Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (15 page)

‘Really?’ She’s looking at me like I’ve suddenly transformed into this wise, sage dating oracle.

‘Yeah, sure. Common knowledge. And by the way, “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” can be loosely translated as “Would suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’”.’

‘Oooh, here’s a live one,’ says Sharon, clicking on another profile. ‘Listen to this. “I may not have gone to college, but I have qualified from the University of Life.”’

We both make gagging gestures and stick our fingers down our throats together, then crease up laughing.

‘Here’s one,’ I say, taking another glug of the Bulmers, which shock, horror, is actually starting to grow on me. ‘An actor, if you don’t mind. Look, he’s done a rep season at the Old Vic and two years at the RSC.’

‘Feck that. I don’t want anyone with a prison record.’

Eventually, Sharon narrows it down to about six guys she’d like to message, or ‘wink’ at as you can do on this site. Right then. Next thing is I have to sign up for her and write a profile. So I hit the ‘Join now’ option on the computer and get the ball rolling.

‘OK,’ I say, ‘now you’re going to need a fun-sounding user name. Something that’ll catch a fella’s eye. And we need to post a photo of you too.’

‘Hang on, I’ve one on my bookcase that was taken five years ago when I had the blonde streaks and was half a stone lighter.’

‘We’ve got to write your profile too, so that means we’ve got to list all of your interests and hobbies too. Except the trick is not to give too much away either; no harm to cultivate a bit of mystery.’

‘Well,’ she says, lighting up a fag and looking a bit lost. ‘My interests are…’

‘Yup, fire away,’ I say, tapping away at the keyboard.

‘Well…watching the telly.’

‘Sharon, I can’t write that, it makes you sound like a couch potato. What else?’

A long, long pause.

‘I like…ehh…’

‘Theatre? Sports? Music?’

‘Yeeee-ah. I sometimes watch MTV, so I suppose it’s OK to put down music.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well…’

‘Sharon! You must have interests and hobbies apart from watching MTV!’

‘I like…’ she racks her brains to think. ‘Well…food.’

Then I look over at the shelves which are groaning with her chick-flick DVD collection and her Danielle Steels and an idea comes. Half an hour and two tins of Bulmers later, we’ve posted the following profile, under the user name MOVIELOVER: ‘Home bird, loves cosy evenings in, reading, fine dining and all kinds of music, WLTM like-minded guy for friendship and maybe more.’

Not great, I know, but I had a right job getting her to delete the line, ‘Seeks Hugh Grant look-alike for fun times.’ Fun times, I patiently explained, being a well-known dating euphemism for hot, anonymous sex. What’s really great is that Sharon and I are getting on so well and this is the happiest I’ve seen her without a remote control in her hand. Come 11.30, we say our goodnights and I head back downstairs to make up my sofa bed. But, just outside the TV room door I hear Joan in mid-conversation with Maggie. Joan sounds in one of her snappy, irritable moods which is never, ever good news.

‘Sheila Nugent showed this to me at the cheese and wine reception tonight and I don’t want Jessica seeing it, so shove
it somewhere that she won’t. That one has taken about a month’s supply of sedatives off me already. If she gets a hold of this, she’ll be streeling around here like some self-medicated zombie for the next fortnight.’

As soon as I can hear the lights and TV being switched off, I know the coast is clear. In I go and start searching around…but there’s nothing there, just leftover tins and an empty pizza box. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next thing, I spot a pile of newspapers beside the fire, waiting to be burned. I scramble down on my hands and knees and go through them, but there’s nothing at all. Then, in the gossip pages of today’s
Evening Star,
I spot my name, and instantly shove it into the ‘To be burnt’ pile. I’ve resisted all temptation to read anything about myself in the last few weeks; why start now? But then I spot a different name in the same article. Sam’s. I grab at the article, nearly ripping it in a blind panic. I know this column well; it’s written anonymously, fabulously and bitchily by someone who just calls themselves Ulysses. No one has a clue who the mysterious Ulysses actually is, or even if it’s a man or a woman. But given how poisonous the column is, I know plenty of celebs who’d gladly get a hit man after him or her.

Having just returned from a delightful spring sojourn in Marbella, who did Ulysses happen to bump into while strolling in the sunshine? Only a source close to Sam Hughes. For those of you just coming round from a coma, Sam has recently broken up with former TV presenter, Jessie Woods. (Did Ulysses dare invoke the phrase ‘has-been’?) My mole tells me that while Sam had enjoyed a delightful holiday, sadly he cut it short for ‘personal reasons’.

Which set Ulysses to wondering why. Another lady love on the scene already, whom he was anxious to rush home to? Surely a catch like Sam need only pick and choose from a bevy of beauties available to him? But my source hinted to me that the real reason is far more romantic; Sam simply missed his ex-girlfriend and was unable to enjoy a holiday so far from her sparkling company. So, who knows, maybe Ms Woods is a little luckier in love than she is with work. Could news of possible reconciliation be in the air? One thing is for certain, wherever Ms Woods has been shielding herself away from the public gaze lately, she may very well find herself on the receiving end of a phone call from a contrite and lonely ex any time now. My Deepthroat assures me that a reunion appears to be little short of imminent. Just remember, you read it here first.

The really critical thing here is for me to stay utterly calm. Zen-like, if you will. Because this is a clear-cut, A or B situation. Either Sam cut his holiday short to rush back and beg me for a reconciliation, or…in fact, no, there is no B. Because Sam already seeing someone else, so soon after we broke up is just completely unthinkable. In fact, maybe in a weird way, we actually needed this time apart so we could both realise just how much we mean to each other. Or rather, maybe Sam needed this time out to cop onto himself, because while he might well be on his way to becoming the next Richard Branson, like most men, he’s a complete gobshite when it comes to matters of the heart. And if all the daytime TV I’ve been watching recently has taught me anything, it’s this: there is only one impossibility in life and that’s trying to keep two soulmates apart (thank you,
Oprah
). So basically, all I have to do is sit tight and wait for the phone to ring.

Which it will. Course it will. I mean, it said so in the paper. ‘A reunion is little short of imminent.’ That’s what it said. I’m guessing that the ‘mole’ referred to was either Nathaniel or Eva because come on, I mean who else could it be? I called them, got no response, left a few messages
for each of them, then gave that up as a bad job. Because, let’s face it, I have FAR bigger things to focus on, don’t I? The main thing is for me not to be the one to blink first. At least, not now that the tide’s finally turning in my favour. I shudder a bit, remembering that as far as Sam is concerned, I’ve been acting like someone out on day release since we broke up, but that was then, this is now and I make myself one solemn vow. This time, it’ll be different. Now that he’s clearly on his way back to me, it’s not too late to try and regain some degree of self-respect.

The best thing, I decide, is to get on with my usual morning’s work and not even think about going near my phone, because everyone knows the watched phone never rings. So, like the model of patience and restraint that I’ve newly become, I deliberately leave the mobile at the very bottom of my handbag in the hall, and head into the kitchen to start my day’s work. Trouble is, I keep dropping things every time I think I hear a noise that just might be the phone. By 10.30, I’ve smashed two of Joan’s revolting peach side plates (with ivy leaves growing round the edges, gak, gak, gak) when I could have sworn I heard a text coming through, but it turned out to be a Mr Whippy van on the street outside. Easy enough mistake to make; my ring tone and the ice cream van are virtually identical and both equally annoying. Then, I let a china shepherdess I was dusting smash to smithereens on the floor when the front doorbell rang. (Which was no harm, actually; there’s so many of them dotted around the place, it looks like there was a mini Laura Ashley explosion in here.) Well, it has to be Sam, it just has to, I figure, nearly impaling myself on the hall table as I ran to open it. Who else could it be? Reasonable assumption, given that it would take a very brave neighbour
to call here to Wuthering Depths, The House That Manners Forgot. No, he’s probably figured that there’s just no way of saying what he wants to over the phone, i.e., grovelling apologies and profuse expressions of undying love, you know yourself. Miles better just to call here and sweep me off my feet with flowers, champagne, the whole works.

But when I fling open the door, with my most ‘surprised’ smile hardwired onto my face, it isn’t Sam at all. Turns out just to be some guy trying to sell raffle tickets to raise money for the local hospice. I’m a bit deflated but quickly brush it aside. It’s only mid-morning. I have to be realistic; he only got back to Ireland yesterday, I need to chill out here and give the guy some time. He probably went straight into his office this morning to catch up with everything, but no doubt is saving the big romantic reconciliation scene with me later.

Just hope Maggie is back home from work in time to see it, hee hee.

Anyway, the point is that this time tomorrow, I’ll probably have moved into Sam’s house, with all my boxes, bin liners and all, and life will be rosy again. Course I still won’t have a job, but with him beside me, somehow that won’t matter quite so much. I certainly won’t miss sleeping on a lumpy sofa, I won’t miss Maggie and her never ending put-downs or Joan and her mood swings, but in a funny way, I will miss Sharon, who’s turning out to be far more sisterly than I could ever have imagined.

OK, you know what? Housework = crap idea. I’m way too jittery to get anything done, so to pass the time I knock on Sharon’s bedroom door and find her glued to her computer screen, tapping away on the NeverTooLate
ToMate website. She’s on her day off and her plans for the day appear to be sit on arse in front of computer and find cute guys to wink at.

Perfect. Couldn’t ask for a better distraction. Plus there’s that smug feeling of gently guiding someone else towards love and romance, while knowing deep down that this time tonight, I’ll be the one with the boyfriend.

‘You won’t believe this!’ she screeches excitedly at me before I even have a chance to sit down.

‘I’ve news for you too, but you go first.’

‘I got up about five times during the night to see if any cute guys had messaged me and guess what?
Seventeen
messages so far!!!
Seventeen!
Can you believe it? And the best bit is I never even had to go outside the front door to meet them! Didn’t even need to shoehorn myself into a pair of Spanx or put on make-up or anything. You’re a bloody genius, Jessie Woods. Why didn’t I sign up for this internet dating lark years ago?’

She’s still in her pyjamas and, I can’t help noticing, is so animated she’s forgotten to even come downstairs for her normal breakfast of leftover pizza.

‘That’s fab!’ I say, pulling out a chair and plonking myself down beside her. ‘OK, so let’s scroll through all your messages and then start eliminating all the eejits from the eligibles.’

‘Good plan. Hey, get a load of your man here; I think I might end up deleting him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because how could I ever bring him back to this house with Maggie sitting here? You know what she’s like; her favourite hobby is slagging off visitors.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘For feck’s sake, look at his photo, will you? If a fella is covered in bruises and has most of his front teeth missing, then the chances are he’s a bit sensitive to criticism. Maggie would start having a go at him and he’d end up annihilating her.’

‘Well, I know we shouldn’t reject anyone based on their photo at this point, but his profile doesn’t exactly scream “hopeless romantic” either, now does it?’

We both read it together, then crack up giggling.

‘STOCKY, 30, SHAVED HEAD, INTO HEAVY METAL SEEKS SIMILAR FOR RAW, HOT FUN.’

‘Can I delete this one here?’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘For feck’s sake, Jessie, he looks like a younger version of Santa and his user name is Desperado.’

‘Show me his profile.’

‘He’s a sixty-four-year-old divorcee with four kids. He’s a non-smoker and his tag line says “Get me out of this rut.” Gakkety gak gak. Can you imagine me as a stepmother? With Ma as a shining example to guide me?’

I won’t argue with her on that one, so I let her delete. Anyway, we manage to kill a whole half hour like this before it even crosses my mind to go downstairs and check my mobile for messages.

By 11 a.m. though, I’m starting to get just the teeniest bit antsy, so I run down to my handbag, whip out the phone and keep it close by me. No harm in that. I also show Sharon last night’s paper and fill her in on this latest twist in my love life, mainly because I do really sincerely hope she’ll keep in contact with me after I move out of here.

It’s really sweet actually, she kind of looks disappointed when I break it to her that my days here are numbered.

‘So, like…are you getting back with him, or what then?’

‘Well, not exactly, but I’m confident it’s just a matter of time. He’ll call today, maybe any minute now. But in the meantime, I’m just sitting tight and doing absolutely nothing and you’re going to do the same with me.’

‘What?’

‘Oh Sharon, you have so much to learn from me,’ I smile, a bit patronisingly. ‘You see the thing about guys is that they only really appreciate you if you’re like a prize to them. And prizes have to be won. So I’m advising you to do exactly as I’m doing. Leave it a good twenty-four hours before you message back any of the guys you like. Don’t let them know you’re interested. Just play it cool. Look at me, and learn from the master. I mean, do you see me picking up the phone to Sam?’

‘You did loads of times when you first moved in here. Me and Maggie used to think you were talking to yourself the whole time, until Maggie copped on you were leaving about two hundred voice messages for him. Jeez, you were like Sky News, every hour on the hour.’

OK, I was kind of hoping that mightn’t come up.

‘Yes, well, that was then and this is now,’ I snap back defensively. ‘The point is, there are times when you have to let a fella chase you and this is most definitely one of those times. For both of us. And if a guy chooses not to pursue you, then you’re gracious and dignified, but you move on. Plenty more fish and all that.’

‘Can I not just message back this guy here? His profile sounds really funny. Look, he says, “Please don’t ask my age; in dog years, I’m already dead.” And he’s online now.’

‘Sharon!’

Anyway I do amazingly well and manage to hold out
until well after 11.30 without going near the phone, but then I think, you know, this could actually be very hard for Sam. After all, he’s not a guy who finds it easy to admit that he was ever in the wrong, so…in that case, why don’t I drop him a little text message? Just to let him know I’m thinking about him, that’s all. Except I don’t want Sharon seeing what I’m at, so I slip in the bathroom and text him from there. Nothing furtive about it, I just need a bit of privacy for this.

By lunchtime, there’s no reply. So, same drill, I slip back to the loo and send a second text.

Still no answer.

So a few minutes later, I head back to the bathroom again and text again. Then I slip back to Sharon’s room and give her a great lecture about how when a fella is interested, you don’t need to do a single thing. They’ll make all the running and what’s more they’ll enjoy it. She’s totally engrossed in the computer screen and I’ve the phone in my dressing gown pocket, which I keep surreptitiously checking, oh, about every two minutes or so.

‘Is there something wrong with you?’ she asks after a while, worriedly.

‘No, why?’

‘Because you keep staring down into your nether regions. Anything you want to tell me?’

‘No, I just…emm…might need the loo again. Something I ate last night is…ehh…disagreeing with me. That’s all.’

Feck it, might as well leave a proper voice message for him. To hell with all this texting lark. In for a penny, in for a pound. He doesn’t answer, so I wait for the beep on his message minder to come on. I’m in the tiny bathroom,
balancing on the edge of the bath, in the middle of a message for Sam so long the beeps cut me off, when the door suddenly bursts open.

‘I
knew
it! You were in here ringing that Sam Hughes fella all the time, weren’t you?’ Sharon yells, grabbing the phone off me and checking the number on it. ‘And here’s me, like a gobshite, taking dating advice from you?’ She’s so infuriated, you’d swear she’d caught me in here mainlining heroin.

‘Now there’s absolutely no need for you to overreact…’

‘And why is that, exactly?’

‘Because…it’s different for me. Remember, I’ve been with him for two years you know, so the same set of rules don’t apply.’

‘Bugger that, Little Miss Do As I Say, Don’t Do As I Do. You’re completely deluded. Jeez, you could give lessons in self-delusion to Heather Mills.’

By 2 p.m., all pride is abandoned and I’ve rung eight times, not including all the text messages. I didn’t count, but Sharon did. And still no reply. I even tried calling Eva, who’s still in Spain with Nathaniel, but, surprise, surprise, she didn’t answer either.

By 2.10 p.m., I’ve convinced myself that Sam will just do the obvious thing and call here after work. Then another alarm bell. As I’m frantically pacing up and down the tiny hallway, I suddenly catch sight of myself in one of the half dozen mirrors Joan has hanging here. Christ alive, look at the state of me. In all the time I’ve been here, I don’t think I’ve even bothered once to actually take one long, hard look at my appearance. I look grey, washed out and so scrawny you’d think I weighed approximately the same as your average carton of milk. The circles under
my eyes are pitch black, like a two-year-old attacked me with a Crayola, and I’m also wearing the same manky dressing gown and pyjamas I’ve been living, eating, drinking and sleeping in for weeks now. Don’t get me wrong, I have flung them in the washing machine the odd time, but basically now they’re so minging, they could do with having a stake put through them. Then there’s the small matter of my hair. The mousey brown roots on show are so glaringly bad, I’m staring at them in horror. It’s so long since I’ve seen my natural colour, I’d actually forgotten what it was.

In a blind panic, I leg it upstairs, race to the bathroom, fling off the PJs, switch on the shower and hop in. Then, a far better idea hits me. Two seconds later, I’m hammering on Sharon’s door, wrapped in a towel and still dripping wet.

‘Come in.’ There she is, still so engrossed in NeverTooLateToMate.com that she doesn’t even bother looking up at me.

‘Sharon, dire catastrophe. Will you lend me some money?’

‘Piss off. I’ve already lent you money to pay off your mobile phone.’

‘I told you, I’ll pay you back as soon as my emergency dole money comes through. But the thing is, now I need more.’

‘What for?’

‘To get my roots done. Now. Today. Look at the state of me, would you? For God’s sake, Myra Hindley had better hair. Can’t believe you never pointed out to me how utterly crap I look. So if you think about it, in a way…this is all your fault. So you have to lend me the cash.’