Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (29 page)

‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,’ she laughs. Actually laughs. ‘Me? Set you up for a fall?’ she snorts incredulously. ‘You know, maybe it’s time you and your friend thought about leaving the building. I’m happy to get security down here although I’m sure you’d rather avoid the embarrassment of being escorted off the premises…’

‘I suggest you have a look at this!’ I’m half yelling now, as I clutch on to the email with shaky hands and start reading the most damning bits, line by line.

‘“Dear Joe…

About my other idea, I forgot to mention that Jessie’s car was repossessed only a few weeks back and I’ve no doubt that, if faced with a brand, spanking new Mercedes SLK in showroom condition, will be only too delighted to accept. Who wouldn’t be? The main thing to remember is not to take no for an answer.”’

‘OK, you know what, Jessie? I think we’ve all heard enough,’ says Emma, astonishingly, still smiling.

‘Did I say I was finished?’ I snap back at her. Then I go back to reading.

Except what I haven’t realised is that by now, I’ve got a bit of an audience. Puzzled by all the bickering from the side of the set, some of the studio audience have turned to look downwards from the seating rig to see for themselves what the cat fight brewing at the side of the stage is all about.

Maybe even wondering whether it’s part of the gig.

‘“She’s proud,”’ I read on, louder now, my voice growing in confidence, ‘“and will really need this forced on her! I’m thinking, maybe personalised number plates might be an idea? However, I’ll leave the details in your more than capable hands. Many thanks again for all your kindness
and generosity in this matter, I couldn’t be more grateful and I’m certain that Jessie will feel the same. Best wishes, Emma.”’

I break off and look Emma right in the whites of her eyes. Just waiting for a reaction. She’s staring at me now and I honestly think in all the years I’ve known her that it’s the first time I’ve seen her break a sweat.

‘This is so absurd,’ she eventually says, though her voice is icy. ‘I can assure you that I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with your being fired. As you yourself admitted, it was entirely your own fault.’

‘You were the only person who knew that my own car had been repossessed…’

‘Another lie. My God, Jessie, don’t you know when to stop?’

‘…so you arranged everything to make sure that I was for the chop…’

‘YOU took the free car, dearest. Not me. End of story.’

‘I’m not even beginning to deny that. And God knows, I’ve paid the highest possible price for it. But look me in the eye and tell me that you didn’t set the whole thing up, knowing full well I hadn’t a clue that what I did was a sackable offence…’

‘And frankly, to come here and start flinging around wild accusations when I’m just about to do a dry run is really beyond the beyond. Can we get security in here, please?’

She’s striding away from me now, heading towards the warmth of the lights, so not quite knowing what I’m at, not even pausing to think, I follow her.

There’s a round of applause as we appear together at the side of the set, then a ripple effect.

‘Can that be Jessie Woods?’

‘No, sure that one has red hair…’

‘Sounds like her…’

‘Having a cat fight with Emma Sheridan? Doubt it…’ Is all I’m dimly aware of in the background, but I blank it out. Plenty of time for mortification later.

‘Emma, BIG mistake to turn your back on me, I’m not finished!’ I say to her, calmer now.

‘I’m afraid finished is exactly what you are,’ Emma smiles. ‘And if you think you can stride in here waving some email which I never even wrote and ruin my show, I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken.’

‘That’s the best defence you can come up with? So you claim you never wrote this in the first place?’ I take a deep breath before playing my trump card.

‘Then would you mind telling me how come it’s got your personal email address on the top of it? The ultra private one?’

She ignores me.

Big mistake.

‘Can you please deal with this?’ she appeals to the floor manager, who strides over to separate us.

‘Jessie, come on, leave her alone, will you?’ he says firmly, steering me back the way I came. Next thing I’m aware of, Stasi security guy is at my shoulder, telling me in no uncertain terms that it’s time for me to leave and that he’ll be happy to escort me off the premises. There’s a rough tug at my arms and a half second later, he’s propelled me right back to the studio door.

Then, something weird. Someone, I’m in such a state I couldn’t even tell you who, whips the email out of my hands. My only piece of evidence.

But I just keep on yelling back at Emma, who’s now in
situ on set at her desk, for once without her standard ladylike composure. ‘You knew my weak spot and you took full advantage of it!’ I shout back at her, halfway out the door now.

I’m making a holy show of myself and I don’t even care.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ says Emma, addressing the audience and trying to reassert control. ‘I’m so sorry that you all had to witness that…’

No one’s listening to her though; they’re all too busy focusing on the yelling from offstage. ‘You wanted me out, you wanted me fired, you wanted to ruin me and you did!’

Knowing she’s virtually lost her entire audience now, Emma redoubles her efforts to win them back. ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Please let me assure you that this is just a temporary blip in what will be a fantastic night’s entertainment…’

‘…then, worst of all, you were hypocritical enough to pretend to be my friend! Phoning me all the time, acting like you were devastated for me. You even called over to my house just to check up on me!’

‘…and so without further ado…if I can just have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce my first guest…’

‘…and Amy here even said she caught you shredding documents in the production office right after I got fired. So now we all know why!’

‘I’ll vouch for you there, Jessie!’ Amy shouts out loyally, bless her.

As I’m finally hustled out the studio door, Steve is waiting, leading another round of applause and beaming proudly at me from ear to ear.

‘You DID it!’ he yells, grabbing me into a bear hug and
squeezing me tight. ‘You got her good! I could not be prouder of you, you were AMAZING!’

‘Get me out of here,’ is all I can gibber back at him. ‘Now.’

Next thing, we’re hand-in-hand, racing towards the main reception door, like the pair of us have just held up a bank at gunpoint or something. We make it outside, just as someone behind us screeches out my name.

‘JESSIE! Jessie, wait up will you?’

It’s lovely Cheryl from make-up. With the famous email in her hand.

‘Here love,’ she says breathlessly, thrusting it back at me. ‘Sorry, that was me who snatched it from you back there.’

I just look at her, still panting and not able to talk. Or even think straight.

‘You really played a blinder you know,’ she wheezes.

‘So why did you need this…?’ I gasp back, clutching the email.

‘To photocopy it, of course. Then I ran down to Liz Walsh’s office and left a copy of it there, so she can see it for herself.’

‘Liz who?’ says Steve.

‘The Head of Television. Just figured that this is something she should know about. Don’t you?’

I hug her goodbye and thank her profusely and next thing, it’s just Steve and me on our own together in the late evening sunshine. Then for some mad reason, out of nowhere we both crack up laughing, as giddy as two children.

‘So, where to now?’ he laughs happily, arm around my waist now, steering me towards the bike.

I’m still giddy and hysterical and still trying to get my breath back, but somehow I manage to say, ‘To work, of
course. Hey, Emma Sheridan isn’t the only one with a show to do tonight.’

And I’m not even sure how it happens, but the next thing is, we’re kissing.

Meanwhile, Maggie’s big night is this Sunday in the Comedy Cellar and, I swear to God, the rest of us at home are practically mouthing her routine along with her at this stage. She’s been working her arse off too. Night after night you’ll find her pacing up and down the TV room trying some of her riffs this way, then that, constantly scribbling down notes, changes, additions, whatever. In her defence, she did hone down her act considerably as some of the gags were just a bit too ahem, let’s just say personal.

‘My stepsister recently got dumped by her boyfriend,’ went one of her jokes, ha ha ha, ‘and you should have seen the state of her; she was in absolute bits. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Valium, she’d be on drugs.’

She looked at me hopefully but all I could do was shake my head.

‘Cut?’ she asked.

‘Definitely cut.’

Nor was Sharon exempt either.

‘My sister,’ went another gag, ‘works at Smiley Burger and was recently made Employee of the Month. Which just goes to show you that it’s possible to be both a winner and a loser at the same time.’

‘Cut immediately, you cheeky skanger!!’ Sharon screeched, flinging a handful of popcorn across the room at her, and in fairness, Maggie obediently did as she was told.

So now, with only a few days to go to the big night, the routine is looking far sharper and wittier, with Maggie’s uniquely droll take on the world practically imprinted on every line. ‘I’m a toxic single female,’ goes one particular riff. ‘And the thing is, I get a lot of grief for not having a boyfriend. Anyway, I got fed up with all the old aunties and uncles saying to me at weddings, “Oh, you’ll be next.” So I started saying it to them at funerals.’

The highest compliment I give her, which I mean so sincerely, is that even though I’ve heard her rehearse that joke over and over again, I still laugh. The hallmark of a true comic. So I tell her this and she glows.

‘You’re not just saying that?’

‘I’m not just saying that.’

‘And you promise me you’ll sit in the front row on Sunday night, not let on you know me and laugh uproariously at all my gags?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s the highlight of my week.’

‘Thanks Jessie. I mean…for everything.’

It’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen her. These days she’s even being nice to Matt, for God’s sake.

Anyway, Steve has asked me out. At least I sort of think he did. The thing is that after the snogging incident last Saturday night, things have been kind of weird between us. In the way that these things always end up getting weird. Which I hate, because apart from anything else, he’s my friend and I wouldn’t want to lose that for the world.

But, after
The Midnight Hour
on Saturday night, he gave me a lift home and there was no repeat performance of us leaping on each other like we did outside Channel Six. In fact, as he dropped me off at Whitehall, it was kind of…strange. Like something had shifted between us. I felt shy and mortified around him and I’m never shy or mortified around Steve, ever. We said a hurried goodnight, then I lay awake for the rest of the night playing the whole evening over in my head like a loop. The euphoria of the moment must be my excuse. After making such a spectacle of myself in Channel Six, having done exactly what I set out to do in letting Emma have it, it was just a huge release of emotions, nothing more. Because how could I ever even think about letting someone else into my heart? Not possible. Not while I’m still grieving the loss of…well, you know who.

Steve calls me the next day, which is Sunday, my day off. Yet more weirdness and awkwardness. Funny to think that he and I are capable of having two-hour-long chats when we’re face to face about the most inane crap you ever heard and yet now, our conversation is stilted and ikky. The pair of us are both tongue-tied, actually speaking to each other in broken sentences.

‘Sorry to bother you on your day off, Jessie, but I just really called to say—’

‘It’s fine. I’m actually helping Joan with her website.’

‘Well, that’s great. I mean, isn’t it? For Joan, is what I—’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, anyway, the thing is…I’ve got band practice tonight. We’ve got a gig at a festival down the country next Friday and Saturday.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’

‘Because otherwise, what I mean is…I mean if I didn’t…’

‘No, no, you go to band practice and enjoy.’

‘Well, what I mean is, if I was free then I’d be asking you…except that…well…you’re not free are you?’

‘No…I’m helping Joan…’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, you already said. So maybe on your next night off, like next Sunday, maybe you and I could…’

‘Oh, that’s the night of Maggie’s stand-up, she made me swear in blood that I’d be there for her. We all have to be.’

‘Well then, why don’t I come too?’

‘Oh…yeah, of course! That would be…lovely.’

‘I was going to say it to some of the guys at work too. Because it’ll be a fun night.’

‘Oh. OK. Good idea. Well then, in that case…’

‘Then I could invite Hannah and Paul too…’

‘Brilliant. It’d be lovely to see her out and about.’

‘Well, then, I’ll…see you tomorrow, I suppose.’

And he’s gone. Leaving me shaking my head and puzzled. Did he just try to ask me out or didn’t he? I can’t figure it. Because I’d have asked him to come along and support Maggie on her big night anyway, along with a whole load of people from Radio Dublin. Which makes it sound like a groupie-groupie, non-date-type night, doesn’t it? And then he was the one who suggested bringing Hannah and her husband along too. Did he say that thinking there’d be safety in numbers? So, weighing up all the probabilities, to quote Matt, the likelihood staring me in the face is that this is most definitely NOT a date. Just a gang of mates going out for a laugh. That’s all.

Funny thing is I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or disappointed.

But on the plus side, we’ve a whole week of working together ahead of us before next Sunday, so he and I should be back on an even keel by then.

Trouble is, by the time Sunday night comes around, my life has changed so irrevocably that this turns out to be the last thing on my mind.

It begins on Monday morning. Well, mid-morning would be more accurate, as Sharon’s on late shifts and she and I are practically living vampire hours these days; up till all hours at night then sleeping in until almost the crack of lunchtime the next day.

My mobile wakes me, so I tip-toe out to the landing, so as not to disturb the slumbering Sharon. ‘Hello?’ I answer groggily.

‘Jessie? This is Liz Walsh calling from Channel Six. I wondered if you had a window in your schedule at any time today? I’d like to meet with you, if that were possible. I think it’s not an understatement to say that you and I have urgent business to discuss.’

I almost drop the phone.

She misinterprets my silence and says, ‘That’s if you’re amenable to meeting me, Jessie. I understand the last time we spoke was very hurtful for you and I deeply regret that.’

OK, now I think I might just have to breathe into a paper bag. Did Liz Walsh just sort-of apologise to me? Unheard of! Liz is famous for never, ever, on pain of death apologising to anyone. One time she had the Minister for Finance complaining after a right grilling he got on Channel Six’s flagship current affairs show. It was the stuff of legend; even under pressure from a high-ranking government office, Liz stood firm and told them all where to go.

So you can understand why at this very moment, I’m
slumped down against the top stair, checking the number of the incoming call to make sure it’s not some eejit playing a cruel practical joke on me. Definitely Channel Six calling. No mistake.

‘So where would suit you to meet?’ she asks politely.

Again, gobsmacking in itself. On the rare occasions when Liz wants to see anyone, they’re told to be at her office at X time and woe betide you if you’ve a problem with that.

I manage to stammer, ‘Emm…well, you see, I’m over on the Northside now and I don’t have a car, so it would take me at least an hour to get over to you…’

‘Oh no, Jessie, not here. I’m taking you out to lunch. How about we meet half-way? The city centre, perhaps. I suggest Marco Pierre White’s restaurant. Do you know it?’

‘Umm…yeah.’

Everyone knows it. Mainly because it’s probably the swishest, priciest restaurant in town.

‘Great. Well, I’ll book a table and see you there for 1 p.m. Until then, Jessie.’

It takes me ages to get ready because I’m just not used to going anywhere posh. Bizarre, getting all glammed up for lunch, when these days all I live in is jeans. Like a flashback to the old days. Plus I keep having to slump down on the bed beside Sharon and say over and over again, ‘Why? Why does she want to see me?’

‘Because you’re a mad bitch and she feels sorry for you?’ says Sharon helpfully. ‘Or maybe she wants to recommend a good psychiatrist for you? You know, after you had to be hauled out of there by security men the other night.’

‘She already fired me. She’s done her worst. The only reason she could possibly want to see me is to read me the riot act about the scene I caused with Emma, but thing is,
I don’t work for her any more. So why bother reopening old wounds?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ says Sharon, sitting up in bed and reaching out to light her first fag of the morning. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. After everything the old witch put you through, the bleeding least she can do is treat you to a posh nosh-up.’

‘She’ll have to. You think I can afford Marco Pierre White’s on what Radio Dublin pay me?’

I’m waiting so long for the bus that I arrive a bit late. But feeling strong and confident, I have to say, wearing my one and only Peter O’Brien suit which screams, ‘You may have canned me, but this phoenix has risen from the ashes and I have another job now…HA!’ I arrive at the restaurant, probably the only person lunching here this afternoon who used public transport to get here. I step inside and the maître d’ immediately guides me to a quiet window table where Liz is already waiting. She waves away my apologies for being delayed, which again is unheard of. Liz is famously punctual herself and therefore unbelievably intolerant of it in others.

Mercifully, she comes straight to the point. ‘I’m fully aware of everything that happened the other night,’ she says, clipped and articulate as ever.

‘Liz, I know I was out of line, but you’ve no idea how furious I was with Emma.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ she nods, waving the waiter away so we can have some privacy.

‘I knew it was the dry run of her show,’ I continue, determined to get at least this much out of the way, ‘and that I couldn’t have engineered a worse time to have it out with her, but believe me, I’d no choice. She kept walking away
from me and over my dead body was I letting her get away with what she’d done.’

‘Quite right too.’

I’m gabbling on a bit, so there’s a two-second time delay before it hits me; Liz is
agreeing
with me.

‘Thing is, Jessie,’ she says briskly, ‘I’ve read the email. And what’s more, I checked up on the facts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I tracked down the infamous Joe de Courcey, Head of Mercedes Ireland.’

Now my heart stops. ‘And?’

‘And once I assured him that this would be a private conversation which would go no further, he verified everything for me. But he was at pains to stress that he genuinely had no idea this constituted a breach of ethics until he read about it in the papers.’

‘After I’d already been fired. When it was too late.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. Trouble was, Mercedes by then had been name checked in every national paper, so he felt it best for the company’s corporate image not to pour more oil on the fire, as it were. He was most apologetic about not coming forward of course, but it would have meant a hugely negative press story for Mercedes. Naturally, the last thing they wanted.’

‘Exactly what Steve said,’ I say, thinking aloud.

‘Who?’

‘Oh, sorry. A friend. A good friend.’

‘But that’s not the main reason I asked you here, Jessie. There’s something else that you should know.’

‘Yes?’

‘As of this morning, Emma Sheridan is no longer an employee of Channel Six.’

My jaw falls to the table. ‘You fired her?’

It’s at this point I have to remind myself to breathe.

‘I called her into my office and demanded a full explanation from her. Firstly about the contact she’d had with Mercedes Ireland and secondly, about her sly manipulation of a fellow work colleague. Astonishing really, she behaved almost like a politician. Even in the face of incontrovertible evidence, she denied, denied, denied.’

OK, now I don’t know what to feel. Half of me is vindicated that Emma finally got her come-uppance but at the same time, it’s awful that another human being has to go through what I went through. Although, mind you, she had no difficulty standing by and watching me crash and burn.

But still.

‘Liz, I never meant for Emma to lose her job over this, all I intended…I mean, all I wanted was to look her in the eye and tell her I knew what she’d done to me. That she hadn’t got away with it, as she’d thought.’

‘You’re completely missing the point, Jessie. You were fired for breaking an ethical code. And Emma was fired for breaking a moral code. I like to delude myself that we’re a team at Channel Six and she most definitely did NOT behave like a team player. You were constantly outpolling her in the audience popularity stakes and it seems this was her attempt to get you out of the way. Atrocious behaviour and I for one felt that I could never work with her again after that. Because how could I possibly work with someone I can’t even trust?’

I slump back against the chair and take a gulp of water. Never in my wildest flights of fancy did I think that Emma, the model of professionalism, would do anything to endanger her precious career. In fact, I almost want to take
a look out the window, just to check that the world hasn’t, in fact, come to an end.

‘However, my prime concern,’ Liz continues, fanning herself with the wine list, ‘is that this be kept out of the media. It’s highly damaging to us in the long run. I’m meeting with our PR people later this afternoon and we’re putting out a joint statement saying Emma Sheridan felt this was the right time for her to leave the station. For personal reasons. She’s reluctantly agreed to this, but then she has little other choice. From her point of view, it means she doesn’t have to leave in disgrace and at least it allows me to get rid of her quickly and quietly.’