Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (23 page)

By 9 p.m. there’s still no word from her. So now I’ve turned into the world’s most over-protective mother hen,
constantly texting her to check if she’s OK, pacing up and down the hallway, worried out of my mind that Matt the actuary turned out to be some serial killer who lured her to the boot of his car and then on to her doom.

Anyway, all my worry was for nothing, because Sharon eventually staggers home at about midnight, stewed off her head, but saying she had a great night. Apparently they hit it off immediately, neither one wanted the coffee date to end, so he suggested going to a movie, then a few drinks afterwards.

‘He definitely isn’t a core shaker,’ she says drunkenly getting into bed while I glare furiously at her, arms folded. ‘In fact he looks a bit like…well…like you’d expect an actuary to look. Short guy too, only five foot five, but says he likes big women. Jeez, wait until he gets a load of Maggie.’

‘And would it have killed you to have rung and let me know you were OK?’ I demand, with my face like thunder, effectively doing Joan’s job for her. ‘I’ve been pacing up and down here, worried sick about you…’

‘Jeez, come on, Jessie. Can’t you just feel what I want you to feel?’

‘Which is what?’

‘Jealous.’

Two nights later, Matt takes her dog racing. Even offered to pick her up at the house, which I actively discouraged. Waaaaaay too early to meet the Munster family yet.

With Sharon out and about and Joan hardly ever home anyway, it’s just been Maggie and me on our own together a lot lately and it’s not been pleasant. What’s worse is that, ever since my chat with Sharon the night we watched the documentary, I’ve been trying, really trying to make an
effort with her. Complete waste of time though; if I as much as initiate a conversation, all I’ll get is a grunt in return. If I’m lucky and she doesn’t just ignore me, that is. So most of the time we don’t speak at all.

Until the night Sharon’s out on her second date, that is. Maggie and I are watching a re-run of
Frasier
when out of nowhere, she turns to me with poison in her eyes and Bulmers on her breath.

‘Not happy until you’ve waved a wand and changed all of our lives, are you?’ she almost growls at me from her armchair, holding the fag in her hand like it’s a dagger.

I just look at her, determined not to rise to the bait. Trouble is, I’ve had two tins of Bulmers as well, so if she wants to pick a row with me, I’m just sozzled enough to make a stand against all her bullying and low-level passive aggression. No, on second thoughts, make that her full-blown naked aggression.

‘These days, your nickname should be Pollyanna Rockefeller, not Cinderella,’ she says, glaring at me with the flinty eyes. ‘Personally, I preferred it when you were acting like Cinderella though. You were mildly less irritating.’

OK, I know I shouldn’t rise to the bait, but I do. Can’t help myself. Sorry, but I’ve had enough of her sniping at me and it’s time to draw the line. What can I say? There comes a time when you get tired of being treated like the antichrist.

‘Maggie, when are you going to stop being so angry all the time?’

‘On the day that I get married,’ she sneers back at me. ‘That’s the answer you want to hear, isn’t it? The only answer a dolly bird like you would understand. So you can give me a makeover too, send me out of here looking like a
dog’s dinner and force me on dates with complete strangers too. Because in your eyes you’re not validated unless you’re in a couple. For feck’s sake, I think that to a vacuous bimbo like you, the feminist movement was just something that happened to other people.’

I slump back into the sofa, take another gulp of cider and abandon the fight before it even begins. Poor Matt the actuary though, I think, feeling sorry for him before we’ve even met.

Imagine being introduced into this?

Next day, when I come home from Radio Dublin, there’s about half a dozen cardboard storage boxes lying in the hallway waiting for me. Joan’s there too, in thunderous form.

‘I almost lost the heel off one of my good shoes tripping over this mountain of rubbish,’ is her greeting to me, as I let myself in. ‘I’m warning you, Jessica, this pile of crap better be cleared out of my sight by the time I get home.’

‘This is all mine?’

‘No, Pope Benedict’s. Who do you
think
it belongs to? Some girl called Amy dropped them off when you were at work. I mean it, I want it all gone by the time I’m back from my soirée tonight.’

Shit, I’ve had so much else on that I completely forgot. She means Amy Blake, the runner on
Jessie Would.
So sweet of her. Anyway, before I start shifting all the boxes to the safely of the garage, I stop to give Amy a quick call and to apologise for not being here when she called. She answers immediately.

‘Hey, it’s so good to hear from you!’ she laughs cheerily and for a moment it’s just like old times. She chats away, telling me she’ll be working on Emma’s new talk show soon, so she’s all buzzed up about that. ‘Won’t be the same without
you though, Jessie. We all miss you so much. You’ve no idea. The place is dead without you. No one treats the runners like you used to.’

‘Aw, thanks Amy. And look, I owe you one for going out of your way to deliver all those boxes. I really do.’

‘Not a problem. I’m sure most of it is for the bin anyway, but I thought I should at least let you decide. I found Emma shredding everything in the entire production office right after the show was canned, so I salvaged as many of your things as I could. You never know, there might be something in there that’s of use to you.’

I thank her again and as I hang up, we promise to meet for coffee soon. Bit odd, I think as I start shifting boxes. Emma shredding documents in the production office, that is. I mean, apart from anything else, why would she be bothered?

Come the following Saturday and things are on such a sure footing with Sharon and Matt, that not only does she want to invite him to the christening at Hannah’s later today, but says he’s even insisting on collecting her at our house, so he can give us both a lift there.

Steve made sure I knew that all the family were invited, but Joan is, surprise, surprise, heading off to the Swiss Cottage, this time she claims for a ‘business meeting’. She even whispers the word ‘business’ as if it’s all top secret and Donald Trump is waiting in the pub’s upstairs room to invest in whatever this mysterious project is. I just smile at her, presuming this is another euphemism for ‘wine tasting’ but no, she says, it really is business and that she’ll tell us all about it ‘once the business plan is finalised’. Honestly, there are times when I wonder why she bothers talking
everything up with me. I washed her knickers, for God’s sake; we have NO secrets.

Anyway, I arrange to meet Steve at Hannah’s house that evening, as it’s family only at the church bit; the neighbours are only invited to the knees-up afterwards. I’m actually a bit nervous about seeing Hannah after all these years of not being in contact. And I’m even more eager to finally get a look at Matt the actuary.

Under strict orders from Sharon, he arrives to our house punctual to the dot of 6 p.m. and, as Sharon herself is still upstairs drying her hair, I’m charged with letting the poor guy in and entertaining him until she’s good and ready to come down. This, by the way, is all on account of some self-help book she read which advises that if a guy calls to your door to collect you, then you should keep him waiting as long as possible, at all costs. Ho hum. Just wouldn’t have thought that daft rule would apply in this particular house, but there you go.

Anyway, I trip downstairs and open the door to say hi. Sharon’s right, Matt isn’t tall, but round and bald with black-rimmed glasses and dressed in an immaculately pressed suit. Hard to tell his age, but I’m guessing that he’s looking down the barrel at about forty.

‘Good evening. You must be the lovely Jessie, I presume?’ he says, holding out his hand.

Formal manners, I think, smiling and shaking hands. Old fashioned. Which is nice, cute and kind of endearing. I make him as welcome as I can, and am about to usher him into the kitchen, when Sharon shouts from the top of the stairs to bring him into the TV room. Where Maggie is watching
Deal or No Deal,
or some similar Saturday evening crap, all while indulging in her favourite hobby: planning
out the rest of her night’s viewing with the TV guide plonked on her lap. Feeling mortally sorry for the poor fella, I lead him in and introduce Maggie, who’s sitting like a sumo wrestler in her armchair, glaring at him with the stony grey eyes. Warming up for the fight.

‘And this is my sister, Maggie.’

‘
Step
sister.’

Then I offer him a drink. Anything to make the poor fella feel comfortable.

‘Coca Cola please, I’m teetotal,’ he replies and I swear to God, Maggie’s frozen non-reaction speaks volumes.

Then I realise this entails me leaving the room and going to the fridge to get the drink for him, thereby exposing him to Maggie at her foulest, i.e., when her TV’s just been interrupted. So I race to the kitchen as quick as I can, but just as I’m coming back into the TV room, I’m in time to catch her saying, ‘So, Matt. Are you sure you’re not going to try to get me to join a cult? No offence, but you have that look about you.’

I hand him the drink and of course, overcompensate for her horribleness by patting the sofa beside me and asking him to join me. Like some maiden aunt in a black and white film; all I’m short of is a hairnet, a lace mantilla and a pair of knitting needles.

‘So, you’re an actuary?’ I smile.

‘Yes, but it’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds, you know.’

‘That a fact?’ snipes Maggie from under a thick cloud of smoke, waves of hostility practically rolling off her.

I think that this is probably the first heterosexual man under the age of forty to have set foot in the TV room since my dad’s funeral, hence her reacting as if she’s about to wave garlic and a crucifix into the poor guy’s face at any
minute. But Matt doesn’t seem to even notice. Got a thick skin, obviously. Which augurs well.

‘It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Jessie,’ he says to me at one point. ‘It’s not often someone in my line of work gets to meet a genuine household name.’

‘Well, well, well. You must be an actuary
and
a comedian,’ Maggie smiles like a cobra. ‘Because, let me tell you, Jessie is barely a household name in her own house.’

I don’t want to let the entire Woods family down in front of him, so, like the majority of Maggie’s jibes, I let it slide. More long pauses, then purely from the point of view of filling up dead air (a radio phrase I just learnt), I pass some inane comment about how lucky we are the weather is so fab, considering the forecast for today was complete rubbish.

‘In actual fact, it’s nothing to do with luck at all,’ Matt explains. ‘It’s a mathematical certainty that weather forecasters are inaccurate forty-five per cent of the time, so it’s perfectly probable that good weather was likely after all.’

A quick glance at Maggie tells me that the probability of Matt being about ten seconds away from one of her nastier, more cutting comments is a dead certainty, but mercifully, Sharon bounces in just then, looking absolutely gorgeous in yet another new outfit that she bought without me. In fact, with the amount of new gear she’s been bringing home this week, I’m thinking she must have spent her entire wage packet in the boutiques of the Omni Park shopping centre. Dear God, I have created a shopping addict in my own image.

As we all get up to leave, I make a point of letting Maggie know that she was invited to the christening too and is absolutely more than welcome to join us. On the principle that it’s one thing less for her to bitch about later on.

‘I’m not much of a kid-lover,’ is her reply, puffing smoke at me.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, really making an effort here. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘Oh please, fun? At a christening party? If you ask me, I’ve always thought the witch in Hansel and Gretel is a deeply misunderstood woman. She builds her dream home and two brats come along and eat it? Deserved what they got really.’

Knew it was a complete waste of time asking her. Dunno why I even bothered. Then Matt’s phone rings and as he goes out to the hallway to take the call, Sharon turns to us both.

‘Well? Thumbs up or thumbs down? You can tell the truth, ’cos I’m just using him for practice really. My Defibrillator Guy,’ she adds, with a knowing look in my direction.

‘Well Sharon, I think he’s absolutely lovely,’ I say, really meaning it. ‘Mad about you too. Couldn’t take his eyes off you when you came into the room!’

‘Jeez, do you really think so?’

‘Honestly. He was looking at you adoringly. Like…like…’ I scramble around for a metaphor. ‘Like a cute little…seal pup.’

‘Yeah,’ says Maggie. ‘That you want to clobber.’

As the three of us head for Matt’s car, I turn to Sharon. ‘Something has to be done about her. She’s been in a bad mood for about twenty years now and I’m not sure how much more of it that I can take. The nicer I try to be to her, the worse she gets.’

‘I know,’ Sharon nods, as Matt goes to link her arm and she shoves him off. ‘But what the hell do we do?’

Anyway, we drive to Hannah’s house, which by car is only about five minutes from our street. Although neither Sharon nor I have ever been here before, you’d know we had the right house from about a mile off. Dozens of helium balloons are hanging off the gateposts, and the tiny driveway is completely stuffed with cars. It’s still early but already the party is looking wild and raucous. As we park and make our way to the front door, we can already see the front garden heaving with kids, all playing screaming fighting with each other.

For a split second my thoughts go back to my old life; I remember a children’s do Eva and Nathaniel had for their twins where they’d hired an actual string quartet to play and the kids just looked bored off their heads while the adults stood around sipping Bellinis and talking about money. It was so sedate compared to this; a real, old-fashioned knees-up where even this early in the evening, you can see most of the grown-ups slowly starting to get arseholed drunk. I know where I’d far rather be too, I think, gratefully giving Sharon’s arm an encouraging squeeze. Among real friends, thanks very much.