I Never Fancied Him Anyway (21 page)

No, come on, get a grip, Cassie; let’s not hold out for miracles
. . .

Anyway. A man’s voice fills the studio, which is also a surprise, given the ratio of women to men who contact me is approximately ninety-nine to one. Ish.

‘Cassandra? That you?’

Ooh, he sounds lovely. I’m immediately picking up a strong West of Ireland accent, although you wouldn’t need to be psychic for that.

So, absolutely no different to the rest of this morning then.

‘Yes, hi, it’s Cassandra here.’

‘Jaypurs, you’re not really having too good a day of it today, are you, pet? I hope I bring you better luck.’

Ooh, he’s just adorable! I see him straight off: he’s tall, well built, handsome in an unkempt kind of way, maybe . . . oh rats, this is hard . . . yes. Early thirties, I think. Pisces, plays soccer . . . very outgoing, I feel; I can see him surrounded by loads of friends in a pub with a brilliant atmosphere, laughing, all having great crack
. . .

‘Cassandra, are you there? You haven’t hung up on me?’

‘Oh, no! I’m still here, I’m just trying to . . .’

I’m trying to pick up his name actually, and I can’t. Although I’m feeling it’s something really unusual, with a V. Vivien? No . . . Vincent?

‘You have a very uncommon name,’ I say, slowly, ‘beginning with V . . .’ Shit, what is it?

‘You won’t believe this,’ he says laughing and I get a strong feeling that this is a guy who laughs quite a lot. Who enjoys life. Popular, loves horse racing too. ‘Now do you promise not to laugh?’ ‘I promise,’ I say, grinning.

‘It’s Valentine. I know, I know, probably the greatest
irony
you’ve ever heard; a fella like me who can’t get arrested when it comes to women, lumbered with a name like Valentine.’

He sounds so jovial and good-hearted that I can’t help warming to him, you just couldn’t. I sneak a quick glance over at Mary and see that she’s smiling too. Good sign. Maybe, just maybe, I can turn the whole horror of this slot around . . .

‘Thing is, Cassandra,’ he says, and he sounds so friendly and open, I almost feel like we’re chatting over a drink in a cosy, quiet country pub. ‘I caught a bit of the show and, to be honest with you, I thought the male race weren’t coming out of it too well after listening to your last two callers. To put it mildly. We’re not all layabouts and some of us are very romantic, you know. Here’s me, single when all I really want is to be with the right girl. I’m thirty-three; I have my own business and a grand house by the sea. Now, I may not be George Clooney in the looks department, but all I’m looking for is a good-natured, easy-going girl that will want a nice fella to spoil her rotten, take her to all the fancy places, wine her and dine her and treat her like a princess. No kidding, Cassandra, I would put any woman who would go out with me up on a pedestal . . .’

The more he talks the more I see. Well, well, well, this is certainly one for the books.

I almost think Valentine can barely believe it himself. As a direct result of this programme, he’s become a bit like a cult figure in his own right. He’s been offered his own column in an upmarket magazine, chronicling the life of a hopelessly romantic bachelor looking for love and marriage, the whole package, instead of the normal, stereotypical lad on the town, wanting nothing more fulfilling than meaningless flings with as many different hot babes as possible
.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Cassandra,’ he’s saying, ‘I’m not exactly the stay-at-home type, if you’re with me. I’ve a great bunch of lads I hang around with, but we’re after very different things. They all want to meet up in the pub on a Sunday after soccer training and brag about this one they were with the night before and that one they’d like to be with tonight. But that’s not where I’m coming from at all. I’m not looking for someone to go to bed with, Cassandra, I’m looking for someone to wake up with.’

There’s a big ‘awwwww’ from Mary on the sofa beside me and I can practically see the thought balloon coming out of Lisa: ‘How cute. I wonder if he’d date me?’

This is incredible. Now I see a TV camera following him around on a date, almost documentary style. It’s some time from now and Valentine is still single, still looking
for
love, but by God, he’s having the time of his life while he’s waiting for it to come along. Women are practically throwing themselves at him; everywhere he goes, he’s besieged
. . .

‘This is no joke, Cassandra; the last girl I took out jumped out of a moving vehicle to get away from me.’ He’s laughing as he’s telling the story against himself, which is only making him, if possible, even more endearing.

Now I see him singing for charity on one of those celebrity
X Factor-
type shows and the audience is largely full of women, all screaming, as if he’s some kind of a rock god. He’s singing that Queen song, ‘Somebody To Love’, and every woman in the audience is going bananas over him. This is amazing; I even see the name of his column, which I blurt out by accident
.

‘“Valentine’s Day”.’

‘Sorry, pet, what was that?’ asks Valentine politely.

‘Nothing,’ I laugh. ‘I just hope you’re ready for fame and fortune, that’s all.’

‘Ah, pull the other one.’

‘No kidding. Valentine, you will be a household name within six months. I guarantee it. I just hope you’re ready for all the hot dates you’ll be going on.’

‘Ah, that is just great news, so it is. And do you mind me asking, do you see a special lady out there for me? Or do you hear the sound of wedding bells, even?’

I have to be honest with him. I’ve no choice. But unlike my other two callers, at least this story has a happy ending, of sorts. ‘Valentine, I feel that in time . . . yes, yes . . . I think . . . you
will
marry, but while you’re waiting, your life is going to take you in a direction you’ve never even dreamt of. I see nothing but fun and laughter ahead; great nights out, a string of beautiful women all asking
you
out, for a change. You’ll play the field, like you never have before. I mean, what man alive wouldn’t kill for that Hugh Hefner lifestyle?’

If Marc with a C is watching, he’s probably thrown up by now. He gets very jealous of anyone of any persuasion who multiple-dates, mainly because it’s the kind of life he actively covets for himself.

Now I see the floor manager making a wrap-it-up-we’re-out-of-time signal, so I go for it. ‘Valentine, you’re a very lucky guy. While you’re waiting for Miss Right, I don’t see just one special lady out there for you, I see literally dozens.’

‘Right, well, thank you so much for that, Cassandra,’ says Mary, expertly taking over. ‘And good luck, Valentine! Maybe you’ll call again and let us know how you’re getting on?’

‘Will do and thanks again!’ he says cheerily down the
phone
, sounding all delighted with life. ‘And if I’m ever up in Dublin, sure I’ll be in touch!’

‘Well now,’ says Mary direct to camera, ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for this morning. Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow, same time, same place, when we’ve a very special feature to mark the beginning of Fashion Week.’ Then she taps her earpiece again. ‘Oh yes, and anyone who said patterned tights have had their day will be sadly mistaken, or so I’m told. Thank you very much for watching and it’s goodbye from me!’

I’m so euphoric after being able to see such good things for Valentine that I almost have to stop myself from saying, ‘And it’s goodbye from her!’ Like
The Two Ronnies
.

There’s an eerie feeling in the studio after the show has wrapped. After all the nerves and tension and bright lights shining in your face, Gestapo-style, suddenly the place goes deathly quiet, as cameramen, sound men and crew bolt for the door. God love them, presumably they’re all dying for a big, yummy, well-earned brekkie. No one comes near me or says a word to me – not even ‘That was good, bad or indifferent.’ Which kind of makes me a bit nervy. I mean, yes, the first two callers were a disaster, but that wasn’t exactly my fault, was it? And then the chat with lovely Valentine went OK . . . didn’t it? I mean, I’m back in the game . . . aren’t I?

Anyway, I’m just about to unhook the tiny microphone
that
’s neatly clipped to my T-shirt when Lisa bounds over. ‘Hey, Cassandra! Boy, I’d say you’re glad that’s over.’

‘You said it. Do you think . . . well, do you think it went OK?’

‘Yeah! Yeah, definitely!’ she says, a bit too quickly. The ‘yeah’ makes me relax a bit, the ‘definitely’ makes me think I was complete and total crap. ‘Look, do you have a minute?’ she adds. ‘You’re not rushing back to the magazine or anything?’

‘No, I’m not in a rush. What’s up?’

‘It’s just that Jack asked if he could have a word with you before you left. Upstairs in the production office. I can take you there right now, if that’s OK with you.’

Oh right. Well, that can’t be a good sign then, can it?

As ever, my psychic abilities completely disappear out of the window whenever they’d actually come in handy. Like now, for instance. I honestly have no idea what Jack wants me for.

My mind races as I follow Lisa to the back of the studio floor, being careful not to trip over all the wires and cables strewn all over the place.

I may as well face up to it. There can only be one reason I’m being hauled up to the production office. Jack wants to say something along the lines of: ‘Yeah, very sorry, you did well the first time we had you on the show, but you seem to have mysteriously lost whatever it was you had in the first place, so, basically, your contract’s
terminated
, goodbye, good luck, and kindly don’t bawl crying on the carpet on your way out.’

Shit. He probably wants Lisa there as a witness in case I turn nasty.

She leads me up a flight of steps and into the control booth, which, no kidding, is the nearest thing to Cape Canaveral I’ve ever seen; all mini-TV screens and desks and a bird’s-eye view of the studio below. It’s deserted but still boiling hot and sticky, probably from the whole production team sweating blood during my slot. There’re half-drunk cups of still-warm coffee lying all over the place. God, it’s almost like being on the
Mary Celeste
.

‘There’s always a mass exodus to the canteen the minute the show wraps,’ Lisa explains, leading me on through another door, then into the
Breakfast Club
office itself, which, thankfully, is deserted too. Before I know where I am, Lisa is knocking on another door, a kind of inner sanctum, and ushering me inside. ‘She’s all yours, Jack!’ she says cheerily. ‘See you at brekkie!’

Right, here I go. As Charlene always says, when the going gets tough, let your smile be your umbrella, so I step inside with what I hope isn’t a deranged grin on my face.

‘Hey, good to see you,’ says Jack, leaping up from behind his desk and giving me a bear-hug. God, he looks divine today; crisp denim shirt and really cool-looking chinos, as if he should be on a billboard in Times Square
doing
Gap ads. He smells yummy too and boy, I really,
really
needed that hug.

Anyway. I decide to get my spoke in first. ‘Hi, Jack. Look, I just wanted to say that . . . well, the thing is that I saw trouble ahead for the first two women who rang in . . . you know, and I didn’t want to give bad news . . . not on live TV . . . so I just thought, the best . . . and by the best I mean, you know, the
kindest
thing—’

‘Look, Cassie, I actually brought you up here because there’s someone who’d very much like to meet you,’ he says, gently cutting me off in mid-ramble.

For the first time, I notice there’s someone else in the room with us. He’s sitting in a leather chair with his back to me and swivels round, James Bond baddie-style. Young. Hot. Fair-haired. And kind of familiar, somehow.

‘This is Oliver Hall,’ Jack says as we shake hands. ‘Oliver is a producer and a presenter too.’

‘Oh, hi there,’ I say, as if I’ve been part of the team for years and not just a complete blow-in. Who may or may not be on the verge of being ‘let go’ at any moment.

‘Hi, Cassandra, good to meet you,’ he says with a flashy, television-friendly grin. There’s almost an American twang in his accent, as though he’s lived there for years. This is driving me nuts; where do I know him from?

‘You might recognize Oliver from his TV reports?’ Jack chips in, politely filling in the silence and correctly
interpreting
my bewildered expression. ‘He’s come to us all the way from our Washington office. We’re very excited to have him back here at Channel Seven, although I’m afraid it’s not for much longer. He’s about to join the competition over at TV1, if you don’t mind. Did that sound bitter?’ he adds, messing. ‘I am thrilled for you, Oliver, but if I find out you’re getting paid more than me, it’ll be a completely different story.’

That’s it, of course. Not that I’m a huge fan of news reports (well, in fairness, they always seem to clash with my soaps) but Jo would have them on all night if she could, and that’s where I know him from. He’s a reporter on one of those exposé-type programmes; you know, the sort where they put a hidden camera in the toilets of McDonald’s and then scandalize the nation with stories about how the employees don’t wash their hands properly. Sensationalist stuff that always gets followed up in the tabloids. Ooh, now I remember another one where he exposed all these airline pilots getting plastered drunk and partying all night on a lay-over in Dubai or somewhere, then secretly filmed them getting behind the controls of a 747 early the next morning, not just with alcohol in their blood, but with blood in their alcohol.

‘Wow, great to meet you,’ I say, wondering if he’s single.

No wedding ring, good. This could be a lovely guy
for
Charlene, is my logic. You know, glamorous, tabloid journalist type. And cute. Except that . . . she’s not exactly single, now, is she? Ho, hum, back to the drawing board.

‘That was quite an interesting slot you had,’ he says to me.

Shit, I almost forgot about that. ‘Ooh, ehh . . . yes, that . . .’ I mumble. ‘Well . . . yes, I admit, I have had better days, but the thing is—’