Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (30 page)

‘Some chance of it not leaking out though, Liz. Even when I worked there, Channel Six was always more like a colander than a TV station. Stuff gets leaked all the time. And remember, a whole studio audience saw the sideshow for themselves. All it takes is for one person for go on Twitter and that’s the end of all containment.’

‘I agree. Which is why I’m asking you not to give any interviews to the press. Who I’m sure will be in contact with you in the days to come. Let’s at least try to limit this.’

I’m about to do as she asks, mainly out of shock than anything else and then it hits me…hang on a second.

My reputation is at stake here too. I was vilified in the papers and now I’m exonerated, so if the press ring me wanting the story clarified, why would I say no? It’s not like I’m an employee of Channel Six any more anyway, so shouldn’t I just be delighted at any chance to clear my good name? Plus, after everything Emma’s done, she’s getting to leave with her reputation intact, so why shouldn’t I grab at the chance to restore my own?

‘And now, the carrot,’ Liz continues. ‘In return for your
full co-operation, I’d like to offer you your old job back. Subject to your agreement,
Jessie Would
can be back on the air, with a new co-presenter, within a matter of weeks. What do you say? Jessie?’

As soon as Liz sweeps off in a taxi, I find myself wandering aimlessly up Dawson Street and into the relative calm of St Stephen’s Green. Need air. Need headspace. Need to digest what’s just happened to me.

I find a quiet park bench and sit down, taking deep, soothing yoga breaths. In for two and out for four. In for two and out for four. The offer on the table is thus (and frankly, it’s a miracle I was even able to concentrate on what Liz was saying, my head was swirling that much): I have my old job back. With a ten per cent pay rise. I’ll have a brand new contract in a few days’ time. As soon as that’s signed, I’ll be back on full salary.
Jessie Would
could be back on the air in as little as two months’ time.

Through the cloud of shock that’s come over me, I have to keep reminding myself that this is very, very, very good news. This is the answer to my prayers. So why am I not dancing down the streets singing ‘Hallelujah’? And then it hits me. It’s not numbness or astonishment at all, is it? No, it’s guilt, pure and simple. Because now I have to tell Steve that I’m leaving Radio Dublin.

Amazingly, considering
The Midnight Hour
is such a late-night, low-budget gig, Liz was fully aware that I was
presenting it and even went as far as congratulating me on its success. But there’s just no way that I’d be able to combine working those late hours with the full-on pressure of hosting
Jessie Would
, so it was unspoken but glaringly obvious between us that I’d have to quit Radio Dublin. When I’d barely even started. And when Steve was so good to take a chance on me in the first place. But some little voice in my head told me to stand firm with Liz, even though she’s famously tough in negotiations.

So I did. I told her in no uncertain terms that the manager of Radio Dublin was a close, personal friend who’d helped me out at a time when friends were thin on the ground for me. And that the very least I could do was to stay on and work for him, until a replacement could be found.

‘But Radio Dublin is only a small local station! This is national television I’m talking about here,’ was her dumbfounded reply.

‘And I’m more than happy to go back to work for you. But I’m not leaving them high and dry at Radio Dublin. It’s not fair. It wouldn’t be right.’

Liz smiled wryly, I think a bit unused to loyalty. So the deal we made was this: a contract gets sent to my agent ASAP, and on signature, I’m straight back on the Channel Six payroll, like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile I put in a few hours pre-production each afternoon on
Jessie Would
, which is just about all I’d be able to manage, given my night-time radio commitments. Then, as soon as I’m replaced on
The Midnight Hour
, I go back to full-time work at Channel Six.

It’s a dream gig and she’s handing it to me on a plate. Liz is even offering to put out a press release later in the month, when any fuss about Emma’s leaving will have died
down, to say that ‘After careful consideration and in light of new information, it’s been decided that the termination of Jessie Woods’s contract was deeply regrettable.’ She actually drafted the bones of the press release on a paper napkin right in front of me, wafting it under my nose for approval.

And in return for everything I’m being offered, my instructions are clear. Under no circumstances am I to discuss this with the press and if asked, all I’m authorised to say is, ‘After weighing up all my options, I’m now absolutely delighted to be back on air with a new series of
Jessie Would
.’

You get it. Plug the show at all costs and brush all unpleasantness under the carpet.

So now all I have to do is tell Steve.

I call his mobile from my park bench in the Green and he says he’s just about to go into a meeting, but that he’ll call me right back. Then, sensitive as ever, he asks if everything’s OK and I tell him I need to talk. Urgently. Outside of work though, if he has time for a quick coffee.

So we agree to meet in an hour’s time in Bewley’s café on Grafton Street. I think the wait is the longest hour of my life.

He bounces in, all tall and blond and scraggy and, it’s sweet, his face actually lights up a bit when he spots me in a quiet corner table, pale and still rattled by all that’s happened. Funny, but now that I’m about to hand in my notice, all the awkwardness that was between us has now evaporated.

I fill him in on everything that’s happened with Liz Walsh and he’s utterly amazing about the whole thing. So much so, that it actually magnifies the guilt I’m riddled with.

‘Look,’ he smiles gently, ‘to be honest, it was a coup for
us to get someone with your experience to do a graveyard slot for us in the first, so hey, you’re the one who’s done me the favour. And it’s decent of you, offering to stay on until I find someone to replace you. You don’t have to do that. Not many people would have.’

‘Hey, you rescued me from a lifetime of burger flipping, remember? You gave me a break when no one else would and the very least I can do is help you out until you find a new presenter.’

‘So,’ he says looking intently at me. ‘You must be on top of the world right now. Everything you ever wanted, handed right back to you? I’d be cracking open the champagne in your shoes.’

I can’t answer, so I just bang a spoon off my coffee mug instead.

‘Jessie, is everything OK?’

And that’s when the truth hits me, sharper than a chilli finger poked into my eye. What they call in TV the ta-daa moment. This doesn’t feel right, it just doesn’t. Yes, I’m thrilled to go back to Channel Six, of course I am, but the thing is…the gig at Radio Dublin saved my life. Do I really want to walk away from it just like that? I loved chatting to the listeners and really felt like, even in a small way, I’d made some kind of difference after each show. Then another back-up thought: Channel Six were so terrifyingly quick to dump me once before, who’s to say they won’t do it again if I messed up for a second time?

‘Steve…’ I say, sitting forward and meeting his blue gaze, ‘I’ve something to ask, something big and I’m going to fumble it, so you have to listen. Call me a greedy cow who wants to have her cake and eat it but the thing is…Liz Walsh wants me to leave Radio Dublin…and I don’t.
I love working there. I love working with you. And I know it’s impossible for me to do
The Midnight Hour
and work for Channel Six.’

Suddenly he’s sitting forward, all animated. ‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a problem,’ he says, thinking on his feet. ‘Of course it’s out of the question your doing
The Midnight Hour
six nights a week any more, but how’s this for a suggestion? You still work for us, except now we call the programme
Woods at the Weekend
,’ he says, buzzing with excitement now, running his fingers through his hair. ‘And it goes out one night a week, on a Sunday, when you’re not shooting for Channel Six. It would be the same basic show, maybe slightly longer, but still with the original format: listeners call in with dating horror stories and you interact with them. What do you say?’

‘It’s…I mean…that would be…It’s completely perfect.’

So perfect that for a second, all I want to do is hug him. But I don’t, I just look at him, smiling and teary at the same time. Not trusting myself to believe just how well things have worked out. We both get up to leave as he’s another meeting later on and needs to go.

Then he stops for a second and gently takes my arm, suddenly looking…I don’t know, confused? Conflicted? God, if there’s another woman out there worse at reading men than me, I’d really like to meet her.

‘Look, Jessie,’ he says, tenderly. ‘About the other night—’

‘No, no, no need to say a thing, it was all my fault—’

‘No, what I wanted to say was that, well…I know that you’re still getting over a bad break-up and I know how hard that can be.’

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Just in case you wondered why I’d stepped back a bit…’

‘No, not at all…’

Great, now we’re back to the fragmented sentences again.

‘So I’ll see you at the Comedy Cellar for Maggie’s gig this Sunday then?’

‘Yeah,’ I smile. ‘Definitely.’

For a split second, I think he’s about to lean down and kiss me – and half of me wouldn’t mind it if he did – then next thing, my mobile rings. Roger Davenport, my agent. ‘Oh shit, I have to take this,’ I stammer, nearly dropping the phone.

He just nods, tweaks my chin and winks down at me. And then he’s gone.

By that evening, Roger has a contract from Channel Six, pay rise included, signed, sealed and delivered. Just like that. With a night off on Sunday, so I can continue to work at Radio Dublin too. It’s the best of all worlds, and it’s mine for the taking. But what’s completely weird is that I still don’t feel euphoric or even remotely like celebrating.

Because there’s still someone else I have to talk to and I’m looking forward to it as much as root canal.

Sharon.

By the time I get home, she’s on her own in the kitchen, reading
Hot Stars
magazine and eating a pizza, while Maggie practises her routine in the TV room. Perfect time to get her, right after food. I fill her in on all the developments then, drawing a deep breath up from the floor, go for the one sentence I’ve dreaded having to tell her.

‘The thing is, Sharon…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, I mean, now that I’ve got my old job back and
everything, well…it’s probably time I thought about…you know…’

‘I think I know what you’re going to say, Jess.’

In the end, it’s actually easier for me just to come straight out with it. ‘I’m moving out.’

It’s heart-breaking really; for a second I think the two of us are going to cry.

‘Come on, Sharon,’ I say, gently taking her hand. ‘I couldn’t keep on sharing your room forever. Apart from everything else, won’t you be glad to have the space back?’

‘No,’ she blurts. ‘No, I’m not glad. Sod the sodding space. I don’t want you to go. Anyway, you
can’t
go. Ma is redecorating that room especially for us.’

For a second, I smile, touched that a Laura Ashley makeover would be a motivation for me to hang around. ‘Jess, I don’t want it to go back to only seeing you at Dad’s anniversary mass once a year for ten minutes. I’d miss you too much.’

‘I swear, it’s not goodbye. I’ll still visit all the time, and not just at Christmas either. Hey, we’re friends now and that’s what really matters.’

‘It’s going to be so boring around here without you. You’ve no idea.’

‘Come on, you’ve got Matt now. Sure you’re practically out five nights a week with him.’

She does what she always does whenever Matt’s name comes up. Shrugs, lights up a fag and changes the subject.

‘So where will you move to?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll rent somewhere close to Channel Six. A small, one-bedroomed apartment maybe. But absolutely nowhere over my budget and nowhere that’s too ridiculously big for me. I’ve been down that road and learned
that lesson, I can tell you. Small and affordable will be just fine. My days of over borrowing and over spending to keep up with the Joneses are well and truly over. No more acting like a gap-year trustafarian and no more flashy cars either; I’ll get myself a bike and that’ll have to do me.’

‘Joan and Maggie will miss you too.’

‘And I’ll miss them. But Joan has her IPrayForYou.com business on the go and Maggie’s going to do brilliantly at the Comedy Cellar on Sunday, you wait and see. But the person I’m going to miss the most is you.’

‘Me too.’

I lean over to give her a big hug and that’s when the pair of us start to well up a bit.

‘We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’ she says, sniffling. ‘Since you first moved in. I mean, who’d have thought?’

‘Such a long way.’

‘Won’t miss you nicking all my cans of cider though. Jeez, for a skinny bitch, you’re sure as hell able to put away the Bulmers.’

‘Oh, and you think I’m going to miss you robbing all my make-up, you thieving cow?’

Now we’re both giggling a bit.

‘Just remember, you’re my sister and I’ll always be there for you.’

‘I’ll always be there for you too.’

I don’t know how it happened. And what’s more I’m fully prepared to swear on my parents’ grave that it had nothing whatsoever to do with me. But by the following Wednesday, the papers are full and I really do mean
full
of the story.

It seems that some bright spark in the studio audience for the showdown between myself and Emma, had the brainwave of videoing it on their iPhone. And by Monday it had found its merry way onto YouTube, including a clear shot of me kicking, screaming and being escorted off the premises by security.

I can’t actually bring myself to watch it, but Sharon tells me it looks very well. In a Jerry Springer sort of way, that is. Anyway, that led on to a feature piece in the
Evening Herald
. Which, come Tuesday, had mushroomed onto page two of the
Star
and page one of the
Mail
. And by Wednesday, the story is everywhere. The unexpurgated version too; how Emma set me up as the fall guy, how she covered it up and how I miraculously happened to stumble on proof of this almost entirely by accident. How I’ve been offered my old job back, whereas she’s been let go for ‘personal reasons’. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Better
than a soap opera any day. Dear God, no wonder it’s such a hot story; you couldn’t make it up.

My mobile hasn’t stopped, so unless it’s someone I know, I’ve taken to just ignoring it. And if anyone from the press calls me either at Channel Six or at Radio Dublin, I just politely but firmly say no comment to make and refer them back to Roger. No better man.

‘Jilted Jessie Returns to Primetime!’ is one banner that sticks in my mind. And I have to hand it to them, the reporting is astonishingly accurate. Facts are amazingly unblurred. But then, I’ve always maintained that there were more leaks at Channel Six than in a winter vegetable medley.

Anyway, come Wednesday late evening, I’m sitting in Steve’s office, going through the papers to see if there are any funny stories we can use for tonight’s show. Yes, inevitably once we go live on air, the phone lines jam up with callers all wanting to tell their dating horror stories, but it’s no harm to have a few newsworthy anecdotes on standby to throw in, just in case the need arises.

‘Trouble is,’ Steve grins, ‘the lead news item this week is you, Jessie Woods.’

I jokingly fling the sports section of the
Independent
across the desk at him, narrowly missing his head. Funny, but ever since I’ve been reinstated at Channel Six, things have been completely back to normal between us. As if we both know our days of working together six nights a week are numbered, so we’re both determined to make these last, precious few weeks as much fun as possible. It’s brilliant; we’re right back to the way we always used to be; messing and giggling with not a shred of awkwardness between us. Or sexual tension. Which is great. Which is all I wanted. Isn’t it?

‘Hey,’ he says, ‘at least the papers all have their facts straight for once. Including Emma’s sacking.’

‘Yeah, madam won’t like that. Not to mention that Channel Six have invoked the phrase of certain death. “Leaving for personal reasons”.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Makes it sound like she’s about to check into the Priory for a six-month detox, doesn’t it?’

Come show time, he leads me down to the studio and gives me an affectionate bear hug before I step into the booth. ‘Be your usual, fabulous self, Jessie Woods. And hey, remember I’m getting you disgracefully drunk this Sunday to celebrate you getting your old job back. Rat-arsed and pie-eyed and no excuses taken.’

I grin up at him gratefully. Bless him, he’s probably the only boss alive good-natured enough to take you out on the tear after you hand in your notice.

Anyway, as soon as we go live on air, the phone calls start and barely stop. Poor Ian in the production booth is more like a 1940s telephonist than a producer these nights. People are all being really sweet, congratulating me on
Jessie Would
being recommissioned, then, after a bit of chit chat, launching into the real reason why they’ve called in.

It’s barely a minute past midnight and I’m on the phone to Carole from Drimnagh who’s calling in to ask if anyone out there thinks it’s possible to change a man.

‘Why do you ask, Carole?’ I probe gently.

‘Because my ex-boyfriend is back on the scene and when we broke up, he was a complete arsehole. Oops, sorry, Jessie, am I allowed to say arsehole on air?’

‘Bit late now!’ I say and we both laugh.

‘You see, he said he wanted to “take a break” about four
months ago and I was nearly on the floor, I was that devastated. Because he was awful to me, wouldn’t return my calls or anything. Anyway, I was just beginning to get my life back together again, when out of the blue he contacts me, saying that he wants to get back together. Just like that. He says that he’s changed. Realises what an eejit he was in letting me go so cruelly. But my question is, Jessie, can a fella ever really change?’

‘No, definitely not!’ yells another caller, Jane from Rathmines. ‘They’ll mouth platitudes at you and tell you what you want to hear, but no man is fundamentally EVER able to change. Plus, they’re like homing devices; able to sense when you’re healing from them and that’s when they bounce back into your life to mess it up for a second time. So take my advice and run a mile from him. Now, while you still can!’

‘But, when we were together,’ replies Carole, ‘I was always giving out to him for never being romantic. And ever since he’s started trying to get back together, overnight it’s like he’s turned into the Hallmark version of himself.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Making all these spontaneous romantic gestures, without it being Valentine’s Day or without my having to nag at him. Flowers for no reason, breakfast in bed, telling me he loves me without a gun being pointed to his head…’

‘Well, clearly he wants to change,’ I say. ‘Plus, let’s face it. In our love-starved society, don’t these little romantic gestures go a long, long way? So I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe you should give your ex-boyfriend the benefit of the doubt. Because if you don’t, you might come to regret it and end up with a serious case of the coulda, woulda, shouldas.’

Then Tommy from Blackrock calls in to say Carole should tell her ex where to go. That in his opinion, trying to change another human being to suit your own ends amounts to little more than a human rights violation.

‘And why do you say that, Tommy? Do your girlfriends ever try to change you?’ I ask.

‘All the time. My clothes, accent, friends, job, you name it. But the only thing I ever change is girlfriends.’

Cue an irate call from Fiona in Temple Bar. ‘I am fed up with men trying to change me. All my boyfriend ever wants me to do is to dress sluttier and wear more make-up and frankly I’m sick of it…’

Then Susan from Cabra says, ‘You know, it’s a huge mistake to ever think you can change a man. Apart from their clothes and hair, that is. Because mark my words, once you start pulling at threads, the whole fabric will fall apart.’

The show skyrockets on from there, we barely even have time for music breaks, and before I have time to look at the clock, Ian gives me a hand signal to indicate that I’ve only time for one last caller before we wrap.

‘So who have we got here on line one?’ I ask.

There’s a long silence. Dead time, as we say on radio, so I’m about to hang up when suddenly a man’s voice says just one word. ‘Woodsie?’

I know who it is instantly.

With absolute certainty.

But obviously, I don’t let on…

‘Yes, you’re through to
The Midnight Hour
. Who’s calling please?’

‘Woodsie, it’s me.’

‘I’m sorry, could we have your name please?’

I think it’s only delayed shock that’s keeping me this calm.
That combined with utter disbelief. I mean, why would he be doing this? If he wanted to talk to me, why not just pick up the phone? Instead of ringing into a late-night talk show? When I’m working for God’s sake?

‘It’s Sam.’

I decide to play it cool. Well, as cool as can be expected given that my bum is starting to sweat. ‘And where are you calling from, Sam?’

‘At the moment, from my carphone. I just wanted to say, in response to the discussion that’s been going on, that yes, men can and do change.’

‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’

‘I want to say that, unless a man is a complete idiot, he’ll change if he realises he’s made a mistake.’

‘Go on.’

‘Because we all make mistakes. But what differentiates a winner from a loser is if you’re willing to stand up and say, look, I messed up royally in one particular situation and I’m prepared to change if it means I can win back something…or maybe some
one
…that’s very dear to me.’

My heart stops. For once, I can’t think of a logical, coherent question to tack on. But as luck would have it, I’m saved by the bell because just then, Ian waves to tell me that we’re out of time.

Nor was I dreaming or imagining things. Because the next day, Sam calls again. And again. And again. By lunchtime, he’s left about five messages for me and I’ve yet to return a single one of his calls. Because I’m in complete freefall. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I can’t decide on a clear course of action. Weird to think back over all these months, when all I could do was fantasise about Sam contacting me again and now that it’s happened, I’m
like a rabbit in the headlamps. The thing is…I’m doing fine without him. Better than fine, I’m doing brilliantly. My life has finally fallen into place, like Lotto balls. I’m not Cinderella Rockefeller any more; I’m Humpty Dumpty, all put back together again. I never thought that I could function without Sam; I spent so long convincing myself that he was my split-apart soulmate and that without him, I made no sense. But, as usual, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

None of this is helped by the fact that I’m completely on my own in the house. Everyone’s at work, which is driving me mental; the one occasion when I really need a touchstone of sense to bounce off. I know Steve is there for me, but it just doesn’t feel right somehow to discuss this with him. Like this is the one topic that would be absolutely verboten between us. If he copped onto something after a caller named Sam rang the show last night, he never mentioned it, which I was deeply grateful for. He took me home on his bike and if he did suspect that something was up, was gentlemanly enough not to ask. Or even comment on the fact that instead of all my normal high-octane chatter after a show, I barely opened my mouth the whole way back to Whitehall.

The other thing I’d forgotten about Sam is that, when he wants something, he goes after it with a kind of scorched earth policy. I know him of old, he’ll basically just batter down doors until he gets what he’s after, which he always, always does. So after about his twelfth attempt to call me, I eventually answer. Sitting trembling and unsure of myself at our kitchen table, with no one around to advise me or calm me down. I take a deep breath and answer the phone.

It’s a short chat, brief and to the point. He wants to see
me and asks how soon can we meet? That what he wants to say isn’t for over the phone. He suggests we meet at Bentleys Oyster Bar in town at seven this evening, just before I go into work.

‘Woodsie? Are you still there? Does that suit you? I mean…do you want to meet me?’

A long pause.

‘I’m nodding.’

It’s the only two words I’ve uttered for the entire conversation.

The good news is that it’s a particularly busy day for me; the less time I have to think the better. Firstly, I’ve to run into Roger’s office to go through the new
Jessie Would
contract (Sweet, gentlemanly old Roger even hands me a bouquet to congratulate me with a card that simply reads, ‘Welcome back’. The aul, dote.) Then I’ve an appointment at Chez Pierre, my old hairdresser, to get my hair put back to blonde again. On Liz Walsh’s explicit instructions it has to be said. Otherwise, I’d have been perfectly happy to stick to cheapo home colour kits for the rest of my life. Pay rise or no pay rise, the new credit crunch Jessie Woods is here to stay. OK, so I may be back in the money again, but my debts at Visa aren’t going anywhere, are they? In fact, all my new ‘re-employed’ status at Channel Six means to me financially is that I’ll be finally able to repay everything I owe that bit quicker. Like maybe before I qualify for the old age pension. If I’m very lucky, that is. But, no, Liz reckons viewers won’t recognise me unless I’m back to blonde, so I’ve no choice. By 7 p.m., I’m back to looking exactly like my old self again. The hair is almost platinum and, as I walk down to Bentleys to meet Sam, for a second I think, this was my life only a few months ago. Bouncing into
Roger’s office, pricey hairdos, meeting my boyfriend at his favourite posh restaurant. It’s as though nothing’s changed.

Nothing except me, that is.

When I step into the Oyster Bar, Sam is sitting waiting for me in a quiet corner with a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket beside him. Which, if he thinks is to celebrate my going back to him, is presumptuous and premature to say the least.

So I decide to make him work for it.

I say hi curtly and sit opposite him. As if this is a business meeting.

‘Wow, you look amazing!’ he starts off, x-raying me with the black eyes, the way he always used to. I just nod and let him talk.

I let him do all the talking, in fact. I use silence as a protective shield around me. His theme is clear. He’s missed me and feels terrible about our last meeting, when he had to haul me out of that minging police station in Kildare. I take a tiny sip of the champagne and try to tune out that particular memory. He says over and over again how sorry he is about the way he treated me. How he just panicked and felt he needed to take time out. But that there wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t thinking about me and deeply regretting everything that happened between us.

Then he says how much he admires the way I hauled myself back up from the ground again. How he heard from Nathaniel and Eva about my flipping burgers in Smileys and actually felt proud. That I’d behaved like a winner. I didn’t go under, I came out fighting. He even astonishes me by saying as soon as he read about my presenting
The Midnight Hour
, he became a regular listener, usually when he was driving home in his car after some swishy do.