Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (6 page)

‘Emm…as a matter of fact, no, I wasn’t. But…’

‘I’m afraid I can’t accept your ignorance of the basics as any kind of excuse, Jessie,’ she barks, snapping open a bottle of water and knocking back a gulp. ‘After all your years of working here, you’re honestly telling me you didn’t realise you can’t just shamelessly use your profile to go around accepting free commercial handouts? Have you the slightest idea how it looks? How compromising it is for you and for the show? And, by extension, for me?’

‘But Liz, that guy just sprang it on me!’ I almost yell at her, my chest about to burst with anxiety. ‘I found myself saying yes before I barely knew what I was doing…’

‘In the last fifteen minutes, the phone lines have not stopped hopping, with a lot of people understandably furious about a national TV personality accepting such an extravagant gift while the rest of the country is in the throes of recession. The press department is in meltdown and the director general has just been on to read me the riot act about your stupid, thoughtless, selfish behaviour.’

‘But I didn’t know!’

Now, there’s a horrible pause and suddenly I feel like I’m locked into a death dance.

‘I’ve championed this show,’ Liz eventually says, more sorrowfully now which is actually far, far worse than if she yelled at me. ‘And God knows, I’ve championed you. Because no matter what we throw at you, you do it and come up trumps. You’re a looker, you’re virtually unembarrassable which is a huge asset in this game and you’re completely at ease in front of a camera. Most of all though, you’ve got something that can’t be bought or sold; the likeability factor. In spite of crap reviews saying that this programme has all the tension of an ancient piece of knicker elastic. In spite of my bosses saying
Jessie Would
was a carnival of frivolities that had had its day. That’s the exact phrase they used, you know. I fought like hell for this show and this is how you repay me.’

‘But…but…Come on, Liz, surely to God we can fix this! Can’t I just put out a press release saying it was a horrible, stupid mistake and that I’m really mortified and then…just give them their car back?’ I’m feeling a tiny bud of hope now. Because there’s no problem that’s unfixable, is there? And it’s not like I’ve ever messed up before. Never. Not once.

‘Jessie, you don’t realise. They’re lusting for blood like barbarians out there. I can’t be seen not to take immediate and decisive action over this.’

‘Come on, Liz…Everyone’s allowed to slip up once, aren’t they?’

‘Not on live TV they’re not.’

And like that, hope is guillotined. Now it’s like despair is circulating instead of air.

‘But I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong! Please
Liz, please. Let’s just consider my wrists slapped…’ I’m actually begging her now, my voice faint and croaky with tension.

‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

‘So I took a risk on this one and it blew up in my face. But you’re always encouraging me to take risks. I mean, that’s what makes me good!’

‘No, Jessie. That’s what makes you fired.’

This feels like a bereavement. And believe me, if there’s one thing I know all about, it’s bereavement. In fact, if it wasn’t for Sam, I don’t know what I’d do. It took me ten years to build up my career and ten minutes to bring the whole thing crashing down in flames.

It’s sometime on Sunday afternoon, couldn’t tell you when exactly, and I’m still in bed. Can’t move. Don’t want to either. At least here, in the safety of my own home, I’m not a national laughing stock. I’m doing my best to block out most of last night, but horrible fragments keep coming back to me in painful, disconnected shards. Word spread like a raging forest fire and before I barely had time to digest the news myself everyone, absolutely
everyone,
seemed to know. But then that’s typical of Channel Six; there’s times when it’s more like a colander than a TV station.

I remember bumping into a few of the audience streaming out after the broadcast and a middle-aged couple being very kind and concerned and saying they were relieved to see me alive and well. They thought something terrible must have happened to me and that’s why I never came back to finish the end of the show. I wish. Right now I’d
kill to be lying on a hospital trolley with a few cracked ribs, but with my job and reputation still intact. Physical pain would be a doddle compared with this.

I can remember standing in the freezing cold outside the studio, frantically trying to call Sam on his mobile and not being able to get him. Then, just as I was howling hysterically into his voicemail, some of the studio crew came up to me and commiserated. Nice of them. Said it was an honest mistake which could have happened to anyone. Cheryl, the lovely make-up girl, even said sure, it’s only a storm in a tea cup, which would all blow over, Liz’s bark being famously worse than her bite. Which was kindly. Untrue, but still well-meant.

But a lot of the crew blanked me. A scary amount of them. The director just walked past me like I was yesterday’s news. Which I know I am, but still, it was bloody hurtful. Then, when I finally did get hold of Sam and was begging him to come and pick me up, one of the sound engineers who I’m really pally with, I’ve even got his family tickets for the show on more than one occasion, brushed right past me. Not only that, but then he flung a scorching look back over his shoulder that might as well have said, ‘Selfish, greedy, stupid, idiotic moron.’

I was probably only waiting about half an hour for Sam, but I can honestly say it was the longest thirty minutes of my entire life. Then of course Katie nearly danced over, beside herself with excitement, shoving her microphone into my face and asking me if I’d any comment to make about this ‘shocking new development’. I don’t even blame her; one minute she’s doing a run of the mill job trailing round after me, next thing a hot, juicy story just unexpectedly plops right into her lap.

Can’t tell you what the hell I said to her, but I do know it involved a lot of bawling, snivelling and gratefully accepting bunches of Kleenex from the cameraman hovering at her shoulder. Then, thank Jaysus, Sam zoomed up like my knight in a shining Bentley and I collapsed into the seat beside him, completely falling apart and heaving with sobs for all I was worth.

And now it’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m still in bed, surrounded by snotty tissues and with a thumping headache from crying all night long. I can’t sleep; every time I try, all I can hear is the whooshing sound of my career flushing down the toilet. I physically can’t move either. Like a butterfly that’s pinned down to a card. It just keeps playing in a loop inside my head, over and over again.
I’m fired, I’m fired, I messed up and got fired and have no money and no job and what the hell am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?

The only person who’s keeping me remotely sane is Sam, who’s just being incredible. Sainted. He’d seen last night’s show of course, and instantly realised something was majorly wrong when I didn’t come back on for the second part. So the minute he got my hysterical messages, he didn’t even think; just jumped into his car and drove straight into the studio. He’s been brilliant ever since too. Normally after a broadcast we’d go into Bentleys, a posh restaurant and boutique hotel in town, which Sam is never out of, then we’d hook up with Nathaniel and Eva. Usually we’d all unwind with a few drinks (ridiculously expensive champagne, what else?) followed by a late dinner and then at stupid o’clock everyone would pile back here for yet more ridiculously expensive champagne, etc. But I was in no condition to show my face anywhere last night, not even
with good friends in tow to support me. Sam took one look at the state I was in, called to make our excuses, then brought me straight back here, where he’s been minding me like an invalid with consumption ever since.

Then, this morning, after yet another bout of me howling into his chest, ‘But my job! My lovely, lovely job!’ he gave me one of his motivational speeches, which I was no more in the mood for, but I suppose he meant well. His pep talk fell into three distinct categories; first the inspirational (‘In the words of Barack Obama, yes you can get over this’) followed by a classic (‘When God opens a door…’), all rounded off with the good old-fashioned (‘plenty more jobs out there, etc.’).

You see, to Sam, the world is clearly delineated into winners and losers and, as he’s never done saying, winners are winners long before they win. One of the qualities he says he likes best about me is the fact that I was born into an underprivileged background with a highly dysfunctional family set-up and yet still went on to become a winner. His theory is that everyone gets their fair and equal share of knocks in life, but what sets the winners apart is that they pick themselves up, dust themselves off and start over. Whereas losers just concentrate on the coulda, woulda, shouldas, blaming everyone except themselves, before ultimately sinking under. Which is exactly what I want to do. Now and forever.

Anyway, on his way out to get the Sunday papers, he bounds up to me in the bedroom, all full of positive energy. ‘Get up, get dressed and come with me. Do you good to get out of the house for a bit.’

‘Let’s stick to attainable goals,’ I moan. ‘Maybe, just maybe, in a few hours, with a bit of luck, I might just be able to crawl as far as the bathroom.’

‘Is there anything I can do to get you out of that bed?’ he says, starting to sound a bit exasperated with me now, unsurprisingly.

‘You could tie Prozac to the end of some string.’

Sam doesn’t react, just runs his hands through his thick, bouffey hair, the way he does whenever he’s deeply frustrated, and orders me not to even think about turning on the TV when he goes out.

Shit. I never thought of that. There couldn’t be anything on telly about what happened, could there? Hardly a news story, is it?

‘Now you promise you won’t go anywhere near that remote control?’ he calls up from the bottom of the stairs, on his way out. ‘Remember it’s for your own good!’

‘Promise,’ I mutter feebly.

But the minute he’s out the door I switch it on. Just to be sure. No, at first glance it looks like I’m OK. Everything’s fine, I’m worrying over nothing. Just your typical, normal Sunday afternoon TV,
Antiques Roadshow,
soap opera omnibuses that start today and don’t finish until next Tuesday morning, that kind of thing. I keep flicking and flicking but there’s nothing strange. Then I get to Channel Six, where it’s just coming up to the afternoon news bulletin.

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I do not believe this. I’m the second news item. The
second.
I sit up bolt upright in the bed, like someone who’s just been electrocuted. But no, there it is, in full Blu-ray high definition. There’s even a photo of me on the screen right behind the newsreader; a still shot from last night’s show of me kissing the guy from Mercedes who offered me the shagging car and looking like a total gobshite. A wave of nausea sweeps over me and I can
feel myself breaking out in a clammy cold sweat. I want to switch if off but somehow can’t find the strength to.

‘In a surprise move last night, Channel Six has ended the contract of TV presenter Jessie Woods, after an on-air incident involving what was seen as a major breach of broadcasting ethics. In a statement released last night, the station announced that Jessie Woods’ position at the centre of their schedule was now untenable, in light of her accepting free use of a luxury sports car during the live broadcast of her top-rated show,
Jessie Would.
Sources close to Liz Walsh, Head of Television, have said the station had no choice but to take swift and immediate action in response to an unprecedented volume of complaints during the broadcast of last night’s show. And now over to our entertainment correspondent who reports live…’

I switch it off and fling the remote control as far from the bed as I can. I think I might be sick. That’s it; I’ve just been given the kiss of death. Because in TV land, when you hear your name used in the same sentence as ‘unprecedented volume of complaints’, it basically means hell will freeze over before you cross the threshold of said station ever again.

Then my mobile rings. It’s been ringing all bloody morning, but I’ve been ignoring it. I just don’t feel able for a conversation with another human being, apart from Sam, that is; my one link to the outside world. But then the name flashes up on the screen. It’s Emma.

‘Jessie, are you OK?’

All I can do is just stifle a sob.

‘Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been trying to call you ever since last night. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. How are you holding up?’

‘I’m…I’m…’ then instead of finishing the sentence, I just start bawling.

Emma is completely fabulous, as you’d expect. Which is all the more amazing when you consider that my fuck-up has meant that now she’s out of a job too. She fills me in on the whole horrible story from her side of the fence; how she hadn’t a breeze what was happening during the show until it got to the commercial break, when an urgent message filtered to the studio floor from the director up in the production box, saying I wasn’t coming back for the second half of the show and that she’d have to carry it all alone. God love the girl, she was completely numb and shell-shocked, but like the pro that she is, somehow she staggered through it, then was summoned into Liz’s office the minute we wrapped. The show has been pulled from the schedule, she was brusquely told, but in the meantime you stay on full salary while we find another vehicle for you. Which is actually the best news I’ve heard so far during this whole miserable day. Because at least my brainless, witless behaviour hasn’t entirely left Emma in the lurch. In time, she’ll get her own show and no one deserves it more.

‘I’m just so sorry,’ I keep howling over and over. ‘You have to believe me when I tell you I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. I just reacted on the spur of the moment. Yes I was stupid and greedy but with my own car repossessed and on top of all my other money worries, this just…looked like the greatest bonus I could ever have asked for, being handed to me on a plate…’

‘I know, sweetie, I know. They made it hard for you to refuse.’

Then something strikes me. ‘Emma, did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘This, like unwritten rule or whatever it is, that we can’t accept freebies? I mean, what would you have done in my shoes?’

She doesn’t even need to think about it. Of course not. Emma is always perfectly behaved and instinctively knows the right thing to say. ‘I’d probably have thanked them, but said it was unlikely the station bosses would allow me to accept.’

Flawless answer. Gracious and dignified yet utterly resolute.

‘Oh God, Emma,’ I sniffle. ‘Why are you such a perfect human being? Why can’t I be like you?’ Another bout of wailing and another fresh handful of Kleenex.

‘Jessie, you have to stop beating yourself up,’ she says firmly. ‘It was only one mistake and I’m sure you’ll bounce back from it. When all this unpleasantness dies down, I mean.’

There’s a horrible unspoken thought between us. The thought that dare not speak its name. Channel Six will never look at me again and, well, suppose no one else will either? Presenting gigs are hard enough to come by, particularly for women, without being a national disgrace who buggered up a primetime job on live telly. But Emma means well. She’s trying to offer me a grain of comfort, so I let her. Even though I don’t really believe her. Yes of course, we both chime, lots of other jobs, will see my agent tomorrow, something’s bound to come in, etc., etc. In fact, by the end of the phone call, I’m actually starting to believe her.

‘Oh, just one more thing before I let you go, hon,’ she adds warily. ‘Whatever you do, do not turn on the TV and do NOT read today’s papers.’

‘Ta love. I did see the Channel Six headline and had to switch it off before I vomited.’

‘No, sweetie, you don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Oh Jess, there’s no easy way to tell you this. But forewarned is forearmed, just remember that…’

‘Tell me what? Jaysus, it’s not like things can be much worse than they already are, now is it?’

‘Sweetie, the news unit from Channel Six are right outside your front gate.’

Just when I think the nightmare can’t get worse, ta-da, fate decides, yes Jessie Woods, you’re not off any hooks yet, there’s yet another few hundred feet of crap for you to fall through before we’re done with you. Wa-ha-haaa, thunderclap, background sound effect of bloodhounds baying at the moon, etc., etc.

So I thank Emma, faithfully swear not to look at the news, hang up the phone then stumble out of bed to root for wherever I flung the remote control. I eventually find it and with trembling hands, switch the news back on. And almost fall over. She’s right. There it is, live on national TV, a clear shot of the security gates right at the very front of my house. They’re staking me out. In fact, if I went over to my bedroom window and jumped up and down waving like a presenter on a kids’ TV show, you’d end up seeing me in the background of the shot.

I slump down with my back against the wall taking short, sharp breaths like a hostage in a bank raid drama. This is so ridiculous; I mean, isn’t this the kind of harassment they give to politicians who are found with rent boys in public toilets? The whole thing is completely surreal. Here I am, watching the outside of my own house live on TV. Even
through the security gates from the outside, I can still see everything, right down to the overstuffed bins that I forgot to put out last week and a few crisp bags that are billowing round the front drive.