I Never Fancied Him Anyway (17 page)

God, I feel like I’m a contestant on
The Apprentice
who’s about to be fired. ‘Emm . . . yes, Mr Ferguson.’

‘How much are you making then?’

If it was anyone else, you’d tell them where to go for asking such a personal question, but Charlene’s dad makes all of us regress a bit and, right now, I’m stammering like the fifteen-year-old who once talked Charlene into climbing over the back wall late at night and going to a school disco to meet boys, when we were meant to be having an innocent sleepover at her house. When Mr Ferguson found out (we were caught on security camera, so he had actual videotaped evidence of our shenanigans), the consequences were terrible and, for a time, all contact between us was banned. Well, until my parents intervened and calmed him down a bit, that is. ‘Emm . . . well, my job isn’t really about money; I have enough, thank God,’ I stammer. ‘The way I see it, my column is more about helping people . . .’

He just nods, a bit disapprovingly. Money, I should point out, is the beginning, middle and end of Mr Ferguson’s day and I think he can’t quite see the point of Jo and me and our total lack of ambition to go forth
and
earn six-figure salaries, like he was doing at our age. He turns to Jo. ‘And what about you?’

‘Same answer,’ she shrugs. ‘Money is
not
a motivator for me either, I’m afraid. Never was, never will be.’

God, Jo’s brave. She’ll be hitting him for a good tax-deductible donation to Amnesty International next.

‘So, making much in the fitness game?’ Mr Ferguson says to Marc with a C. ‘Boom industry at the moment. Boom economy. You should be doing well.’

‘Not enough to keep me in those,’ says Marc with a C, very cheekily indicating Mr Ferguson’s Salvatore Ferragamo shirt with the solid gold cufflinks. ‘Besides, my job is kind of more about meeting people, dating people, seeing sweaty guys work out in tight Lycra. It’s all about the perks, if you catch my drift.’

Marc with a C, I should point out, hasn’t known Mr Ferguson as long as Jo and I have and is therefore that bit more fearless around him. ‘Now, would you all excuse me if I run to the bathroom?’ he throws in for good measure. ‘I’ve spotted a cute guy and you know me! I can never flirt on a full bladder.’

‘Hey, I’ll come with you!’ says Jo, dying to make her escape, and the pair of them scarper, practically leaving a trail of dust in their wake. Luckily, I’m rescued by Mr Ferguson’s long-term girlfriend, Marilyn, who spots me and immediately comes over, giving me a big warm hug.

‘Hey, Cassie, I caught you on the TV the other day – you were so
fab!
I see huge, and by that I really mean
huge
, things for you, honey. You’re so televisual.’

‘Wow, thanks, Marilyn,’ I say, gratefully hugging her right back.

I’ve always liked Marilyn. She’s maybe fortyish, but closer in age to us than to Mr Ferguson; an ex-model (most of his girlfriends are) who now works as a highly successful casting director on movies and commercials.

She’s actually lovely to be around but it’s very hard on Charlene, as you can imagine, not helped by the fact that Mr Ferguson keeps holding Marilyn up as a role model of the perfect career girl who’s gone out there and made something of herself, whilst being fiercely critical of Charlene for her general ‘lack of direction in life’, as he sees it. Charlene, who’s a great one for using humour as a defence mechanism whenever she’s
really
hurting, has retaliated by nicknaming Marilyn ‘the Diva in a D-cup’. She also claims (a bit unfairly) that Marilyn both looks and dresses like a drag queen and she keeps saying, ‘So who knew Mae West had children?’ at the top of her voice whenever she’s around. Honest to God, this family would make the Osbournes look sane and functional.

‘So what about this guy that Charlene’s seeing, then?’ Marilyn asks me, grabbing my arm and thankfully steering me well away from Mr Ferguson. ‘Jack something,
isn
’t it? Come on, Cassie, spill the beans. What’s he like? Have you met him?’

OK, here we go. Just stay nice and calm. Cool and dignified win the day. And loyalty towards my friend, of course.

Oh yeah, and please remember to stop blushing and being so bloody adolescent; you’re behaving like a schoolgirl with a full-blown crush every time Jack’s name is even mentioned, you big eejit.

‘Yup, he’s . . . that is, he seems . . . emm . . . lovely. Big hot-shot producer. I think Charlene really,
really
likes him.’

That sounded OK, didn’t it? As if I’m really happy for Charlene and that I hope things work out for her, romance-wise? Which, of course, I do, just with the right person, that’s all . . .

‘Hmm, so I see,’ says Marilyn, looking around and taking everything in: the perfect flower arrangements; the trays of champagne; the formidable guests; everything. No kidding, this would make the court of Versailles look like a free-for-all. ‘So, are you getting any flashes about this guy?’ she asks me straight out and I immediately go bright red.

‘Well . . . emm . . . you see, Charlene always feels it’s bad luck for me to tell her if . . . you know, if I have any feelings about guys she’s involved with.’

‘None at all? Absolutely nothing?’ says Marilyn,
looking
at me keenly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me stating the obvious, but that’s not really like you, now is it?’

And then, suddenly, I get one. Clear as crystal. Except it’s not about Charlene. At least, not directly. Oh my God.

I see Marilyn and Mr Ferguson sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. I’m not sure why or what exactly is going on, but there’s a real feeling of tense nervousness practically hopping off the pair of them. Then I see an older, twinkly-eyed doctor opening the surgery door and calling them both inside
. . .

Now I see Marilyn looking very white-faced and clinging on to Mr Ferguson’s hand, almost in a vice-grip, as they go into the surgery. He doesn’t look too good either. On the surface he’s as cool as ever, but I can see that he’s sweating and twiddling with his cufflinks anxiously
.

‘
Please, take a seat,’ the doctor says gently, closing the door behind them
.

Oh God, now the feeling of sheer terror I’m picking up from the pair of them is almost making me weak
. . .

‘
Well now, Marilyn,’says the doctor, sitting in his swivel chair behind his desk and pulling out a huge sheaf of notes. ‘Your test results have just come back from the lab. Have it all here, bloods, everything
.’

There’s a horrible pause and poor Marilyn honestly looks as if she might pass out
.

‘
Oh, nothing to worry about, all good news,’ says the doctor. ‘Congratulations,’ he says warmly to both of them, stretching across his desk to shake each of them by the hand. ‘You’re about to become parents
.’

‘Cassie, what is it?’ says Marilyn, looking at me with real concern. ‘What are you seeing? You’ve gone as white as a sheet, you poor thing. Here, have a seat.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s absolutely fine, honestly,’ I say, taking a very welcome glug of champagne from my glass.

‘Did you just get a flash? Ooh . . . I bet it was something about Charlene’s new fella. Am I right?’

Bloody hell. What do I tell her? Would this be good news or bad news? Good news for Marilyn, of course, but for Charlene and her already strained relations with her father . . . I’m feeling, well, to put it mildly, this would sure as hell take her a lot of getting used to . . .

Oh shit, here is a classic example of the moral and ethical dilemmas faced on a daily basis by anyone with a sixth sense. To tell or not to tell, that is the question.

Phew. I’m saved from having to say anything at all by the arrival of our hostess, looking absolutely breathtaking in the Vivienne Westwood basque worn with a huge, neo-Victorian, full-length, voluminous black skirt. I’m not joking; there are so many ruffles and frills all over it
that
I’m almost afraid if she stands near the fire, she’ll go up like a torch.

Anyway, you get the picture; Charlene is looking a million dollars tonight. Apart from her expression, that is, which, to put it mildly, would stop a clock.

‘Wow, you look amazing,’ I say, kissing her. ‘Everything OK?’

‘No,’ she says in a tiny voice and I can immediately see that she’s on the verge of tears. ‘Will you do something for me? Would you find Jo and meet me in the library? I really, badly need a private word with you guys and if I go searching for Jo, Dad will only collar me and demand to know in front of everyone how much my outfit cost. Dire emergency.’

Five minutes later, the three of us are alone in the library, which is just to the left of the entrance hall. It’s a fab room, brand spanking new, but made to look old, and covered with shelf after shelf of leather-bound first editions. None of which Charlene has ever read, of course. In fact, we slag her something rotten about the fact that the only reading she ever does in her custom-built library is to occasionally glance through
Tattle
magazine, counting up how many people she knows on the society pages versus how many times she appears herself.

‘So what’s up?’ I ask her, half dreading the answer. ‘Is it your dad?’

‘Yeah,’ says Jo sympathetically, ‘what a bummer, him just turning up tonight of all nights. Will there be hell to pay when he finds out how much all this is costing him?’ Jo’s actually being very gentle to Charlene, almost as if she’s on a guilt trip for having given out about her in the taxi earlier. But then, the sight of Mr Ferguson tends to have that effect on all of us.

‘Least of my worries. Right now,
this
is what’s upsetting me,’ Charlene almost wails, shoving her mobile phone under our noses. There’s a short, curt text message.

HI. AM STILL DELAYED AT CHANNEL SEVEN. PRODUCTION MEETING ONGOING. SORRY TO LET U DOWN. ENJOY UR PIZZA AND I’LL TRY MY BEST TO SEE YOU LATER. JACK.

So now he mightn’t be coming at all, my mind races. He mightn’t turn up. Tonight could just be about bearable . . .

‘So,’ says Charlene. ‘Any bright ideas? Apart from the fact that there’ll be hell to pay from Dad in the morning, now all of my friends have gathered here to meet my new boyfriend, who may or may not even arrive. Any second now, Anna Regan could waltz in here, flashing her Tiffany-cut engagement ring under my nose, and here I am, dateless, hopeless and
furious
.’

‘Well, I guess this is what happens when you’re not straight with people,’ says Jo coolly. ‘If you’d just been upfront with Jack in the first place and told him what he was in for, then he’d either have chickened out or shown up on time.’

‘Y.P.B.?’ says Charlene, really starting to get upset now.

‘Y.P.B.? What does that mean?’ Jo asks.

‘Your point being?’

‘My point is, he’d have given you a straight yes or no answer and at least you wouldn’t be in this mess. Charlene, get a grip, will you? I’ve never seen you like this before.’

‘Not pretty, is it?’

Oh dear. Now the tears have started. It was only ever a matter of time before this happened, I know, but you should just see her. The girl looks – there’s no other word for it –
crumpled
.

‘All I wanted was for him to meet you. My real friends, I mean. You guys. And I went to so much trouble—’ She breaks off, genuinely upset, and Jo and I look at each other. ‘And he won’t even return my calls. What is the
problem
with me? Why am I so fundamentally undateable? Or is Dad right and am I just a useless, pointless member of society?’

This is the thing about Charlene. One minute, she’s completely exasperating, driving you up the walls; the
next
, she’s so tiny and vulnerable and upset that, well, you just want to hug her. Which we both do.

‘OK, OK, the way I see it, this is not necessarily a mess,’ I interject, bravely trying to introduce a positive note.

‘Explain,’ sniffs Charlene, a bit more hopefully now.

‘So Jack got a bit delayed. Jo’s right; if you’d told him he was about to walk on to the set of
The Great Gatsby
, then I’m sure he’d either have cancelled or postponed his meeting. But, in fairness, you can hardly beat the guy up for not knowing he was to be the guest of honour here tonight. For God’s sake, all he expected was a tin of Coke and a slice of pepperoni.’

‘So what do I do? Any psychic flashes right now would be gratefully received.’

I take a deep breath. Tonight could possibly, conceivably work out really well for all concerned.

‘No psychic flashes necessary. It’s obvious what you do,’ I say, feeling calm for the first time all evening. ‘You just go out there and apologize on Jack’s behalf; say he’s a TV producer and this is the downside of his job. They work twenty-four/seven. Just tell them all an emergency’s come up and he’ll do his best to be here but go ahead and start without him anyway. You’re only telling the truth.’

‘Brilliant,’ says Charlene, clicking her fingers and looking a bit calmer. ‘Just brilliant. I knew you’d come
up
with something, sweetie. I’ll just act like none of this bothers me at all . . . the
bastard
.’

Jo and I exchange glances, but say nothing.

‘Right then, come on, back into the fray,’ Charlene says, brightening up, linking me and Jo as we head back to the main hall, the tears forgotten as if they never were. ‘Oh, and by the way, what were you talking to Marilyn about for so long? You looked like you were having a flash.’

Shit and double shit. Now is not the time to tell Charlene she may be getting a new baby half-brother or sister.

‘Oh, you know. This and that.’

‘Doesn’t she look a mess? God, that dress she’s wearing would make some drag queen somewhere very happy. And don’t even get me started on the supermarket make-up.’

In fact, scrap that. NEVER might be a good time for this particular piece of news . . .

‘OK, here I go, wish me luck,’ says Charlene, taking a deep breath and forcing a bright grin before she drifts off. ‘Remember the mantra: my smile is my umbrella and I’ll deal with Dad in the morning. I’m just thanking my lucky stars he has a business dinner tonight so I won’t have to put up with him criticizing me in front of my friends. At times like this, small mercies really do go a long way.’