Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (26 page)

Vintage Sam, his PR people had the press all lined up and ready to snap him and his celeb pals on their way in,
nicely in time to make the early edition of all tomorrow morning’s papers. I know I shouldn’t read on but I can’t help myself.
La douleur exquise
and all that. Reading through the guest list is like a roll call of every single person who wouldn’t return my calls in the last few months. All present and correct, may it piss rain on the whole shower of them. Sam included. I mean, why can’t he just recoil from the public like a normal billionaire anyway?

Next thing I feel a warm, comforting arm around my shoulder. ‘Jessie, I’m so sorry,’ says Steve. ‘I didn’t mean for you to see this. I had no idea it was in the paper. I never would have suggested you read through them if I’d known…’

‘It’s fine. Really.’ I shrug his arm away. Because that’s how absolutely OK I am with this.

‘It’s completely understandable that you’re still cut up about it. These things take time. Sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Honestly. Stop worrying. I’m a big girl.’ Who’s starting to speak in jagged sentences, I’m suddenly aware.

‘You know what we say in showbiz,’ he says gently. ‘Today’s papers are nothing more than tomorrow’s glorified cat box liners.’

I smile, appreciating that he went for a gag.

‘Tell you something though, Jessie, when I saw that Sam Hughes on the documentary they made about you, I just felt like punching the git right in his smug, self-satisfied over-privileged gob.’

I look up at him and suddenly the biggest surge of deep gratitude comes over me. Now why weren’t you around when I was going through the break up? You’re the perfect combination of brotherliness and violence.

Show time and if I say so myself, I’m on fire. Got a lot to prove. Plus every time I think of Sam and his posh launch party in the Mansion House with his even posher friends and all their rarefied, over-moneyed lives, a huge wave of ‘I’ll show you’ energy surges up through me like a volcano.

‘So here’s one for all you listeners out there; why not phone me at
The Midnight Hour
with tips about…break-up behaviour? What is it that you like to indulge yourself in to help get you over someone? The phone lines are open, on 1850…’

It’s incredible. I could never have seen this coming. The phone never stops once for the entire duration of the two-hour show. In fact, I could stay on air until 4 a.m. and still not get through everyone. Men and women all calling in to describe how they cope or don’t cope in that nightmarish situation when you’re the dumpee in a relationship which you never wanted to end in the first place.

‘My top tip,’ one female caller rings in, ‘is to destroy all photos of you as a couple, where he looks hot and you look happy. It could set the whole recovery process back months if you happen to stumble on it at a weak moment. And of course, certain parts of the city are just out of bounds. Places you went together, bars where you know he hangs out…’

I barely have time to answer her when another line lights up. Joe from Irishtown rings in to say that the crucial element in recovering from a break-up is to constantly play on a loop in your head everything you hated about your ex. Over and over again, he insists, until you’re actually delighted NOT to be still dating them.

‘Get out more,’ says Gemma from Sandymount. ‘A lot more. Worst thing you can do is hole up in your house, like Anne Frank.’ Lizzy from Clontarf rings in to agree, with the
added caveat that you must never, under any circumstances ever leave the house un-beautiful, on the grounds that the day you do saunter out in a manky tracksuit with three-day-old hair and no make-up, is the very day you’re guaranteed to bump into him.

Then Tara from Temple Bar calls to say it helps to make out an iTunes list of the best break-up songs of all time. ‘Any suggestions?’ I ask tentatively. ‘I’m Not in Love’ by 10CC is her personal favourite, which by a miracle, Ian in the production box manages to root out of the library and we play it to take us out, as the show wraps.

Never in my whole life have two hours gone by in such a blink.

Steve is still there when I get out and offers me a ride home on the back of his motorbike, which I gladly accept.

‘I don’t know how you did it, Jessie,’ he says as we leave the deserted building together. ‘But it’s like you’ve tapped into something big here. Sure, I knew there were a lot of lonely hearts out there, listening in at this hour of the night, but what’s amazing is that they’re all fully prepared to ring in and talk about the most intimate, personal details of their break-ups.’

‘I know, I thought I’d never get that last caller to shut up about her ex. If she’d had a guitar, she’d have written a ballad about him.’

He snorts laughing.

‘Please tell me I’m not that bad,’ I say suddenly.

‘Jessie,
no one
is that bad.’

We speed through the near empty streets and he drops me right to my front door. I hop off the bike, hand back the helmet and hug him warmly.

‘Now I know we work you hard at Radio Dublin, so into
bed and get your beauty sleep,’ he smiles. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in for a coffee?’ I ask, feeling I should but kind of half hoping he’ll say no.

‘Another time. But tell Sharon I said hi, won’t you? And that she and that fella of hers are invited to my gig this Sunday night. You’re coming too, but then you don’t have a choice, even if it is your one and only night off. All Radio Dublin employees are required to attend the boss’s band sessions. It’s compulsory.’

A lovely feeling of deep warmth comes over me. ‘You’re a good friend, Steve, you do know that, don’t you?’

He nods from under his helmet, waits until I’m inside, then zooms off into the night.

Given that Sharon and I have been working in what feels like totally different time zones this week, I’m actually glad when I come to the next morning and she’s still in our room, straightening her hair. Mind you, I think it could be the smell of burning that wakes me.

Delighted that I caught her, I nip out of bed and pull the flyer I robbed from the Radio Dublin kitchen out of my jeans pocket. And just like me, she reads it, stunned.

‘Jeez, this is…I mean…this could be…’

‘I know,’ I say, nodding.

‘But do you think she might…’

‘Not if it comes from me she won’t. But maybe if you were to broach it with her…’

‘Leave it with me. With a subtle mixture of bullying and reverse psychology, I’d be surprised if I don’t have an answer for you by tonight.’

Joan has news for me too. Now I’m the first to admit that I laughed when she talked about going to her wine tastings, I sniggered when she yakked on about doing re-enactments from
The Mikado
and yet again, I nearly choked on my Bran Flakes when she’d swan off for ‘business meetings’ down in the Swiss Cottage night after night.

But I’m not laughing now.

Next morning, after Sharon’s left for work, it’s just Joan and me for a mid-morning brekkie. I pad my way softly into the kitchen, all set for our usual morning game of tip-toe round the mood swings. But as luck would have it, she’s in top form today, happily bouncing around the place. She even offers to cook me one of her big fries, which I gratefully accept. I’m still in my pyjamas, even though it’s well past eleven, but she’s dressed to kill in a neat little black suit with matching everything.

‘Looking good,’ I wolf whistle at her, messing. ‘Very Joan Collins circa the
Dynasty
/Nolan Miller years.’ I’m running a risk saying that much; in one of her foul moods she’d have cut the face off me for less. But for some reason today it’s like she’s the Prozac version of her usual self.

She does an obliging twirl then sits down beside me.

‘Exciting news, Jessica. Huge news, in fact. And I want you to be the first to know, because I may need you to give us a little plug on your radio show. Oh and I need another small favour too. And in return, I have a little surprise for you.’

‘Sure, what’s up?’

Then she says that, seeing as how Sharon and I have been sharing a bedroom for so long now, she’s thinking of redecorating it, which completely stuns me. Bear in mind that this is as close as Joan could ever possibly get to
expressing affection for another human being. In this house, all outward displays of emotion are done via the Laura Ashley catalogue. I thank her, really touched, then ask what the other big news is.

‘I’m going into business,’ she announces, glowingly. ‘You are looking at a director of a newly formed company. I’m getting business cards printed up and everything. No expense spared.’

‘That’s fantastic, but…what exactly is the business?’

‘Oh, very cutting edge. Not my actual idea, credit for that goes to Jimmy Watson in the Swiss Cottage, who I really think is something of a business genius…’

‘And…?’

‘…but I am a principal investor and employee in the company…’

‘Joan! Gimme the last sentence first, will you?’

‘As a matter of fact, we’re a web-based company. On the internet, you know.’

Joan pronounces ‘internet’ like it’s a brand new thing that only got invented yesterday. I also refrain from reminding her of how she used to have a go at myself and Sharon for spending so much time online. Her exact comment, I recall, was that the World Wide Web existed purely so that nerds could find out what other nerds thought about
Star Trek
.

‘Now Jessica, you’re not to laugh…’

‘Course I won’t.’

‘It’s called IPrayForYou.com.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Like all great ideas, it’s actually very simple,’ she smiles smugly, as if she’s reading a voice over for a new kind of bank account. ‘You see, we’ve already bought the web space
and as soon as it’s properly designed, Jimmy and I are going to launch it together online.’

‘IPrayForYou.com?’

‘Well, the idea is that people can go online, give us all their credit card details and in return, we’ll pray for them. Our rates are very reasonable I’ll have you know. Fifty cents to light a candle, one Euro for a Hail Mary or an Our Father, five Euro for a decade of the rosary and a tenner for a full rosary. Of course the real beauty of it is that I can do the actual praying anywhere. In the car, in work, even while I’m watching the telly.’

‘But you’re not even religious!’

‘Did I say I was? This is
business
, Jessica. Try to keep up.’

I just look at her, dumbfounded. ‘And do you think people might actually go for this?’ I manage to splurt out in between mouthfuls of fried egg.

‘Oh listen to you, so cynical. You know some people look at things as they are and ask why. I dream of things that never were and ask why not.’

‘Well, what can I say? Best of luck with it, Joan.’

‘You’re most kind. Oh and I need a favour from you too. That stuff you’ve been storing in the garage will have to be cleared out as soon as you possibly can. Those boxes are all just going to have to go upstairs to your room.’

‘Sure…but why?’

‘Because our garage is going to be the official IPrayForYou.com headquarters, of course.’

Unbelievable. The woman is unbelievable.

And there’s yet another surprise later on that evening. I’m in Radio Dublin at my desk and just going through some notes I made for this evening’s show when Sharon calls me.

‘You’d better be sitting down for this!’ she squeals excitedly.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, wondering if it’s something to do with Matt. Then again, she never gets that animated over anything to do with poor old Matt. In fact, every time I ask her how things are going between them, she just shrugs and lights up a fag.

‘I did exactly what you told me to. Followed your instructions to the letter. Handed her the flyer you took from the radio station wall and everything…’

‘And?’ Now I’m all excited.

‘Now, I don’t want either of us to get our hopes up on this one. I mean, you of all people know what she’s like, but…’

‘But…?’

‘…I think she’s going to go for it.’

Well, bravo Sharon.

In the meantime the show continues to whiz by and some nights I stagger out of the booth at 2 a.m. and it feels like I’ve barely been in there five minutes. All week, the phone lines haven’t stopped hopping. Like
The Midnight Hour
has suddenly become Dating Horror Stories Central. It’s a complete phenomenon and Steve even gives me the loveliest compliment of saying that by the time the audience ratings come in, this could be the first time in the station’s history that a late-night show eclipses a primetime one. That confidence boost alone made me feel like I was walking on water.

Some positive pieces have started appearing in the media about
The Midnight Hour
too. In fact it got a mention in
The Times
under their ‘If you do one thing this week…’ listings, which was mega cool. Even Roger Davenport, my
agent, who I haven’t heard from in months, called to say that he’d heard a download of this show that everyone was suddenly talking about and he wanted to congratulate me. I’m not entirely sure what surprised me more. That someone as old-fashioned as Roger knew what a download was or that he actually picked up the phone to me after all this time. Anyhow.

You wouldn’t believe some of the calls we’re getting into the show either. Maybe it’s something to do with the anonymity of radio, but there’s a freedom here that you just don’t get on TV.

For instance, the other night the topic was cheating and a married woman calling herself Caroline rang in to tell us that she’d got married ridiculously young, to a guy she referred to as ‘Mr Ah Sure He’ll Do’. ‘I panic dated,’ she told me in a wobbly voice and then, just because everyone else was at it, she panic married. And started cheating on her husband about two years ago with a guy she works with. The affair has been over for months now but she insisted she was going to confess all to her husband and come clean. He may not be the love of my life, she said sadly, but he’s still a good man who deserves the truth.

Cue about half a dozen calls and texts in to say, ‘But you got away with it!’ Which then led on to a heated discussion about cheating in the broadest sense, is it like a tree falling in the forest? Is it only really classified as cheating if you get caught out?