’ I say, gratefully taking a nice
cuppa
from good old Sir Bob. Sorry, sorry, I mean Bob. ‘Love the new wig, by the way. Very . . . lemme think . . . Dorothy Parker.’

‘You’re on the money, honey. Exactly the look I’m going for. I’m having lunch today at that new place in town—’

Just then Lucy from Features shrieks over from the window, ‘Look out, everyone! Piranha in the tank! Just getting out of a taxi! Now!’

There’s instant panic as people scatter to the four winds, racing back to their desks; Sandra disappears into a lift and immediately a library-like hush descends on the whole office, broken only by the tap-tapping sound of fingernails busily clickety-clacking off keyboards. The only person who looks and behaves exactly as before is Sir Bob, who strolls back to his desk, cool and unflappable, sipping tea from the good china with his little finger up in the air, looking like he’s a guest in the royal enclosure at Ascot.

I should explain. ‘Piranha in the tank’ is the
Tattle
office code word for when our esteemed editor is on her way in. Yes, the Dragon Lady herself. And believe me, you know neither the day nor the hour when she’ll appear. Her actual name is Amanda Crotty and for a while there she was nicknamed Snotty Crotty, but somehow the Dragon Lady just stuck. Honestly, it sums up her personality a helluva lot better.

Here is a vox pop of how we all feel about her, in no particular order.

Secretly, I once had a flash about the Dragon Lady that she’d find love on a gay-and-lesbian mountain hike, but I didn’t dare tell her for fear she’d throw me out of the window. I have a very highly developed sense of self-preservation, as you see.

Anyway, it’s gone as quiet as a tomb in here and I take advantage of the silence to start wading through the mountain of letters waiting for me for next week’s column. I’ve got to see something; I just have to.

OK, focus.

I’m running my fingers over my letters pile, as if I’m some kind of human metal detector or divining rod, willing something to jump out at me and grab my attention, when whaddya know, it does.

It’s handwritten, in spidery writing that I’d swear looks almost tear-splodged. Perfect. A good, juicy relationship dilemma, with a bit of luck. I rip it open.

Not to put too much pressure on myself or anything, but my entire future livelihood depends on what, if anything, I can see here.

Dear Cassandra,

I wouldn’t be writing to you at all, only I’m at my wits’ end here and I really don’t know who else I can turn to. Freud once said that we are never so helplessly unhappy as when we lose love and that’s exactly the position I find myself in.

The thing is, Cassandra, what do you do when your ex moves on and you don’t? It’s barely five months since our break-up and I just found out he’s got engaged to his latest. ENGAGED. No matter what way you look at it, this is meant to be his transitional person; she’s not, under any circumstances, supposed to be The One. I’ve been phoning and texting him and when we first went our separate ways, he would always get back to me and even though we’d broken up,
at
least we’d still talk, but now he doesn’t even return calls. All my friends say I should look through the relationship rear-view mirror and try to focus only on the negative things about our time together. I presume they mean this as a sort of cheer-up-you’re-so-much-better-off-without-him exercise, but the thing is, I can’t do it.

I’m still in love with him. And now he’s with someone else and he’s happy and it’s just killing me. Cassandra, I’m almost thirty-five years old and of course, as everyone around me says, the sensible thing is for me to forget about this guy, get back out there again and try to meet someone else but I just can’t bring myself to, mainly because I really do believe that this is the man for me. It just mightn’t look that way, that’s all. So now I find myself cast in the incredibly embarrassing role of ‘needy and desperate ex who just won’t let go’, and I can just envisage him physically shuddering every time he sees my number coming up on his phone, before he shuts it off. Which he does, every time, unfailingly.

Please understand, Cassandra, I’m neither needy nor desperate; this is purely and simply the way this guy makes me behave. I just can’t believe I’ve turned into this Glenn-Close-from-
Fatal-Attraction
type. For God’s sake, I live in a house where my curtains match the duvet covers. I have wooden floors and underfloor
heating
. This is NOT me. All I want is for this man to re-evaluate me and for us to get back together.

Help me. Please help me.

Barbara in Dublin

Oh God, I suddenly feel so achingly sorry for her. I mean, we’ve all been there, haven’t we? The amount of times I’ve been devastated over a guy and then, after some time has passed, looked at him and thought: ‘This man put my heart through the wringer and all the while I barely made the tiniest little foothold in his.’