I Never Fancied Him Anyway (20 page)

I must look like a goldfish, with my mouth opening and closing every two seconds. I’m frantically racking my brains for some wise words, but for the life of me, I just can’t come up with any. This is just so excruciating. There must be something I can do or say, not to warn Joan, but in some way to give her an inkling of what lies ahead . . .

‘Cassandra?’ Mary is saying, looking at me, very concerned. ‘Would you like a glass of water, love? You’ve gone very pale.’

Come on, come on, say something . . . ‘Emm, no, thanks . . . can I just . . . it’s . . . well, you see . . .’

Brilliant, Cassie, just brilliant. Come on, get it together, try to remember you are on LIVE TELEVISION
. . .

I take a deep breath, clear my throat and go for it. ‘Joan? Are you still on the line?’

‘Yes, still here. Oh, hang on a sec, our paper’s just been delivered. GEORGE? IF YOU COULD JUST PEEL YOURSELF OFF THAT SOFA FOR TWO SECONDS AND HAVE A LOOK AT THE JOBS SECTION OF
THE TIMES
? IT DOES EXIST, YOU KNOW, YOU’LL FIND IT RIGHT THERE IN BLACK AND WHITE, BESIDE THE RACING PAGES. Sorry, Cassandra, you were saying?’

‘I’m getting a very strong feeling that—’ Oh hell, how do I phrase this tactfully?

OK, got it. At least, I think I’ve got it. ‘What I’m trying to say, Joan, is that this time with George could turn out to be very precious. Umm . . . for both of you. I think.’

‘Sorry?’ Joan sounds incredulous.

‘So instead of focusing on the negatives, maybe you should both try to enjoy it. Do things together. Go for long walks. See a movie in the afternoon. Maybe even try to take a holiday?’

‘A holiday? Cassandra, my husband is
unemployed
.’ Her tone is clear: have you even been listening to a word I’ve been saying?

‘All I’m suggesting is that you cherish this . . . emm . . . phase in your lives. You might very well look back on this time together as a kind of gift.’

‘Excuse me, did you say a
gift?
’

‘Yes. I mean, how often do we get to spend
real
quality time with our loved ones? I don’t think you’ll regret it.’

Now everyone in the studio, including kind-hearted Mary, is looking at me as if I’ve completely lost it. That I can’t see a thing and am just trotting out inconsequential dribbles of superficial advice that anyone with a grain of sense could tell you.

‘Right. Is that it then?’ Joan is asking me, a bit impatiently. ‘You don’t see any lucrative job offers coming George’s way? Nothing at all? Not even anything part-time? At this stage I’d settle for him working on the check-out in Tesco’s.’

As she’s talking, or rather giving out, I get another flash.

This time, Joan’s sitting at her kitchen table with three other women, all drinking sherry, giggling and laughing. Spread out on the table is a pile of luxury cruise brochures, all glittering blue seas and ships that promise loads of light entertainment, Céline Dion/Liza Minnelli impersonators,
bingo
, bridge nights and a guaranteed seat at the captain’s table – that type of cruise holiday. And she’s happy. It sounds awful, but I’m really feeling that the life of a widow is agreeing with her . . . maybe even far more than the life of a wife ever did
. . .

Right. Tactful phrasing required. Quick. ‘I see a lot of travel for you, Joan. For pleasure. Things may be tough in the short-term, but there are definitely happier times ahead.’

Even as I say the words, I’m aware of how twee it sounds, as if I’m bluffing, making it up as I go along. All I can think is anyone watching this who’s remotely sceptical about what people like me do for a living must be having a field day. I’m coming across as nothing more than a glorified chancer. But what else can I do? Say: ‘Yes, Joan, there are happier times ahead for you, spending your late husband’s life insurance?’

Sometimes I really, really
hate
being able to see things . . .

Joan doesn’t even thank me, she just clicks off the phone and whaddya know, before I even have time to get my head together, we’re straight on to another caller.

Please, please, Cosmos, let this be a nice easy one where I can see clearly, preferably information which I can actually communicate: a relationship problem, a
teenager
waiting on exam results; an answer I’d be happy to broadcast live to the nation . . .

‘And now we’re going over to line two,’ says Mary, looking at me a bit – well, worriedly, actually. If she were a cartoon, there’d be a thought bubble coming out of her head right now, saying, ‘Be prepared to go straight to a commercial break if this con-artist lets us all down again.’

‘We have Julia here for you. Hello, Julia! You’re through to Cassandra. Go right ahead.’

‘Hi, Julia,’ I say, trying to sound confident. Bright. On top of things.

‘Hello, is that really Cassandra? Can you hear me?’

A woman. She’s maybe . . . early thirties. I’m seeing strawberry-blond hair and I think she’s calling me from a big, open-plan office
. . .

‘Yes, hi, Julia! How can I help you?’ God, now I sound as if I work behind the customer-service desk in Marks and Spencer.

‘Can you hear me? I have to keep my voice down.’

‘Yes, loud and clear.’

‘I’m ringing you from my office. I’m on my own, but the partition is paper-thin and I’d die a thousand deaths if anyone overheard me. Anyway, I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve been in a relationship for nearly three years
with
my boyfriend and the trouble is that I’m the one who has to make all the decisions and I’m beginning to get bloody sick of it.’

‘Do you mean little things or big things?’ Please, please let me see some happy news ahead for this girl, because so far, I’m not picking up anything, good or bad . . .

‘Define little things.’

‘Oh, you know, like deciding what movie you’ll go to see or where to eat if you’re going out, that kind of thing.’

‘Yes, Cassandra, I make all of those decisions for him and more. Apart from letting him ask me out, which only really happened because I was heavily influenced by that
Rules
book we were all reading at the time, I have pretty much been the driving force behind this entire relationship. And it’s
really
starting to wear me down. I decided two years ago that the time was right for us to move in together, which we did, into
my
apartment.’ Nope, still not seeing anything yet, but on she goes. ‘I make more money than he does, so invariably I end up deciding where we go on holiday. And paying for it too, I might add. And now all of our other friends who are in couples seem to be moving on, getting engaged, getting married, starting families, and here I am, night after night, looking across the dinner table at this man who I do love, very much by the way. I’m just getting sick and tired of wondering when it’s going to be my turn. Where’s the
romance
, Cassandra? I mean, I can’t very well propose to him, now can I?’

Suddenly, I get a flash. Oh no. Please no, don’t let me be seeing this. If I thought what I saw for Joan was bad . . .

I can see Julia, so clearly. She’s very pretty, with an air of crisp, no-nonsense efficiency about her. She’s wearing a dark-coloured business suit and carrying a briefcase. I can just see a BlackBerry peeking out of the top of her soft black Gucci handbag. She’s in her apartment building, stepping out of the lift, fiddling about for her door keys. She’s humming to herself, bubbly, in good form. Then she opens the apartment door
.

There are piles of cardboard boxes neatly placed in the tiny hallway, all stuffed full to the brim
.

Now Julia is moving towards the bedroom, suspicious, not quite knowing what’s going on, for a split second wondering if her cleaning lady has completely lost the run of herself. Or if she’s been burgled by incredibly tidy burglars
.

The door’s already open. On the bed, strewn messily all over the place, is a big pile of men’s clothes. Two packed-to-capacity suitcases are lying on the floor. A load of books are gone from the bookshelf by the bed, leaving gaping holes, like missing teeth
.

Now she moves over to the wardrobe and, I swear, I can physically feel her disbelief slowly turning to shock. It’s
empty
. His half of the wardrobe has been totally cleared out. I can even hear the sound of the empty wire hangers rattling away as she just stares, completely and utterly knocked for six
. . .

‘I mean, Cassandra, I can tell you this because you’re a single woman too and you’ll understand. I’ve already jettisoned so much for this relationship to work. Romance has given way to reality. I’ve pretty much abandoned all hope of being whisked off my feet and proposed to and I’ve accepted that if things are to progress, then I’m the one that’ll have to do all the running. As per bloody usual. There are times when I feel more like his mother than his girlfriend, which is not exactly red roses and champagne, but that’s the way it is. So I just wondered what you saw in my future, Cassandra? Basically what I need to know is: if I ask him to marry me, will he say yes?’

Jesus, now this flash is getting even worse.

He’s left a note. The cowardly bastard left her a note. I can see her picking it up and I can feel her disbelief as the poor girl slumps down on the bed to read it. It’s full of all the usual clichés, the it’s-not-you-it’s-me type. I can even make out that particular old chestnut: ‘You’re a wonderful person, I just really need to be alone for a while
.’

Vomit city
.

‘Cassandra, are you still on the line?’

‘Ehh . . . yeah . . . I mean yes, I’m here, sorry. Go on.’

‘Well, that’s it really, I’ve pretty much spelt it out to you. I’m absolutely certain this is the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with; all I need from you is the where and when. When should I ask and where will I marry him?’

Her tone sounds weary and resigned, a woman who’s decided this is it, this is my destiny. OK, it may not be the fairy tale but it’s the best on offer so I may as well just get on with it because, frankly, the thought of getting back out there again and doing the whole clubby/pubby scene is just too
exhausting
.

Right. So what in the name of God do I tell her?

Another terrible silence fills the studio and I can see Mary looking at me, wondering whether or not she’ll need to jump in and rescue what could turn out to be the single most boring slot they’ve ever had on the show.

‘Cassandra?’ says Julia, and I get the most awful feeling that she’s beginning to cop on. ‘You don’t see anything bad, do you?’

I can’t even answer her. I’m too busy trying to work out what the hell I’ll say.

‘You . . . would tell me if what you see isn’t good, wouldn’t you?’

Shit. Right, nothing for it but to try and let the poor girl down as gently as possible.

‘Cassandra? All I’m looking for is a simple yes or no here. If I ask him, will he say yes?’

Bloody hell, this is one direct lady. Think, think, think. ‘Em . . . well . . . the thing is . . . I can’t see whether—’

‘Can’t see or can’t say? Which is it?’

Nothing for it. I’ll just have to be equally direct. At least, as direct as I can be on national television without scarring this poor woman for life. I take the plunge. Deep breath. ‘Julia, you sound like a highly efficient, organized person. And no doubt you’re very successful at what you do.’

‘Yes, yes?’ Now she’s starting to sound a bit impatient.

‘What I’m trying to say is, well, sometimes the worst thing that happens to you can turn out to be the best thing. You mustn’t cling too tightly to the idea that this man is the one who’ll make you happy. After all, there’s a whole world of guys out there . . .’ Oh God, that sounds like a line straight out of
Dawson’s Creek
.

‘So what exactly are you advising me, Cassandra? Is this your way of telling me that I’m not going to marry this man? A simple, straight answer would be really useful here.’

Trust me, I want to say to her, a simple, straight answer would be impossible . . .

‘Um, Julia, all I’m advising is that you trust in the Universe. Relax and know that the right thing will
happen
. Maybe not in the short term, but you may look back on this period in your life and . . . and . . .’ I just stop myself short at saying, ‘And thank your stars for a lucky escape.’

‘Right. Well, if that’s all you have to say on the subject, then I really have to go.’ A short beep-beep and she’s gone. Not even a thank you, nothing. Not that I really blame her; ‘trust in the Universe’ is most definitely not what she was hoping to hear and now half the nation is probably watching me thinking what a load of dog poo being a TV psychic is.

Even Mary is looking at me like I’m an out-and-out fraudster. Only a degree away from the kind of fortune-tellers you see at church fêtes, you know, the ones who tell everyone the same generic thing. ‘You may or may not take a holiday within the next year. You may cross water. You may change hairstyle, but that mightn’t happen for at least five years. Thanks very much, that’ll be fifty euro, please.’

I shudder and look to the floor manager, hoping and praying I can redeem both myself and my tattered reputation with the next phone call.

But then I clock Mary making a slightly pleading can-we-wind-this-up-for-the-love-of-God-please face at the floor manager. He glances at his watch and seems to be making a cut-to-a-commercial-break signal back at Mary (honest to God, you’d need a degree in semaphore)
when
suddenly she starts tapping on her earpiece. ‘What was that? Oh right, well, only if you’re sure then,’ she says in a low voice, which immediately makes me think she’s talking to Jack, up in the production box.

At least, I hope he’s up in the production box. Bloody hell, as if I didn’t have enough to sweat about.

‘OK, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we’re going to take one final caller.’

Now written all over her face is ‘although I can’t for the life of me see why’, and I swear, I want to bolt for the hills.

Although . . . my instinct is telling me something different. I’m feeling Jack’s hand behind this, giving me another chance, another stab at winning the audience over, maybe even realizing that the crap I came out with for the last two callers was for a very good reason?