Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (7 page)

Next thing on the screen, Sam’s big posh Bentley pulls up at the gates on his way back from getting the papers. He has a remote for them, but is still forced to slow down while they open up. Cue one of the reporters, a big guy built like a sumo wrestler, nearly having a heart attack with the excitement.

‘Mr Hughes, Sam Hughes? Don’t drive past us this time, we only want a few words with you!’ he shouts at the car, nearly impaling himself on the front bonnet, so Sam has no choice but to stay put.

‘Any comment to make?’ sumo guy yells through the driver’s window.

No, Sam, no, don’t do this, not now, just keep on driving, maybe even mow a few of them down if you can manage to get a clear run at them…But I’d forgotten, if there’s one thing Sam has a weakness for, it’s media attention. I see it happening almost in slow motion. The electronic window of his car sliding gracefully down and him flashing his brightest, toothiest smile straight to camera.

‘Afternoon gentlemen, how are you all this fine day?’ Cool as a fish’s fart, not a bother on him.

‘Thanks so much for talking to us this time. Anything to say? How is Jessie feeling right now? Is it fair to say she’s devastated and hiding away from the world?’

‘Gentlemen,’ Sam answers smoothly, ‘while Jessie has no comment to make at this distressing time…’

‘Shut up and just drive!’ I’m screeching at the TV, before clamping my hand over my fat gob. If they’re that close to
the house, there’s a good chance the bastards might hear me.

‘…I would just like to say that in an otherwise stellar career, she made one simple error of judgement, which I’m quite confident she’ll recover from in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He swishes off as the security gates open leaving me open mouthed at how practised and almost rehearsed he sounded. A minute later, he’s in the front door and bounding up the stairs to me.

The frightening thing though, is that the cool show of strength he put on for the press not two minutes ago has just completely evaporated. Now he looks pale (which rarely happens, Sam is one of those people who’s always permatanned, even in winter), rattled (again atypical, Sam lets nothing, absolutely nothing faze him), and dazed. Actually
dazed.

‘OK, Woodsie, I won’t lie to you,’ he says. ‘It’s bad. There’s three camera crews down there, one from Channel Six, one from RTE and another one I don’t recognise. And that’s not even counting all the photographers. Christ alive, surely this can’t be that big a story?!’

‘What…what will we do?’ My voice is tiny, barely audible.

He thinks for a minute. ‘Stay put. They can’t get a clear shot of the bedroom. I’ll bring up the papers and we’ll go through them together…’

‘No, no, I can’t.’ It’s the firmest I’ve sounded all day. ‘Please, no.’

In the end, he takes one look at me and realises that I’m in no fit state to read horrible things about myself. So he heads down to the kitchen, mercifully at the back of the house where no one can see in, to read them for himself.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll censor them all for you,’ he says reassuringly on his way out the door. ‘And I’ll bring up any that have anything positive to say. Whatever you do, do NOT turn on the news.’

This, no messing, takes a full hour. I try to pass the time by a) watching a documentary about Princess Diana on the Biography Channel, but I have to switch off as the bit about her being harassed by the paparazzi is just that bit too close to the bone today, b) somehow getting the strength to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom but I have to crawl straight back to bed again after the shock of seeing my face in the mirror. Honest to God, I look like someone gouged out my eyes and replaced them with flint. Besides, all the crawling around is starting to give me carpet burn. Then there’s point c). Like eating a Pot Noodle, I know it’s bad for me, I know it’ll make me feel worse afterwards, but I can’t help myself, I switch Channel Six on again as it’s coming up to the six o’clock news and, whoop-di-doo, I’m still there. Still the second bloody news item, which makes me wonder what the hell the third news item could possibly be; ants in a straight line crossing a road?

Next thing Sam’s back in my room, so I snap off the TV and pretend to have been just lying there all along, innocently whinging. Then I notice that he’s empty handed. Which can only mean one thing.

‘Well, I’ve read them all cover to cover,’ he begins.

‘And…?’

He doesn’t answer the question. Which instantly makes me fear the very worst.

‘The
Sunday Indo
had an OK-ish piece…’

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, when I say OK, I mean there was one fairly sympathetic article, called “What Next for Jessie Woods?”’

‘What’s next for me? A gunshot, if I’ve anything to do with it.’

‘Come on, Woodsie, you’ve got to face this head on,’ he says, his huge rugby player’s frame hulking in the doorway, eyes distractedly darting towards the window every thirty seconds or so, even though the curtains are drawn. ‘Damage limitation, that’s key right now. And showing your face in public again. They’re having a field day knowing you’ve locked yourself up in here. You’re a sitting target. You’re front page in everything but the
Sunday Sport
and that’s only because there’s some glamour model with thirty-eight double-D cups on the cover. But you made page two. With a picture of the house and a banner headline saying “Hiding out in The Chateau de Shame”.’

‘Shut up, please! Enough!!’ I screech, sticking my two fingers in my ears.

‘Look, Woodsie, the absolute worst thing you can do is nothing. In your shoes I’d go straight in to see my agent in the morning and release a statement clarifying your position and above all apologising. Best way to get rid of them is to grovel for a bit, say you’re sorry and pray it’ll all die down.’ Then he sits down on the edge of the bed beside me and for a while we’re both silent. I know he’s right; just the thought of having to face the world tomorrow is crucifying me. Next thing, he springs up, running his hands through his hair again, so it looks even bouffier. ‘Anyway, speaking of damage limitation, I better go.’

‘What? You’re leaving? You can’t leave!’

‘We were due to have dinner at Nathaniel and Eva’s, remember? I think at least one of us should go.’

‘But…Sam, please, no. Can’t you cancel? They’ll understand. Especially when they see we’re holed up like hostages here.’

He’s firm though, the way Sam always is whenever he’s made his mind up about something. ‘No,’ he insists. ‘We already cancelled on them last night. It would be rude.’

I don’t want to be left here by myself, but I know I’ve no choice. I’ve royally buggered up his weekend, the least I can do is let him out from under house arrest for a few hours. After all, it’s not like he did anything wrong. I look at him and suddenly a huge surge of love comes over me. I mean, just look at him, for God’s sake; protecting me, checking through the papers for me, trying to fix me and make everything all better again. My rock. My Prince Charming.

‘But you’ll come back here later, won’t you?’ I ask, aware of how pathetically weak and clingy I sound and not even caring.

‘Course I will. Now try to sleep,’ he says gently on his way out. I just nod and manage a watery half-smile.

Then, from the bottom of the stairs, he calls up, ‘By the way? You really need to get the downstairs loo fixed. Smells like a Victorian sewer down here.’

Oh yeah, that’s another thing about Sam. He’s surprisingly intolerant of lax household maintenance.

Ten p.m. and I’m still awake and staring at the ceiling. Sleep won’t come so to pass the time I make out a list of all the crap things in my life right now versus all the good things.

Crap things:

-No job

-No money and I doubt if even Bob Geldof with all his
experience in dealing with Third World debt could bail me out of the financial black hole I’m in. Have a lot of grovelling ahead of me before I can be deemed employable again. If I can ever be deemed employable again. Because it’ll take great good luck, plus Liz Walsh having a mild stroke which will completely black out her entire memory bank for the last twenty-four hours -Prisoner in own home

What a rubbish idea this was, I think, flinging the pen away from me after only a few minutes. Just when I thought I was all cried out, this is only bringing on a fresh batch of hot, stinging tears. So instead, I focus on the positives in my life right now. But it’s a far shorter list. Scarily short. Because the only good, rock solid, dependable thing in my life right now is Sam. That’s it. He’s the one person who’s there for me through thick and thin and after the way he’s stood by me this weekend, I think I love him even more. If that were even possible.

It’s just a bit odd that by 2 a.m., he still hasn’t come back.

He hasn’t come back by the following morning either. I hardly slept a wink; just kept dozing fitfully and at about 8 a.m., eventually abandoned that as a bad job. So then I started frantically phoning and texting Sam instead. Twenty-five calls and seventeen texts. Like the demented lunatic I’ve turned into, I actually counted. No answer to any of the phone calls and no reply to my manic text messages either. Now, just to give you an idea of just how utterly unheard of this is, Sam always,
always
has his phone on his person at all times. He’s one of those people who even brings it into the bathroom with him whenever he has a shower, and by the way, I am NOT making that up. Communication is like oxygen to him.

So now I’ve spiralled off into a sickening flurry of panic. The love of my life has probably been in some tragic car accident and at this very moment could be lying comatose in a hospital bed in plaster from the neck down, unable to say or do anything except move the tip of his little finger, so none of the nurses in the intensive care unit know to call and tell me what’s happened.

Suddenly, the lethargy and depression of yesterday are gone and now I’m wired by this whole new world of worry
that’s just opened up. I try calling Nathaniel and Eva’s home number, my hands sweaty with tension, but no answer. Which means this
must
be bad. Frantically, I ring Eva’s mobile. She answers immediately, sounding half asleep and groggy. No, she yawns sleepily, she hasn’t heard from Sam either, not since he left their house early, about tenish last night after they’d all had dinner. But, here comes the killer, she lets it slip that Sam did call Nathaniel earlier this morning to, wait for it, arrange drinks and dinner with some clients at Bentleys swanky restaurant later on tonight.

Right. So that’s the coma worry eliminated then. It never occurred to me that he just…didn’t bother calling me. So, in other words, he went home last night, as normal, got up for work as normal and even found the time to book dinner and drinks with his best friend.

I have to slump back against a pillow to digest his.

‘OK, so maybe Sam hasn’t been in touch with you yet,’ Eva goes on, calmly, so calmly that it’s making me want to scream. ‘But it’s still early; he’ll call you later on. Funny, I assumed he was going straight back to yours last night, but I suppose he must have just gone home instead.’

‘But why the hell would he just go home instead? He knew the state I was in and he faithfully promised he’d come straight back here! Eva, you’ve no idea what it’s been like for me. Yesterday was a bloody nightmare.’ My voice sounds weak now, croaky and panicky.

‘Oh yeah, I meant to say how sorry I am. About…emm, you know, everything. How are you doing?’

‘I…I’m…’ I can’t finish my sentence though. So I just opt for bawling my eyes out instead, which in fairness, I haven’t done for at least half an hour.

‘Well, never mind. I mean, it’s only a job, isn’t it?’ she says airily and for a split second, her flippancy silences me out of my hysteria. The exact same shock you’d get if you’re crying and someone responds by smacking you wham across the face.
It’s only a job, isn’t it?
Did I really hear her just saying that?

‘Eva, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m unemployed, broke, up to my armpits in debt, out of my mind with worry, not to mention staked out by the press and now, on top of everything else, I haven’t heard a single word from my boyfriend all night or all morning, although apparently he’s well able to ring Nathaniel!’

‘Shh, shh, honey, take a deep breath. In for two and out for four, like they tell us in power yoga class. You need to de-stress. I’m sure Sam’s just busy. You know what he’s like when it comes to work, Jessie.’

‘Are you kidding me? My whole life has gone into freefall and you’re telling me that Sam is too busy to talk to me?’ I’m trying my best to keep the rising hysteria out of my voice, but not really succeeding.

‘You know, Jessie, listening to you, all I can think is, when was the last time this girl had acupuncture? Hey, here’s a thought, my masseuse is calling over later, why don’t you drop by and have a Swedish massage? Sounds like you might need one. Badly. Oooh, and then later on, I’m going to the Design Centre to see their new spring collection. You should come with.’

Dear Jaysus. I’m inclined to forget. To Eva, the recession is just something that’s happening to other people. Somehow, I restrain myself from snapping at her, but firmly tell her I need to get off the phone to call Sam’s office. Like, now.

‘Oh, OK,’ she yawns. ‘I’m going back to sleep anyway.’ I know, for a mother of twin boys, this sounds extravagantly luxurious, but bear in mind that Eva has
a lot
of home help. ‘Just try to calm down, Jessie. And remember, at least we’ve got the trip to Marbella coming up really soon. Now isn’t that something lovely for you to look forward to?’

I hang up, wondering if she even heard a single word I said.

So I ring Sam’s office and am put straight through to his assistant, Margaret. Two things about Margaret: firstly, she’s incredibly protective of Sam, almost obsessing over him the way an Irish mammy would with a cherished only son. Secondly, to put it mildly, she’s not exactly a huge fan of mine. Can never quite figure out why. I’ve only met her a handful of times, but she always treats me like some telly-tottie blow-in who only distracts Sam from going out and making even more money than he already has.

‘He’s specifically asked not to be disturbed this morning, Miss Woods.’

That’s another thing about her, she always calls me Miss Woods. I think it’s an intimidation tactic. Waste of time trying to intimidate me though; I may live in a fancy gated house in Dalkey, but scratch below the surface and you’ll find a true blue, working-class Dublin Northsider.

‘However, I’m very happy to pass on your message.’

I know right well that she knows what happened to me over the weekend; bar she’s just come out of a coma, how could she not? But I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me sniffle down the phone – just thank her politely and hang up.

Right then. So Sam is alive and well and going about his day’s work and not lying comatose in a hospital bed. Which is something, I suppose. Then a surge of optimism; of course he’s going to call me back later. Come on, this is Sam I’m talking about, Mr Perfect Boyfriend. Yes, it’s a bit odd he never came back here last night, but I’m sure there’s some perfectly plausible explanation. So when we eventually do get to talk and when he inevitably asks me what I’ve been up to since yesterday, what will I tell him then? That I lay in bed all day whinging like a crazy lady? Or that I took his advice, picked myself up like a winner who’s just taken one of life’s knocks, and is now bravely dealing with it head on? Right, that’s it. Decision made. Let Operation Damage Limitation begin.

An hour later and I’m up, dressed in jeans and a sweater with my hair tied back under a baseball cap, along with the biggest pair of sunglasses I can find for maximum face covering. Just so no one gets to see my face which frankly is looking like a bag of chisels from all the crying and sleep deprivation. For better or for worse, I’m ready to face the world. Plus I’ve been busy lining up appointments in town for the week ahead with my agent, publicist and, the one I’m actually dreading most of all, my accountant.

First hurdle though, is getting out the front gate without the hounds of hell stationed there having a pop at me. Added to this particular dilemma is the fact that a) I’ve no car and b) if I get the bus into town, there’s every chance the bastards will follow me and God alone knows the craic they’d have doing that. Right, nothing for it but to get a taxi to come through the security gates and right to the front door of the house, so I can hop into it and slip past the photographers at maximum speed. Slight problem
though: I’ve no cash in the house to pay for said cab. Not a brass farthing.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but next thing, I’m rooting through coat pockets and old handbags foraging for loose change. Dear Jaysus; not one week ago, I spent around €180 on a La Prairie face cream and now I’m scrambling around looking for a few spare coins which I might have forgotten about. But I’m in luck; right at the bottom of a ridiculously expensive, impulse-buy Gucci bag, there’s a €20 note and about €4.50 in coins. Well whaddya know. I’m rich.

I meet with my agent, one Roger Davenport, in his offices in town. Roger, I should tell you, is a sixty-something bachelor whose ideal client would probably be Audrey Hepburn. Always dresses a bit like a magician in velvet suits and bow ties, usually accessorised with a brolly; a bit like Steed in
The New Avengers.
He’s also a thorough gentleman of the old school and never loses his temper with the kids who always follow him, as he strolls from his converted Georgian townhouse to his equally elegant Georgian office. I’ve often seen him sauntering through town, like it’s permanent Bloomsday, chased by kids all chanting, ‘Here mister, where’s your boyfriend?’ Water off a duck’s back though; Roger is famous for his unflappable cool and permanent good humour. Until I go in to see him, that is.

He’s sitting at his antique desk when I arrive at his office, surrounded by this morning’s papers. ‘Dear Lord, Jessie, what precisely were you thinking?’ is his opener, peering up from over Churchill-esque half-moon glasses. I fill him in, with particular red-eyed snivelling saved for the part
where I stress that I didn’t know I’d done anything wrong. It’s fast becoming my new catchphrase.

‘Well, my dear,’ he frowns, looking like a consultant about to give me bad news, ‘naturally I shall do my best to source alternative employment for you. However, be warned. This will be no easy task.’

Then I meet with Roger’s publicist Paul, a prematurely grey chain smoker with so much manic energy that after ten minutes in his company I’m so exhausted, all I want to do is lie down in a darkened room and take sedatives. Together with Roger, we draft a press release, which I think just about hits the right, apologetic note between deep contrition and remorse for what I did, yet gently touching on the fact that had I suspected for a second that what I was doing was wrong, I’d have been a distant speck on the horizon.

On his way out the door to have a cigarette, statement tucked under his oxter, Paul turns to me. ‘Oh, by the way, I do have one bit of good news for you, Jessie.’

I look at him stunned, but then, optimism is an unfamiliar sensation for me right now.

Then he tells me that some topless glamour model who I never heard of has just left her boy band drummer husband who I also never heard of, for a Premiership footballer whose name I couldn’t even attempt to pronounce.

‘Sorry Paul, excuse my addled brain, but how exactly is this good news?’

‘Means you’re relegated to page four.’

I see what he means. By the time I get back to the house, the photographers and press who were there yesterday and this morning have completely dispersed. So now I know exactly what they mean by ‘yesterday’s news’.

By nine that night, I’ve broken the magical half-century barrier with the amount of messages I’ve left for Sam, which in stalking terms is probably the equivalent of running the four-minute mile. And not one single call answered. I’m too exhausted even to cry, so I just collapse into bed and sleep the sleep of the damned.

Week from hell: day two

My policy of call bombardment to Sam continues. Except now that I’ve actually had a night’s sleep and am thinking a bit more clearly, I’m
furious
with him. Madder than a meat-axe. I mean, for feck’s sake what exactly is going on here? Me going through career meltdown and him ignoring me? Cowardly bloody bastard. With woman’s intuition, the only possible reason I can come up with for his bizarre carry on is that Sam, media lover, with a book about to be published in a few months’ time and an ongoing campaign to become a panellist on that entrepreneur’s TV show, can’t hack being around the PR disaster that I’ve become. So if it comes to a choice between his precious career and me, his girlfriend, then guess who gets the boot? Which leaves me with exactly two courses of action to choose from: Plan A, I barge into his office to have it out with him there. Except then I’d only have to face snotty Margaret acting like a sentinel, who’d probably force me to wait in reception for the rest of the day out of pure badness. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction. Plan B is just to go round to his house and stake him out there, but he lives in deepest County Kildare, about fifteen miles from any bus route and let’s face it, there’s no way I could ever afford the taxi fare. Probably just as well for him that neither plan is a runner, because the mood
I’m in right now, if I did get to see him, I’d bloody kill him, then feed his rotting carcass to starving alsatians.

I leave about six messages for Nathaniel too, but, surprise, surprise, he doesn’t get back to me either. I’ve always liked Nathaniel, but in my yo-yoing emotional state, now I’m furious with him too. I always thought he was a bit weak, a bit too easily dominated by Sam and his Type A personality. Now here’s the proof. I ring Eva too, the only one of our foursome who’s still actually speaking to me, but it turns out she has another yummy mummy friend over with her kids for a play date, so she can’t talk. She swears she’ll call me later on though. Which of course, she doesn’t.

Roger calls to say that, as he suspected, no one is hiring right now. He’d put out a few feelers on my behalf, but nothing doing. ‘Best lie low for a bit, Jessie dear,’ is his sage advice. ‘When this unpleasantness all dies down, I’ll try again. Perhaps not a primetime show, but maybe something on one of the digital channels.’ This is about as close as polite, gentlemanly Roger would ever come to saying, ‘Your stock is so low in this town, you’ll be bloody lucky to get a job in community radio reading out the funeral notices on the 5 a.m. graveyard slot.’

Then Paul the publicist rings with an update; our press release has done the trick and seems to have killed the story for the moment at least. I’m now further relegated to page eight, which is marginally better than being publicly stoned.