Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (14 page)

‘It
is
her!’ one of them says, staring at me like I’m some kind of exhibit in a wax museum. She has tattoos of all her kids’ names on her forearm written so large that even from a few paces away, I can still read them clearly: Kylie, Britney and Rihanna.

‘No, it’s not,’ says her pal, who looks like she’s dipped her head in waaaay too much peroxide.

‘It
definitely
is! Sure she got fired from her TV show, didn’t she? Makes sense that she’d be here to sign on.’

‘Jessie Woods is miles better looking than her,’ says Peroxide Head. ‘That one looks like death warmed up.’

Next thing, one of the kids is over to me. ‘Givvus your autograph, will you?’

‘Emmm…’ I stammer. ‘Well, actually, if you don’t mind, you see, I’m in a bit of a rush…’

‘If she takes off the baseball cap, then we’d be able to get a decent look at her. Tell her to take it off!’ says Tattoo Woman bossily.

‘Ehh, excuse me? Take off that baseball cap there for us, will you love? We can’t see your face.’

Just get us out of here, I semaphore furiously over to Sharon, who seems to take the hint and slowly peels her bum off the seat to leave. But now it’s like a ripple has spread through the entire welfare office and all I can hear is, ‘Jessie Woods? From the TV show? For real?’

Next thing there’s people whipping out mobile phones and taking photos. One guy is even videoing me on his iPhone.

‘Maybe she’s doing this for one of her dares!’ some bright spark at the back of the packed room calls out, as I battle
my way through the crowd to the door. I’ve lost Sharon and now I can’t even see her.

‘Feck, does that mean there’s hidden TV cameras here?’ another guy with white emulsion paint streaks in his hair mutters to his pal as I inch my way past them. ‘I don’t want to end up as an extra on the telly. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m working.’

‘She can’t be doing it for her TV show!’ yells a woman’s voice from the very back of the queue. ‘She got fired and the show was taken off the air. And now there’s nothing to watch on a Saturday evening except for bleeding Ant and Dec. I
hate
that pair of gobshites.’

Christ alive, it’s a nightmare. By now I’m a public spectacle and what’s worse is I’m still a good ten feet from the bloody door. There’s people grabbing at me and in the mêlée I lose my baseball cap but I just keep battling my way through the throng thinking
getmeoutofheregetmeoutofheregetmeoutofhere.

I’m not joking; at one point a tall girl who looks a bit like a model actually thrusts a CV into my hand. ‘I always wanted to work in TV,’ she almost shrieks at me, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind passing that on to your agent or, you know, any producers you might still be on speaking terms with…’

Then some joker sitting with the paper on his knee pipes up at the top of his voice, ‘What’s the difference between Jessie Woods and a pigeon? At least a pigeon can still make a deposit on a Mercedes, waa-haaa!’ He cracks up at his own gag and so do half the dole office and I swear I’m
this
close to bawling when out of nowhere, a rough hand grabs me, grips me tight and strongarms me towards the door, almost lifting me as we barge our way out. I look up
gratefully to this knight in shining armour…and it’s none other than Sharon.

‘Will you all relax for feck’s sake?’ she yells at the crowd at the top of her voice. ‘She’s only a look-a-like! Used to make a fortune on the side doing twenty-firsts and thirtieths, but now God love her, she can’t get a gig to save her life on account of what happened to the real Jessie Woods!’

I don’t know how she even does it, but somehow she manages to shove me safely outside with the speed of a presidential bodyguard and all I can do is gratefully whisper a barely audible ‘Thank you’ as I try to catch my breath.

‘No worries,’ she says, cool as you like, fishing out a fag from the depths of her tracksuit pocket. ‘Now all you have to do is find me a boyfriend and we’ll call it quits.’

Later that evening, as soon as she’s home from Smiley Burger and after all her soaps are finished, I go for it. Because let’s face it, after today, I owe her big time and I’m determined not to renege on my end of the deal.

‘Sharon? Can we go upstairs? I need to talk to you. We might also need to use your computer, if that’s OK?’

‘Oh, right. Eh…would this be about…emm, you know what, by any chance?’ she asks, hauling herself up and bringing a tin of Bulmers with her. ‘Yeah, sure, OK then.’

Maggie’s antennae immediately shoot up. ‘What are you two at?’

For a second Sharon and I lock eyes.

‘Nothing,’ Sharon mutters.

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, something all right, but not really…emm…anything.’

‘Oh, if I begged you, would you share?’ says Maggie, thick with sarcasm and, I swear to God, Sharon actually looks mortified.

I’m looking at the pair of them, thinking how bizarre and ridiculous this is. I mean, Sharon looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. Like she’s actually embarrassed to tell Maggie what we’re up to. And OK, so maybe she did sneak down in the middle of the night to ask me about this but for God’s sake, it’s not like what we’re doing is something we have to keep as classified information, now is it?

‘As a matter of fact, Sharon has asked me to help her find a boyfriend,’ I say firmly, ‘and I need to talk to her about it privately, that’s all. The only reason we’re going up to her room is so we don’t disturb you watching
What Not to Wear.’

‘A boyfriend?’ says Maggie, so shocked you’d swear I’d said, ‘Oh, Sharon’s anxious to join a local Al-Qaeda cell and I might just have a few underworld contacts who might help her out.’

‘Emm…well, you see…’ mutters Sharon weakly.

‘You want a boyfriend?’

First time in my life I think I’ve ever heard Maggie being cutting to Sharon.

‘Come on, let’s get going,’ I say, leaving the room first.

But Sharon stays behind me and when I’m half-way up the stairs I can’t help overhearing Maggie growl at her, ‘And you’re taking dating advice from Cinderella Rockefeller? The most publicly dumped woman in the country? Isn’t that a bit like taking PR advice from Princess Anne?’

‘Just back off and leave me alone, will you?’ says Sharon, slamming the door behind her.

Tell you one thing. That is one helluva dysfunctional relationship.

As soon as we’re safely up in the privacy of her room, she plonks down on the bed and launches into me. ‘What did you have to go and tell Maggie for? Now I’ll never hear the end of this.’

‘Well, excuse me, I hadn’t realised it was a state secret.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like. She’ll slag me about this for weeks.’

‘That’s daft, why would she do that?’

‘I dunno. I suppose she just wants, well, someone who’ll always be here to watch TV with her in the evenings. She doesn’t want me out and about, meeting fellas and dating.’

‘But what about when you were out with other boyfriends you had before?’

She looks at me sheepishly. ‘That’s the thing, you see. I’ve never really…well…you know.’

I don’t believe this. ‘Sharon! Are you telling me that you’ve never gone out with anyone? Ever?’

‘No! I’ve had loads of snogs and flings,’ she says defensively, ‘but never really anything…sort of…long term. Like you had with that Sam fella. Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting not to bring him up.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘But I think Maggie’s afraid that if I do meet someone, then I’ll be out gallivanting with him every night of the week. And then she’ll be stuck here on her own. Or worse, on her own with Ma.’

‘Not necessarily on her own. She’ll have me, won’t she? Come on, it’s not like I can afford to go out anywhere.’

We both crack up laughing at the thought of me and
Maggie cosied up together in front of the TV, without managing to gouge each other’s eyeballs out.

‘Seriously though,’ I say, ‘I don’t get it. Why neither of you ever want to get out of the house now and then, is what I mean. It’s…well…it’s…’ I have to stop myself from saying, ‘…it’s beyond weird,’ so I just trail off into silence instead.

‘Well…Maggie says she’s only anti-social when she goes out, then finds there’s no one there that she actually wants to talk to. And we’re close so it’s just comfortable and easy to stay in. Tell me the truth, do you think we’re a bit odd?’

‘No, you’re not odd, you’re…emm…special. I mean, maybe it’s…you know, a bit unusual to see sisters quite as tight knit as you both are, but it’s…nice.’
Nice
being the only euphemism I can come up with on the spot for ‘freaky’.

‘And then you see, the other thing is I’m always so knackered when I get in from work, I can’t face getting dressed up and going out anywhere. Not when I can just get a takeaway, a few tins and relax here.’

‘Well, then my next question is, how exactly do you ever expect to meet someone? Eligible guys tend not to go around knocking on doors wondering if there’re any hot, single chicks home. You’ve gotta get out of your comfort zone and put yourself in the line of fire. Which is why I’m suggesting that we go online and start you internet dating. Right now. Tonight. I’m throwing the baby into the paddling pool and not taking no for an answer.’

‘Internet dating? Ah Jessie, no,’ she almost splutters on her cider. ‘I want to meet normal fellas not perverts.’

‘It’s not like that any more,’ I reassure her. ‘When I was at Channel Six, half the women on the production team
were at it. From the office, when they were meant to be working, more often than not. There’s no stigma about meeting people online any more you know, it’s just a way for busy people like you who work long hours to meet people from the comfort and safety of home.’ I threw in the ‘comfort and safety of home’ bit on purpose to try and lure her in.

‘Hmm,’ she says suspiciously. ‘But don’t some of these fellas have websites that say things like “Retired farmer seeks nubile young lass for fun times. Must have own chicken.”’

‘If they do, then we just ignore them. Simple as that.’

‘But supposing I do meet someone and I go on a date with him and he turns out to be a total weirdo?’

‘Ahh, then that’s what the emergency escape call is for.’

‘The
what
?’

‘It just means that about fifteen minutes into your date, your mobile rings and your dating wing woman, in this case, me, gives you an out. Just in case you need it. But if all’s well and the guy doesn’t turn out to be some pervey farmer, then you just tell him it was only work ringing and he’s none the wiser.’

‘God,’ she says, looking at me, impressed. ‘You must have done this loads of times.’

‘Actually, yeah. You know, before I met…himself…I was out there too. At the dating coalface. Plus we once did a whole
Jessie Would
programme about dating, a few years ago. I had to speed date, read date, internet date and even go eye-gazing dating.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Same as speed dating except you’re not allowed to talk. The idea is to see whether there’s any non-verbal chemistry between you.’

‘And what’s read dating?’

‘A fancy word for multiple blind dating except it happens in Waterstone’s. You’re supposed to get chatting to blokes about their taste in books, then figure out if you’re compatible from there. You know, like if a guy is reading Jane Austen, chances are he’s gay. Or if he’s reading Jeremy Clarkson, chances are…’

‘…he’s a tosser. And did you ever meet a proper boyfriend at any of these dos?’

I blush a bit, remembering. Probably best not to tell her that the only boyfriend I did actually get out of my foray into speed dating was my cheating boyfriend pre-Sam. I don’t mention this to Sharon of course, who’s looking at me with such hope in her eyes, it would break your heart. So instead I tell her what she wants to hear, which is basically a load of lies about love. Yes, you will kiss frogs, I tell her, but dating is just a numbers game and you’ve got to crunch your way through those numbers until you find your perfect match. Who is out there waiting for you, no question. And you’re going to be so happy with him and life will be wonderful and you’ll never look back again. All complete shite of course, but she seems to buy it and half an hour later, she’s even offered me one of her tins of Bulmers while we sit companionably side-by-side at her computer, scrolling our way down through all the online dating agencies.

You’d howl at some of the website names. There’s even one called ForgetDinner.com, you can only presume for would-be couples who want to cut straight to the chase and bypass the whole first date preamble. Then there’s the online user profiles. We actually find one guy who calls himself Mr Ever Done It In The Back Of An Audi?

‘Well, I’ll give him this much,’ Sharon sniggers, ‘at least he’s upfront about what he’s after. Look at this fella here. “Married man seeks fun times with like-minded young lady. Available daytimes but not evenings or weekends.” The gobshite’s even posted up his wedding photo with the wife cut out of it. Tosspot extraordinaire.’

We both cackle at this and for a moment it flashes through my mind that I can’t remember the last time I laughed. In fact, I haven’t even smiled in so long, I can barely remember what my teeth look like. Course it could just be the Bulmers.

Then we stumble across a site called NeverTooLate ToMate.com.

‘Look at their tagline,’ I giggle, pointing at the screen. ‘It says “We delete members unfit to date.” Guerrilla dating clearly is their
modus operandi.’

‘That’s what I want,’ says Sharon, taking a swig from her can. ‘A site that filters out all the messers and eejits for you. Go on, click on some of their members so we can have a good laugh at them.’

But some of the guys on this site actually seem relatively normal. Even Sharon is a bit taken aback at the lack of swingers, perverts or openly married men.

‘Ignore all the ones who didn’t bother posting a photo,’ I tell her, scrolling through profile after profile.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s cowardly. Like going into a pub on a Friday night with a paper bag over your head. And by the way, just a tip. When a guy describes himself as “fun” that means “annoying”. Just like “cuddly” means “morbidly obese and has to be hauled around on a mini-crane”.’