I Never Fancied Him Anyway (19 page)

This card generally symbolizes bad news and worse news. The bad news is that you may well find yourself in a situation you really, and I mean really, would rather not be in. The worse news is there is absolutely no way out of it. Unless a miracle happens, that is, but how likely is that?

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but forewarned is forearmed
. . .

‘AND NOW, LADIES
and gentlemen, a very special treat for all our viewers this morning. You may remember last week we had Cassandra, the resident psychic from
Tattle
magazine, with us. And wasn’t she just wonderful? The phone lines hopped for days afterwards with everyone
demanding
to know when she was coming back to us. Quite honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. So now, the goods news is that, from today, she’s going to join us for a regular guest appearance, so please will you give a big, warm
Breakfast Club
welcome to . . . Cassandra!’

And I’m on.

And I don’t really have a clue how I managed it without (a) passing out or (b) throwing up with nerves, but, for better or for worse, here I am.

As Jo pointed out about a thousand times yesterday, welcome to the wonderful world of got-no-choice. Bless her, she even did one of her lists for me, to stop my obsessive worrying, on the long drive down to my parents’ house for a big Mammy Sunday lunch. Needless to say, it ended up being just the two of us who actually made the visit down. Charlene was forced to cancel and instead endure a lengthy lecture from her father about the excesses of the previous night and the fact that she has yet to hold down a stable career,
start
making something of her life and do something, anything, that might actually impress him. ‘Wait till you see, he’ll go through my credit card statements next,’ she groaned down the phone to me, ‘and I wouldn’t mind, but I’ve got such a thumping hangover, all I’m really fit for is a home visit from my masseuse followed by a carb-heavy dinner, but just try telling that to Daddy Dearest.’

Marc with a C chickened out too, claiming he had a fitness assessment he’d clean forgotten about. But he’s no actor, and I think being as hungover as a dog, coupled with getting to bed at six a.m. following the party, might just have had something to do with it as well.

Anyway, as I say, Jo wrote out one of her super-duper, über-organized lists for me and it went something along these lines:

Reasons for Cassie to be cheerful, optimistic and positive instead of getting herself into a right tizzy, like last time, about the TV show

Plan a: should I bump into Jack before we go on air

I walk right up to him, coolly and very calmly, and say something along these lines. ‘Jack. Being psychic isn’t an exact science. No offence, but I strongly suspect that when you’re around, my energy is being blocked. Of course, this isn’t your fault and I’m not in any way suggesting you’re doing it on purpose or anything, I just
think
that I’d work a whole lot better if you weren’t in the studio when I’m doing the slot.’

That sounds OK, doesn’t it? Not too, emm, rude, or anything? I mean, ‘My energy is being blocked . . .’ Does it sound like the kind of emergency you’d ring a plumber for? Or am I comparing myself to a sewage pipe unnecessarily?

Plan b: should Jack walk into studio while I’m on air, which, let’s face it, he is entitled to do, given that he is the producer and it is actually his show

This is a tad more embarrassing, but unavoidable. As Jo says, needs must when the devil drives. In this event, the plan is, I turn calmly to Mary, say I’m having a problem seeing things and request that we go to a commercial break. During this time, I then hop out of my seat, approach Jack and repeat the above speech (see Plan A, the blocked energy/sewage pipe speech).

So there you have it. Nothing like being prepared, is there?

Anyway, here I am back in the studio, feeling as if I’ve never been away and I haven’t so much as laid eyes on Jack yet, which is beyond fab. According to fake-tan man in the make-up room (who I’ve since discovered is called Damien and who I’ll really have to stop referring to as fake-tan man), he normally stays well out of the way up in the production box until after the show, as
is
the norm for any producer apparently (not that I’d know). And Lisa, the lovely stage manager, never even mentioned his name, not once.

Phew. So far, so good.

Mary is interviewing me on her own this morning, which is great because she’s just so relaxed and informal, you almost feel as if you’re sitting down for a nice cuppa with a favourite auntie. And if she’s missing having the awful Maura co-presenting with her, she’s certainly not letting it show. In fact, I’m so chilled out I’m almost inclined to forget there’s a camera pointing at me. This will be just fine. No, this will be better than fine. Confidence and serenity will win the day.

I take a deep breath and make a silent vow that I’m going to try to
enjoy
myself. And, of course, the calmer I am, the more I’ll see . . .

‘Well now, Cassandra, I know there’s already a list of callers all dying to talk to you, so without further ado, let’s go straight to line one. To . . . what was that? Oh sorry, yes. We have Joan here for you. Hello? Yes, good morning, Joan, you’re through to Cassandra.’

A thumbs-up sign from the floor manager telling me I’m good to go.

‘Hello? Is that Cassandra?’

‘Certainly is. Hi there, Joan. How are you today?’

‘How
am
I? I’ll tell you exactly how I am, lovey. I’m here at home trying to get through a mountain of
laundry
and ironing, you know, all the normal morning jobs, and I have a layabout husband in the living room next door who thinks it’s absolutely acceptable behaviour to sit around in a dressing gown till nine in the morning— Oh, hang on there, will you, just one sec . . . WILL YOU PLEASE USE A PLATE! AND A COASTER! IF IT’S NOT ASKING TOO MUCH! Sorry about that, Cassandra. I am hoarse telling him that the coffee table in the good room is solid mahogany and that a hot mug will leave a ring, but I might as well be talking to the wall. Now he says that I nag him so much it’s very difficult for him to zone in on which are the really
important
nags, as if that’s any kind of excuse . . .’

She chats on and I get an immediate flash. Thank God.

I see Joan, clear as day. She’s maybe sixtyish and has her hair permed so tightly it almost looks like someone has poured a tin of beans on top of her head. Her house is absolutely pristine, so spotlessly clean you could most probably perform surgery on her kitchen surfaces. The smell of bleach I’m picking up is almost making me cough. The husband is a bit older and looks exhausted, really worn out: his skin is grey and his hair is white, and for some reason I feel chest pain coming from him – tension, as if there’s a great weight pressing down on him
. . .

‘DO I SMELL CIGARETTE SMOKE COMING FROM IN THERE?’ Joan is shrieking at him, nearly taking the ear off me, clearly audible to everyone in the studio and live to the nation. ‘DON’T TAKE ME OVER TO YOU, I’M WARNING YOU! Sorry, Cassandra, but at least you can see for yourself just what I have to deal with here. I’m not a nag, you know, but I swear to God, that man is slowly turning me into one.’

Another flash. Except this time I’m seeing her husband. Oh no, this isn’t so good . . . I’m getting the most awful feeling from him of desolation, of emptiness, of someone who’s worked so hard all his life and now doesn’t know what to do with himself and who’s being shouted at all day and who’s just sitting there, quietly taking it and hating every second of it
. . .

‘He was made redundant five weeks ago,’ Joan is going on. ‘Five weeks and four days, to be exact. Anyway, ever since . . .’

Now I’m seeing him again, but this time he’s wearing overalls and covered in oil, in what looks like – could it be an airport hangar? I’m hearing an awful lot of noise, engines roaring, bustle, mechanics rushing around
. . .

‘. . . now I don’t want to say the name of the company
that
George worked for, because quite frankly, after the way they treated him, I’d rather not give them the free publicity . . .’

Yes, it’s an airline. For definite. I can see the huge, distinctive shamrock logo on a parked Boeing 747
. . .

‘. . . let’s just say he worked in maintenance for a large semi-state body out at the airport. So, after forty years of having the house to myself all day every day, now all of a sudden I don’t. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not a moaning type, you understand, it’s just been quite a bit of a readjustment for me, Cassandra. It was one thing when he was coming home at seven in the evening, like a normal husband, but now he’s under my feet all day every day, from morning till night.’

Oh God. Now an awful flash . . .

‘It’s just that George is finding it very difficult to get other work, all to do with his age, you know. So my question is: do you see anything in the future for him? Not to sound impatient, but sooner rather than later? Because I really don’t know how much more of this I can take . . . NO, NOT THOSE COASTERS, THE OTHER ONES. THE ONES WITH THE FAMILY CREST ON THEM AND IF THAT’S THE SOUND OF YOU PUTTING YOUR FEET UP ON
THE
SOFA, THEN GOD HELP ME, I WON’T BE RESPONSIBLE.’

And I’m off again. Oh no, no, no. This is unbelievable. This is where being psychic is the greatest curse you could ever possibly be landed with.

I see Joan again, except this time she’s dressed head to toe in black. She’s outside a church and it’s packed. People are coming up to her shaking her hand and sympathizing with her, saying how tragic it was. To be taken so suddenly. So comparatively young. And just as he was settling down into a nice, cosy retirement too, with the rest of his life to look forward to. And who even knew he had heart trouble?

Behind Joan, I can see a hearse with a coffin, covered in flowers, about to be taken off to its final resting place
.

I can even see that the flowers are spelling out a name in big red and white letters: one single word, George
.

‘Now, Cassandra, of course I do realize that George has worked hard all his life. He’s the one who went out there and paid off our mortgage, but this has been a big readjustment for me as well, you know. I mean, take this morning, for example. I’ve had to cancel a lovely coffee morning I had planned with the girls because George was supposed to do a job on the front garden but instead spent the entire day yesterday lying in front of the TV watching a repeat of Manchester playing Sunderland.
One
simple little thing I asked him to do, one simple, little thing. ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD LISTEN TO THIS IN THERE, GEORGE? I can hardly entertain with the front driveway covered in leaves and weeds, can I? I’d be mortified. So what do you think, Cassandra? Do you see any light at the end of the tunnel for me at all?’

There’s an awful silence. Oh God, what am I going to say to her? I can’t tell her what I really see, it would be too horrible, just awful.

Think, think, think
. . .

I’m dimly aware that the studio has gone eerily quiet and everyone’s looking at me. The cameraman, sound man, Lisa the stage manager, Mary, everyone is looking at me, just waiting for me to come out with something. But what? Shit and double shit . . .

Eventually Mary leans forward. ‘Ehh . . . Cassandra?’ she says gently. ‘If you’re not seeing anything, sure don’t worry. There’s a load of other callers dying to talk to you. Maybe you’d like to move on to someone else?’