Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (32 page)

Because Maggie is
stunning
. Not a nerve in her body. Dark. Nihilistic. And though I’m in no mood for laughing, I find myself not able to keep a straight face at some of her precision-bomb gags.

‘I can’t multi-task,’ is her opener. ‘I once had an appointment with my dentist and my gynaecologist on the same morning. I ended up lying in the wrong chair in the wrong direction. Which was very upsetting for my gay dentist.’

A huge roar of laughter and she’s away, effortlessly segueing into a meticulously rehearsed routine about working in the Inland Revenue office and the cast of characters/oddballs/wackos therein. It’s astonishing, but within seconds you can just feel that she has everyone in the room absolutely, one hundred per cent on her side. What can I say? A star is born.

Maggie doesn’t win. To much feet-stomping and general disgruntlement, she comes runner-up, narrowly losing out to a guy with a guitar, who sings all these little ditties about how he felt when he broke up with his girlfriend and was left broken-hearted. To pick himself back up off the floor again, he decided to set up a greeting card company for guys left in his position. One of his top sellers is a simple card which reads, ‘To my ex-girlfriend. At this time of year I always find myself thinking about you.’ Then you open it up to read, ‘Happy Halloween, you witch.’ Another wildly popular card says simply, ‘Will you marry me?’ And inside reads, ‘Ha, ha, I’m only messing, I think we should see other people.’ You get the picture.

Anyway, the best and probably the only part of the
evening that I actually can look back on fondly, comes right after the gig, when everyone’s clustered around a glowing Maggie, congratulating her. Even Sam gets his oar in and not only invites her to his birthday bash, but asks if she’ll do a reprise of her act to entertain the guests. There’ll be lots of influential people there, he tells her, who’ll make wonderful contacts for her.

Looking around, I think I was the only person who found this vomit-inducingly patronising. Everyone else oohs and aahs, all looking at Sam like he’s the next Simon Cowell. Next thing, a guy of about forty comes up to Maggie and hands her his business card, saying he’s a comedy agent and that he’d really like to represent her. Could they possibly meet for lunch whenever she has a window? Tomorrow, possibly?

Maggie and I look at each other dumbfounded. OK, so she may not have won, but this is the best result she could ever have asked for, isn’t it?

‘Oh, you’re Jessie Woods, hi!’ the agent says, shaking my hand as he instantly recognises me. ‘Are you a friend of Maggie’s?’

‘No,’ says Maggie stoutly. Then with a fond look, she slips her arm around my shoulder and says, ‘She’s…my sister. We’re family.’

It’s the nicest thing that’s happened the whole miserable, God-awful evening.

Hours later, Sharon and I are in our room; she’s painstakingly taking off make-up, while I just lie on the bed, staring in silence at the ceiling. Desperately trying to comb some sense out of the tumult of emotions that’s thundering over me.

‘Four calls and six texts so far,’ she says with her back to me, staring at her reflection in the mirror and playing with her mobile phone.

‘Hmm?’

‘From Matt. So far, since I dumped him. Says I’m making a big mistake and should give him another chance.’

‘So what will you do?’ My questions are all dull. Automatic. Mainly because I’m not even thinking straight.

‘I told you. I’ve set my sights elsewhere. I’ve someone else on my radar now and what’s more I think he’s interested. All I have to do is play it cool and reel him in.’

Suddenly I sit up. ‘Sharon, this new guy you’ve met. By any chance…I mean, is it anyone I’ve already met?’

But I know the answer before she even tells me. ‘Course you know him, you gobshite. It’s Steve. Who else?’

Needless to say, I don’t shut my eyes for the whole night. I just lie there, alternately thinking, worrying, stressing, tossing, turning, then reverting back to plain old-fashioned agonising again. And when that all gets too much for me, I keep checking to see if Sharon’s awake, just in case there’s any chance I could talk to her. Because I have to talk to her, there’s no side-stepping this.

But what the f**k do I say?
Idon’tknowIdon’tknowIdon’tknowIhaven’tthefirstclue
…

One thing’s for certain, there’s no getting away from the one inalienable truth that’s staring me in the face. I am without doubt the greatest, most witless moron on the face of the earth. I mean, what in the name of Jaysus is wrong with me? All my life, I’ve only ever wanted two things: a television career and Sam Hughes. And now, both have been handed back to me on a plate and all I can do is obsess about Steve.

Steve. Who declared himself to me. My darling friend. God, even just thinking about life without him is like a stab to the heart. And the thing is, if I choose Sam, then that’s exactly what will happen. Because I know Steve so well and I know there’ll be no going back.

So what does this Cinderella Rockefeller do? Go off into the sunset with my Prince Charming? Back to a life of palatial mansions and fabulousness? Or choose Steve, who’s been like a rock to me? Who I care about so, so much too. And, let’s be honest, who I think I fancy a lot of the time too. Because he’d never let me down, or turn his back on me. Never.

So what’s it to be? Buttons or Prince Charming?

And then there’s Sharon, snoring her head off in the bed beside mine. Then a fresh worry. Suppose she and Steve are meant to be together and not him and me? Suddenly a dozen instances pop into my head of really lovely things they’ve both said about each other to me over the summer. I remember Sharon referring to him as Fertiliser Man because he slowly grows on you. And, what’s more, I remember Steve saying over and again how well she was looking and how much softer she seemed lately. That was the exact word he used,
softer
.

There’s nothing else for it. I have to come clean to Sharon and take the consequences. Trouble is, there isn’t a bit of peace or privacy to be had at home next morning. Maggie has taken the day off work and is faffing around the place up to high doh on account of the comedy agent she’s arranged to meet for lunch today. That, coupled with the fact that she’s doing a reprise of her gig at Sam’s birthday shindig tonight, has her tearing round the place, even more up to the ceiling with nerves than she was yesterday. Funny, but I thought I’d seen all incarnations of Maggie. From couch potato, to passive-aggressive put-down artist, to blossoming stand-up comedienne. But I’ve never in all my years seen this side of her; she’s pressured,
busy, motivated, buzzing around the place and…happy. Actually happy. Probably the only person in the shagging house who is.

Joan, who’s wandering around the kitchen in one of her Barbara Cartland dressing gowns, is spewing fire because she’s just heard the news about Sharon dumping Matt. ‘Is that how I reared you, you ungrateful little idiot? To toss aside perfectly eligible young men?’

‘We broke up, Ma. It happens,’ says Sharon, munching on her breakfast of left-over pizza. ‘Get over it.’

‘Well you can’t just dump him like that. It’s…it’s…illegal dumping for a start.’

‘Jeez, Ma, will you cool the head?’

‘What I’d very much like to know is this: what’s life going to be like round here when Jessica moves out? Because if we’re back to the days of you slumped night after night in front of the TV, then I’m telling you right now, young lady, you’ll have me to answer to. That Matt was a perfectly acceptable fella who worshipped the ground you walked on…’

‘Ma, we’d nothing in common, he didn’t even drink or smoke, for feck’s sake.’

‘Well, no one’s perfect. You could have broken him in gradually. But the point is, you were a different person when he was around, you were actually getting out of the house for a change, and now what? Back to watching repeats of
X Factor
ad nauseam? And you won’t have Maggie for company this time, you know, madam. She has a whole new career opening up for her now.’

‘I won’t be doing that, Ma. As it happens, there’s someone else that I’ve my eye on.’

At this point, I step in. ‘Sharon, I need to talk to you. Can we go upstairs for a minute please?’

‘NO ONE leaves the room until this row is over!’ screeches Joan, as Sharon and I scarper for cover.

But my planned chat with her doesn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ says Sharon, angrily lighting up a fag and pacing the bedroom. ‘You spend months on end mooning over tufty-head Sam, then the minute he comes back to you, I’m sorry, but her ladyship now wants the only fella I’ve fancied, properly fancied, in ages. Are you fecking
kidding
me? What is wrong with you?’

I’m actually ready to burst into tears now. As it is, all I can do is nod mutely. Mortified and hating every second of this. Tell you something, honesty is a highly overrated virtue.

‘Well, you want to know something?’ snaps Sharon, more furious than I think I’ve ever seen her before. ‘I don’t care if you did snog Steve and I don’t care what he said to you last night. I really think he likes me. He even offered to take me to the party on his bike tonight. So to hell with you, Jessie. Go back to Sam where you belong and stop interfering in my life!’

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans. If tonight doesn’t end up being a bloodbath, it’ll be a bonus.

Sam continues with his policy of pulling out all stops imaginable, arriving in a white, chauffeur-driven stretch limo to collect the whole lot of us. The car even attracts a crowd of the local kids, all clustered around it demanding to know whether someone’s getting married?
He steps out of the back, in black tie, laden down with red roses. You should see him. It’s like James Bond just arrived into a council estate.

We’re all present and correct, except for Sharon and Steve that is, who left about five minutes ago. I was upstairs getting ready, to a stony silence from herself, when the doorbell rang. She stuck her head out the window, didn’t tell me who it was, didn’t even say goodbye, just raced downstairs and was gone. I looked out the bedroom window just in time to see her zoom off on the back of Steve’s motorbike.

I’m the last one into the car, mainly because I’m wearing a cheapie pair of faux-crystal sandals that cut the feet off me and which I’m practically hobbling in, hence it takes me ten minutes just to get downstairs. But I bought them anyway, a) because they were on sale in Dunnes Stores for an astonishing €8 and b) because at least they go with my dress, which is a silver, glittery strappy number, also bought in Dunnes Stores and also on sale at €24.99. I know, all Sam’s pals will be head to toe in designer gear and I’ll be the only discount shopper there, but Credit Crunch Jessie doesn’t worry about crap like that any more.

Sam, true to form, does notice, but then he misses nothing. We’re in the back of the limo and he’s doling out champagne to the assembled company; Joan, her date Jimmy Watson, Maggie and myself, to toast his birthday.

‘You look…well, OK, babe,’ he says to me. ‘Where did you get the outfit?’

‘All from Dunnes Stores,’ I say proudly, delighted with my bargains. ‘Total cost: just under thirty-three Euro.’

‘Do you want us to wait for you to change into something a bit more suitable?’

That sounded like a casual suggestion, but his tone was more like an order.

‘No thanks, I’m happy in this. Besides, I don’t have anything else.’

‘But, it’s from Dunnes Stores. And you can be sure the press will pick up on it too.’

‘Not a problem for me,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m comfortable in this.’ And a glare from me tells him to drop it, which he does.

Then Jimmy, already so red-faced that I’d swear he’s been on the gargle for the whole afternoon, actually starts pitching the famous IPrayForYou.com idea to Sam, trying to get him on board as an investor.

‘Yeah, great, whatever, call my assistant Margaret and we’ll set up a meeting,’ says Sam dismissively, the way he always is whenever he’s trying to give people the brush-off.

Then, when we arrive at Bentleys, he says crisply to the others, ‘OK. The photographers will want clear shots of Jessie and I arriving alone. So we’ll get out of the car first, and if you can all just wait in here until we’re well and truly inside? No offence, but we don’t want to spoil all the pap shots with unknowns.’

I don’t even have time to berate him for treating my family like a shower of anonymous Z-listers because next thing, he’s out of the car and propelling me out alongside him. Bloody hell, you’d think we were going to an awards do instead of a shagging birthday knees-up. It’s only a few paces from the limo to the door of the restaurant, but you’d swear it was the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night, between the red carpet and all the assembled press, lined up with cameras popping into our faces.

‘Smile, Jessie! Over here, Sam! Can we just get a shot of the two of you together? Side by side?’ is all you can hear as we both step out into what feels like an electrical storm.

‘So you’re back together again?’ yells out another journalist and Sam and I both answer at the same time.

‘Yes!’ he answers back, having to shout over all the noise.

‘No. I’m…I’m really just here for the birthday party,’ I say, but no one even hears me. Impossible to in this crowd.

Then he automatically slips his arm around my waist and twirls me this way and that, beaming his mega-watt smile into whatever lens happens to be shoved into his face. It’s completely surreal. There’s about a dozen people roaring out questions at me and of course I can’t hear them all in the cacophony of noise. So I’m acting like a mute puppet, going through the motions with Sam prodding me towards even more cameras, all while I feel I’m silently screaming inside and no one can hear.

And that’s when it happens. A reporter from Channel Six, who I know of old, taps me on the arm and thrusts a mike under my nose, while a camera whirls right in front of me, almost blinding me with the overhead light. ‘Hi Jessie,’ she says, ‘I only have one question for you, if that’s OK? This big reunion with Sam Hughes. Why now after all this time? Do you think it’s a coincidence that you broke up after you were fired from Channel Six, but now that you’re reinstated and the cloud of suspicion over you has been lifted, suddenly Sam is back in your life again?’

Her question completely stops me in my tracks. Because
it’s an exact mirror of what Steve said to me last night. The facts are right there, staring me in the face. If I were still a disgraced has been, would I ever have heard a peep from the likes of Sam ever again? Of course not, not in a million years. Suddenly I have to get away from this circus. Like,
now
. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve broken away from Sam and am teetering inside on my too-tight heels, almost ready to fall over, they’re that sore to walk in.

Got to find Steve. And Sharon. Got to apologise and tell them that both of them were right and I was wrong. Because Sam hasn’t changed a bit, not a single bit. He thinks I’m a winner again and so I’m allowed back into his rarefied world, but that’s the only reason why. I don’t think he even loves me, or possibly ever did love me. I was just an asset that turned into a liability that’s now miraculously transformed back to being an asset again. But before I speak to anyone else, first of all I somehow need to find the words to say this to his face.

The thing about Bentleys is that it’s actually a hotel as well as a restaurant, so the party is being held on three different levels simultaneously, Sam having taken over the entire building for the evening. It takes about six goes to get his attention, mainly because every time I try to collar him, someone drags him off for a photo. The place is packed out, but it’s typical of any shindig Sam organises: fifty per cent media, forty-nine per cent business contacts and the remaining one per cent are friends and well-wishers.

At one point, I manage to manoeuvre him into a corner, telling him I need to speak to him urgently. But just as he gives me his attention, a barman comes over with a
trayful of drinks and asks us what we’d like. Champagne for both of us, Sam orders.

‘Do you have any Bulmers?’ I ask, desperately dying for a drink. Anything to get me through this.

‘Bulmers? Did you just ask for Bulmers?’ Sam repeats, as stunned as if I’d just asked for a pint of kitten’s blood.

‘Yeah, that’s what I drink now.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Woodsie. That’s a knacker drink. Stop embarrassing yourself, you’re in Bentleys now, you know. Not some scobie bar in Whitehall.’ Then he says imperiously to the barman, ‘She’ll have champagne.’

I don’t even get a chance to have it out with him, to say no thanks, these days cider is my drink of choice and he knows where he can shove his champagne, because just then a photographer from
Social and Personal
is over wanting a picture of him, so off he goes.

Nor can I even see any of my family, who are probably up partying in the bar at the very top of the building. Sharon and Steve included.

But one problem at a time.

God, it’s like time has stood still tonight, but eventually, ages and ages, it might even be hours later, I finally do nab Sam and elbow him up against a bookcase. ‘I have to talk to you,’ I say, as calmly and as firmly as I can. ‘Now. I’ve been trying to get your attention all evening and I’m sorry but this won’t wait any longer.’

‘It’ll have to, Woodsie, some of the gang from
The Apprentice
are here and I need to schmooze them. Oil them up a bit, you know how it is.’

Oh sod this. I’ll never get him alone, so I may as well just say it straight out. ‘Sam, I’m sorry to do this to you, on this of all nights too. But I can’t do this. I can’t just
slot back into the role of your girlfriend again. Because it’s not what I want. I thought it was, but it isn’t, not at all. And what’s worse is…I don’t even believe you really want me back either. You just…you like being surrounded by winners, that’s all.’