Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (25 page)

‘It certainly didn’t last though,’ I say, knocking back a mouthful of wine. ‘The minute things started to unravel for me, every single one of those people vanished into thin air.’

‘I know and that must have been tough for you. Especially with what happened with Sam Hughes.’

I’ve no answer for that one. Besides, I think you’re only allowed a certain number of tears per guy and I’ve already used mine up.

‘Sorry, Jessie,’ she says, a bit more gently now. ‘I know how much he meant to you. Remember how, just after you first met him in Channel Six, we used to scroll through all the papers together to see if we could find any mention of him? Then years later, when I read that you were actually
with him, I couldn’t believe it. You just went after your goal and somehow you made it happen. I thought wow, Cinderella finally got her Prince Charming.’

‘For all the good it did me,’ I smile at her wryly. ‘I suppose I’m a walking cautionary tale. You know, one of those people that you point at and say, be careful what you wish for. But I’m a very different person now.’

‘No,’ she says shaking her head firmly, with the killer insight only someone you’ve grown up with can possess. ‘You were a different person then. You used to be so hungry for it all. So driven and obsessed with shaking off your past and getting on in the world. But you know something? You’ve changed. You’re calmer now, more grounded, more realistic about life. In fact, I prefer you like this.’

‘You know something? I prefer me like this too.’

‘And a huge big hi to all our listeners out there, hope you’re having a great night wherever you are and whatever you’re doing. This is Jessie Woods, at
The Midnight Hour,
saying welcome to the show and stay tuned. The lines are open if you fancy ringing in for a chat but before we get started, I’d like to play a very special request for a very special lady. Mrs Mary Hayes of Whitehall is celebrating her birthday today, so now that it’s exactly one minute past midnight, we at Radio Dublin want to be the very first to wish you a fantastic day. And so, especially for you, here’s the Beatles singing your favourite song, “Yesterday”.’

‘That was a stunning gig…Jessie Woods, you’re a born natural at this game!’ Steve grins jubilantly at me two full hours later, the minute I’m off air after my first ever live radio show. Now given that it’s past 2 a.m., I’m kind of impressed that he’s hung around to hear the whole thing, but then I figure, he’s the boss, wouldn’t he have to? I step out of the boiling hot little DJ booth to a big thumbs up from Ian the producer and an even bigger bear hug from Steve.

Feels hilarious hugging him, as I barely come up to his shoulder, he’s that tall and gangly.

‘I can’t believe you’re still here, at this ungodly hour!’ I laugh back at him.

‘What can I say?’ Steve smiles, still in his perpetual good humour, even at this hour. ‘Gotta look after the talent, don’t we, Ian? Especially when you’re playing requests for my mum. She stayed up late to listen in to your first show, by the way, and even texted me to threaten that if I didn’t thank you, I’d be disinherited.’

I punch him playfully and then thank Ian warmly too. If it hadn’t been for the intensive crash course he gave me in the past week, I’d never in a million years have been able to pull this one off.

‘Now, come on you,’ Steve says to me, ‘grab your bag, I’m taking you out for a late bite before you go home for your beauty sleep. It’s the least Radio Dublin can do after such a terrific debut.’

A yawning Ian understandably declines to join us, but I’m so buzzed up and pumping full of adrenaline, that there’s just no way on earth I’d ever be able to go home and sleep, so I do what I’m told. Half an hour later, Steve and I are sitting in the Eddie Rockets diner on South Anne Street, in a booth facing each other. He’s tucking into a hamburger while I’m having a hotdog with chilli fries on the side. What can I say? After a show, I need the carb-hit. It was ever thus, even after doing an episode of
Jessie Would
. And, yes, I know that boring through these tiny wormholes back to the past is akin to scratching at a scab then wondering why it’s not healing, so I’ll just make this one, small little comparison.

Back then, in a different life, after-show relaxation would usually involve duck liver pâté and foie gras washed down with enough bottles of Cristal to take a bath in. Plus all of
my post-work conversations seemed to be about one of three things: Sam, Sam’s career or how much money Sam was raking in. Whereas now with Steve, it’s actually hard to get him to chat seriously about anything; somehow the conversation always seems to descend into messing and giggles. Always playful, always lightweight, never, ever serious or professional.

‘Anyone ever tell you that you eat far too much junk food?’ I ask him, pretending to smack his hand after he robs a fistful of my chilli fries. ‘And what I can’t get over is that you’re still so thin! Whenever you give me a lift on the back of your bike, I can actually feel your ribs sticking out. It’s not fair. If I ate the amount of junk you do, I’d be the size of…’ I was about to say the size of Maggie, but don’t because it’s a bit too mean.

‘Hey, you’re speaking to a loyalty-card-carrying member of the Smiley Burger rewards club, I’ll have you know,’ he teases, wolfing back the chips two at a time. ‘What can I say? Apart from a big mammy Sunday dinner at my mum’s house, crap food is pretty much my staple diet. But if it’s my health you’re wondering about though, don’t worry. I draw the line at deep-fried Mars Bars.’

Now there’s a single guy statement if I ever heard one, but I say nothing, just smile and let it pass. Who knows what the story is with him and that swishy-haired one at Hannah’s party the other night?

Anyway, we chat some more, with me trying to get him to open up about himself and how he came to manage a radio station in the first place, but as ever with him, even serious chats somehow revert back to joking and messing. So then we talk about
The Midnight Hour
, where I can go with it and what more I can do. Funny, but now I’ve one
show safely under my belt and my confidence is slowly starting to come back, I feel like a racehorse whose gate has finally opened.

Steve’s full of apologies about the lateness of the slot, saying the audience is largely made up of late-night truckers and people staggering in from bars, but does make the point that if there’s any particular item I’d like to do or try out, that I’m more than welcome to. ‘As long as it’s not nude juggling on the radio that is,’ he grins, shoving a plate away from him and lazily stretching out, like he could stay here all night.

‘What?’ I nearly choke on one of my chilli fries.

‘Your predecessor chanced that one time. Course being a complete eejit, I hadn’t realised the date. April the first. I was a laughing stock in the office for weeks afterwards, I can tell you.’

‘I promise,
The Midnight Hour
will be a nude-juggling-free zone,’ I smile back. But my mind starts to race. Because I really want to bring something else to the show, to put my own stamp on it. Who knows? Maybe after the holy show I made of myself back at Channel Six, it’s my small way of proving to the world that I’m not a completely useless gobshite after all.

It takes a while, but my body clock is slowly beginning to adjust to the new working hours too. Most of the time I can’t get to sleep until well after 4 a.m., then stay in bed until midday, kind of like being a teenager all over again. Right down to Joan hammering on the bedroom door and screeching at me to get my lazy arse out of bed. I’m not officially meant to be at Radio Dublin until 9 p.m., but lately I’ve been heading into work hours earlier, mainly
because Sharon’s been out with Matt more often than not and I’ve no intentions of spending my evenings stuck beside Maggie on the sofa, thanks very much.

At this stage, Matt’s called to the house a fair few times to collect Sharon, so I’ve had a proper chance to observe the two of them up close and personal, without the distraction of a christening party and a lot of drunken rowdiness going on in the background. From what I can see of the relationship dynamic, it’s like this: the more offhand and dismissive she is of him, the more he seems to like it. The highest form of affection she shows for him could best be described as a sort of irritated fondness. Whereas, he seems to be getting in deeper and deeper with her on a daily basis. She’s actually being a complete and utter Rules Girl without even realising it; doing all the things you’re supposed to do to keep a fella on his toes. You know, like never calling him, rarely returning his calls and treating him with a combination of mild annoyance and as a sort of emotional punch bag if she has something to give out about. And he seems to be loving every minute of it. It’s as if every time she tells him to feck off, he gets turned on. Weird. To think that I started out as Sharon’s dating guru and now it looks like I’m the one who should be taking tips from her.

Anyway, it’s about 7 p.m. on a warm, sunny evening about a week later, when I skip into the Radio Dublin offices. My head’s buzzing with ideas for tonight’s show and I’m still not sure which one to go with. By the time I get upstairs to the main office, it’s surprisingly busy with the drivetime show still on air and being broadcast live. I make my way to the tiny kitchen to grab a quick coffee before mapping out tonight’s play list then filling in the blanks between.
I’m absentmindedly pouring out the coffee with my mind in fifth gear when, out of nowhere, something catches my eye. I drift over to the noticeboard just beside the fridge and take a closer look. No. I wasn’t seeing things. There it is, in black and white. The possible answer to all our prayers.

I read it again, just to be certain. It’s a flyer, buried at the back of about a dozen other flyers with ads for things like second-hand Fiat Puntos for sale and holiday cottages in Ballynahinch to let at recessionary rates. Without thinking twice, I do a lightning quick over-the-shoulder check to make sure there’s no one hovering behind me, then rip it off the wall and stuff it into my jeans pocket.

Because this one calls for extreme diplomacy and tact. In other words, this is something Sharon and only Sharon can handle.

It’s coming up to 10 p.m., getting close to show time and the office is by now almost deserted. I’ve been at my desk all this while, surrounded by scraps of paper with my ideas jotted out on them, utterly absorbed. Next thing, Ian drifts past my desk, looking tired and a bit hung over. But then he’s one of those guys with the permanently ghostly pallor of the night dweller. Like he’s allergic to daylight.

‘Hey Jessie, another great show last night, well done you,’ he says in a husky just-got-out-of-bed voice. ‘By the way, the boss wants to see you.’

I head into Steve’s office, which is a complete shambles with mountains of newspapers on the desk in front of him and an electric guitar propped up against the doorframe. I can’t help smiling as I look at him; you just couldn’t meet anyone less boss-like. He’s sitting on the desk, long legs stretched out, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt that
I’m guessing has never been introduced to an iron in its entire existence.

‘There’s our rising star!’ he beams, jumping up to peck me on the cheek as I come in. ‘Get a load of this,’ he says, shoving a copy of the
Daily Herald
at me. ‘Then you’ll appreciate why I’m sitting here basking in reflected glory.’

I turn to the page he’s pointing at to see what he’s on about. Not a news item at all, just the smallest little column buried in a corner of page eight, tucked up in between the weather report and today’s horoscopes. There’s a passport-sized photo of me taken when my hair was still blonde, with the caption:
COMEBACK KID.

Fair play to Radio Dublin who’ve taken a chance on the previously unhireable Jessie Woods and have now allocated her their Midnight Hour show. We’ll be listening with great interest to see how she fares in this particular presenting medium, but in the meantime, we’d like to wish her every success and a warm welcome back to doing what she does best. Jessie, it’s been too long.

I can’t talk for a second, just look at Steve, gobsmacked. I’ve been on a self-imposed media blackout for ages now, petrified I’d only read something that would take a shovel to my self-confidence, so to see something kind appearing about me in the print media is…well, it’s lovely actually.

‘You deserve it,’ he grins, shoving the floppy hair out of his eyes. ‘And hey, I’m going down in history as the guy who got you back on the air again…’

‘It’s OK, you can finish that sentence. When no one else
would,’ I laugh, sitting down on the empty seat opposite him.

He laughs, then stabs a biro at the pile beside him. ‘Quick idea for tonight’s show. These are all first editions of tomorrow morning’s papers; how would you feel about doing a short piece about what’s in them during your show? Nothing too heavy, just the lighter, more showbizzy stuff. And all distilled into your trademark style, of course.’

‘Terrific idea. Do you mind if I have a quick scan through all these?’ I ask, grabbing a newspaper and flicking through it.

‘Not at all, that’s what they’re here for. Here, I’ll even give you a hand.’

Pretty soon, the two of us are poring over the huge mound of papers on Steve’s desk, me with a highlighter pen in my hand, ready to mark anything that might just work. I stumble on a feature about Emma, an At Home piece, with a gorgeous photo taken in her state of the art kitchen, where she looks as groomed and flawlessly perfect as ever. All to plug her new TV chat show, which goes to air later this month. She’s been up to her tonsils with work lately, as have I, so it’s been a while since we’ve had a decent natter, but still, I make a mental note to call her and wish her all the luck in the world.

Then something else catches my eye. ‘When you said lighter stuff, does this count?’ I ask Steve, pointing to page fourteen of the
Star
.

‘Gimme the gist of it,’ he says without looking up from the
News of the World
.

‘OK, how’s this for a crap first date? A woman met a guy for dinner, but while she was in the bathroom, he filched the keys from out of her handbag and stole her car.’

‘You are
so
making that up.’

‘Cross my heart, it’s right here. There you go, real life trumps any fiction you could come up with yet again.’

‘Cool. Maybe chat a bit about rubbishy first dates and then you could segue into—’ He breaks off abruptly, tossing away the paper he was reading. I’m so engrossed in the stolen car story that I mightn’t even have noticed, only he made the fatal error of tagging on, ‘Ehh…no, no nothing at all in that paper, just ignore it.’

I look up at him.

‘But that’s the
News of the World
. Usually that’s the best for this kind of thing.’

‘Don’t worry about it, just leave it.’

Of course now my antennae are well and truly up, so I stroll faux casually over to where he flung the paper, then snatch it up to see whatever it is that he doesn’t want me to. Nosy bitch that I am.

‘Jessie, don’t, really, there’s no need…’

‘Ha, ha, too late,’ I laugh at him, scanning through it at speed.

Oh holy fuck.

I do not believe this. There it is, on the inside, page three. Sam. On the way to the launch of his new book,
If Business is the New Rock & Roll, then I’m Elvis Presley
. Held in the Mansion House this evening. And probably only getting into full swing right about now. Considering it’s only a book launch, they’ve printed a massive two-page colour spread; I’m only surprised they didn’t print a special pull-out-and-keep supplement to go with it, like they did with the moon landings.