Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother

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.

Next thing on the screen, Sam’s big posh Bentley pulls up at the gates on his way back from getting the papers. He has a remote for them, but is still forced to slow down while they open up. Cue one of the reporters, a big guy built like a sumo wrestler, nearly having a heart attack with the excitement.

‘Mr Hughes, Sam Hughes? Don’t drive past us this time, we only want a few words with you!’ he shouts at the car, nearly impaling himself on the front bonnet, so Sam has no choice but to stay put.

‘Any comment to make?’ sumo guy yells through the driver’s window.

No, Sam, no, don’t do this, not now, just keep on driving, maybe even mow a few of them down if you can manage to get a clear run at them…But I’d forgotten, if there’s one thing Sam has a weakness for, it’s media attention. I see it happening almost in slow motion. The electronic window of his car sliding gracefully down and him flashing his brightest, toothiest smile straight to camera.

‘Afternoon gentlemen, how are you all this fine day?’ Cool as a fish’s fart, not a bother on him.

‘Thanks so much for talking to us this time. Anything to say? How is Jessie feeling right now? Is it fair to say she’s devastated and hiding away from the world?’

‘Gentlemen,’ Sam answers smoothly, ‘while Jessie has no comment to make at this distressing time…’

‘Shut up and just drive!’ I’m screeching at the TV, before clamping my hand over my fat gob. If they’re that close to the house, there’s a good chance the bastards might hear me.

‘…I would just like to say that in an otherwise stellar career, she made one simple error of judgement, which I’m quite confident she’ll recover from in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He swishes off as the security gates open leaving me open mouthed at how practised and almost rehearsed he sounded. A minute later, he’s in the front door and bounding up the stairs to me.

The frightening thing though, is that the cool show of strength he put on for the press not two minutes ago has just completely evaporated. Now he looks pale (which rarely happens, Sam is one of those people who’s always permatanned, even in winter), rattled (again atypical, Sam lets nothing, absolutely nothing faze him), and dazed. Actually dazed.

‘OK, Woodsie, I won’t lie to you,’ he says. ‘It’s bad. There’s three camera crews down there, one from Channel Six, one from RTE and another one I don’t recognise. And that’s not even counting all the photographers. Christ alive, surely this can’t be that big a story?!’

‘What…what will we do?’ My voice is tiny, barely audible.

He thinks for a minute. ‘Stay put. They can’t get a clear shot of the bedroom. I’ll bring up the papers and we’ll go through them together…’

‘No, no, I can’t.’ It’s the firmest I’ve sounded all day. ‘Please, no.’

In the end, he takes one look at me and realises that I’m in no fit state to read horrible things about myself. So he heads down to the kitchen, mercifully at the back of the house where no one can see in, to read them for himself.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll censor them all for you,’ he says reassuringly on his way out the door. ‘And I’ll bring up any that have anything positive to say. Whatever you do, do NOT turn on the news.’

This, no messing, takes a full hour. I try to pass the time by a) watching a documentary about Princess Diana on the Biography Channel, but I have to switch off as the bit about her being harassed by the paparazzi is just that bit too close to the bone today, b) somehow getting the strength to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom but I have to crawl straight back to bed again after the shock of seeing my face in the mirror. Honest to God, I look like someone gouged out my eyes and replaced them with flint. Besides, all the crawling around is starting to give me carpet burn. Then there’s point c). Like eating a Pot Noodle, I know it’s bad for me, I know it’ll make me feel worse afterwards, but I can’t help myself, I switch Channel Six on again as it’s coming up to the six o’clock news and, whoop-di-doo, I’m still there. Still the second bloody news item, which makes me wonder what the hell the third news item could possibly be; ants in a straight line crossing a road?

Next thing Sam’s back in my room, so I snap off the TV and pretend to have been just lying there all along, innocently whinging. Then I notice that he’s empty handed. Which can only mean one thing.

‘Well, I’ve read them all cover to cover,’ he begins.

‘And…?’

He doesn’t answer the question. Which instantly makes me fear the very worst.

‘The Sunday Indo had an OK-ish piece…’

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, when I say OK, I mean there was one fairly sympathetic article, called “What Next for Jessie Woods?”’

‘What’s next for me? A gunshot, if I’ve anything to do with it.’

‘Come on, Woodsie, you’ve got to face this head on,’ he says, his huge rugby player’s frame hulking in the doorway, eyes distractedly darting towards the window every thirty seconds or so, even though the curtains are drawn. ‘Damage limitation, that’s key right now. And showing your face in public again. They’re having a field day knowing you’ve locked yourself up in here. You’re a sitting target. You’re front page in everything but the Sunday Sport and that’s only because there’s some glamour model with thirty-eight double-D cups on the cover. But you made page two. With a picture of the house and a banner headline saying “Hiding out in The Chateau de Shame”.’

‘Shut up, please! Enough!!’ I screech, sticking my two fingers in my ears.

‘Look, Woodsie, the absolute worst thing you can do is nothing. In your shoes I’d go straight in to see my agent in the morning and release a statement clarifying your position and above all apologising. Best way to get rid of them is to grovel for a bit, say you’re sorry and pray it’ll all die down.’ Then he sits down on the edge of the bed beside me and for a while we’re both silent. I know he’s right; just the thought of having to face the world tomorrow is crucifying me. Next thing, he springs up, running his hands through his hair again, so it looks even bouffier. ‘Anyway, speaking of damage limitation, I better go.’

‘What? You’re leaving? You can’t leave!’

‘We were due to have dinner at Nathaniel and Eva’s, remember? I think at least one of us should go.’

‘But…Sam, please, no. Can’t you cancel? They’ll understand. Especially when they see we’re holed up like hostages here.’

He’s firm though, the way Sam always is whenever he’s made his mind up about something. ‘No,’ he insists. ‘We already cancelled on them last night. It would be rude.’

I don’t want to be left here by myself, but I know I’ve no choice. I’ve royally buggered up his weekend, the least I can do is let him out from under house arrest for a few hours. After all, it’s not like he did anything wrong. I look at him and suddenly a huge surge of love comes over me. I mean, just look at him, for God’s sake; protecting me, checking through the papers for me, trying to fix me and make everything all better again. My rock. My Prince Charming.

‘But you’ll come back here later, won’t you?’ I ask, aware of how pathetically weak and clingy I sound and not even caring.

‘Course I will. Now try to sleep,’ he says gently on his way out. I just nod and manage a watery half-smile.

Then, from the bottom of the stairs, he calls up, ‘By the way? You really need to get the downstairs loo fixed. Smells like a Victorian sewer down here.’

Oh yeah, that’s another thing about Sam. He’s surprisingly intolerant of lax household maintenance.

Ten p.m. and I’m still awake and staring at the ceiling. Sleep won’t come so to pass the time I make out a list of all the crap things in my life right now versus all the good things.

Crap things:

-No job

-No money and I doubt if even Bob Geldof with all his experience in dealing with Third World debt could bail me out of the financial black hole I’m in. Have a lot of grovelling ahead of me before I can be deemed employable again. If I can ever be deemed employable again. Because it’ll take great good luck, plus Liz Walsh having a mild stroke which will completely black out her entire memory bank for the last twenty-four hours -Prisoner in own home

What a rubbish idea this was, I think, flinging the pen away from me after only a few minutes. Just when I thought I was all cried out, this is only bringing on a fresh batch of hot, stinging tears. So instead, I focus on the positives in my life right now. But it’s a far shorter list. Scarily short. Because the only good, rock solid, dependable thing in my life right now is Sam. That’s it. He’s the one person who’s there for me through thick and thin and after the way he’s stood by me this weekend, I think I love him even more. If that were even possible.

It’s just a bit odd that by 2 a.m., he still hasn’t come back.

Chapter Five

He hasn’t come back by the following morning either. I hardly slept a wink; just kept dozing fitfully and at about 8 a.m., eventually abandoned that as a bad job. So then I started frantically phoning and texting Sam instead. Twenty-five calls and seventeen texts. Like the demented lunatic I’ve turned into, I actually counted. No answer to any of the phone calls and no reply to my manic text messages either. Now, just to give you an idea of just how utterly unheard of this is, Sam always, always has his phone on his person at all times. He’s one of those people who even brings it into the bathroom with him whenever he has a shower, and by the way, I am NOT making that up. Communication is like oxygen to him.

So now I’ve spiralled off into a sickening flurry of panic. The love of my life has probably been in some tragic car accident and at this very moment could be lying comatose in a hospital bed in plaster from the neck down, unable to say or do anything except move the tip of his little finger, so none of the nurses in the intensive care unit know to call and tell me what’s happened.

Suddenly, the lethargy and depression of yesterday are gone and now I’m wired by this whole new world of worry that’s just opened up. I try calling Nathaniel and Eva’s home number, my hands sweaty with tension, but no answer. Which means this must be bad. Frantically, I ring Eva’s mobile. She answers immediately, sounding half asleep and groggy. No, she yawns sleepily, she hasn’t heard from Sam either, not since he left their house early, about tenish last night after they’d all had dinner. But, here comes the killer, she lets it slip that Sam did call Nathaniel earlier this morning to, wait for it, arrange drinks and dinner with some clients at Bentleys swanky restaurant later on tonight.

Right. So that’s the coma worry eliminated then. It never occurred to me that he just…didn’t bother calling me. So, in other words, he went home last night, as normal, got up for work as normal and even found the time to book dinner and drinks with his best friend.

I have to slump back against a pillow to digest his.

‘OK, so maybe Sam hasn’t been in touch with you yet,’ Eva goes on, calmly, so calmly that it’s making me want to scream. ‘But it’s still early; he’ll call you later on. Funny, I assumed he was going straight back to yours last night, but I suppose he must have just gone home instead.’

‘But why the hell would he just go home instead? He knew the state I was in and he faithfully promised he’d come straight back here! Eva, you’ve no idea what it’s been like for me. Yesterday was a bloody nightmare.’ My voice sounds weak now, croaky and panicky.

‘Oh yeah, I meant to say how sorry I am. About…emm, you know, everything. How are you doing?’

‘I…I’m…’ I can’t finish my sentence though. So I just opt for bawling my eyes out instead, which in fairness, I haven’t done for at least half an hour.

‘Well, never mind. I mean, it’s only a job, isn’t it?’ she says airily and for a split second, her flippancy silences me out of my hysteria. The exact same shock you’d get if you’re crying and someone responds by smacking you wham across the face. It’s only a job, isn’t it? Did I really hear her just saying that?

‘Eva, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m unemployed, broke, up to my armpits in debt, out of my mind with worry, not to mention staked out by the press and now, on top of everything else, I haven’t heard a single word from my boyfriend all night or all morning, although apparently he’s well able to ring Nathaniel!’

‘Shh, shh, honey, take a deep breath. In for two and out for four, like they tell us in power yoga class. You need to de-stress. I’m sure Sam’s just busy. You know what he’s like when it comes to work, Jessie.’

‘Are you kidding me? My whole life has gone into freefall and you’re telling me that Sam is too busy to talk to me?’ I’m trying my best to keep the rising hysteria out of my voice, but not really succeeding.

‘You know, Jessie, listening to you, all I can think is, when was the last time this girl had acupuncture? Hey, here’s a thought, my masseuse is calling over later, why don’t you drop by and have a Swedish massage? Sounds like you might need one. Badly. Oooh, and then later on, I’m going to the Design Centre to see their new spring collection. You should come with.’

Dear Jaysus. I’m inclined to forget. To Eva, the recession is just something that’s happening to other people. Somehow, I restrain myself from snapping at her, but firmly tell her I need to get off the phone to call Sam’s office. Like, now.

‘Oh, OK,’ she yawns. ‘I’m going back to sleep anyway.’ I know, for a mother of twin boys, this sounds extravagantly luxurious, but bear in mind that Eva has a lot of home help. ‘Just try to calm down, Jessie. And remember, at least we’ve got the trip to Marbella coming up really soon. Now isn’t that something lovely for you to look forward to?’

I hang up, wondering if she even heard a single word I said.

So I ring Sam’s office and am put straight through to his assistant, Margaret. Two things about Margaret: firstly, she’s incredibly protective of Sam, almost obsessing over him the way an Irish mammy would with a cherished only son. Secondly, to put it mildly, she’s not exactly a huge fan of mine. Can never quite figure out why. I’ve only met her a handful of times, but she always treats me like some telly-tottie blow-in who only distracts Sam from going out and making even more money than he already has.

‘He’s specifically asked not to be disturbed this morning, Miss Woods.’

That’s another thing about her, she always calls me Miss Woods. I think it’s an intimidation tactic. Waste of time trying to intimidate me though; I may live in a fancy gated house in Dalkey, but scratch below the surface and you’ll find a true blue, working-class Dublin Northsider.

‘However, I’m very happy to pass on your message.’

I know right well that she knows what happened to me over the weekend; bar she’s just come out of a coma, how could she not? But I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me sniffle down the phone – just thank her politely and hang up.

Right then. So Sam is alive and well and going about his day’s work and not lying comatose in a hospital bed. Which is something, I suppose. Then a surge of optimism; of course he’s going to call me back later. Come on, this is Sam I’m talking about, Mr Perfect Boyfriend. Yes, it’s a bit odd he never came back here last night, but I’m sure there’s some perfectly plausible explanation. So when we eventually do get to talk and when he inevitably asks me what I’ve been up to since yesterday, what will I tell him then? That I lay in bed all day whinging like a crazy lady? Or that I took his advice, picked myself up like a winner who’s just taken one of life’s knocks, and is now bravely dealing with it head on? Right, that’s it. Decision made. Let Operation Damage Limitation begin.

An hour later and I’m up, dressed in jeans and a sweater with my hair tied back under a baseball cap, along with the biggest pair of sunglasses I can find for maximum face covering. Just so no one gets to see my face which frankly is looking like a bag of chisels from all the crying and sleep deprivation. For better or for worse, I’m ready to face the world. Plus I’ve been busy lining up appointments in town for the week ahead with my agent, publicist and, the one I’m actually dreading most of all, my accountant.

First hurdle though, is getting out the front gate without the hounds of hell stationed there having a pop at me. Added to this particular dilemma is the fact that a) I’ve no car and b) if I get the bus into town, there’s every chance the bastards will follow me and God alone knows the craic they’d have doing that. Right, nothing for it but to get a taxi to come through the security gates and right to the front door of the house, so I can hop into it and slip past the photographers at maximum speed. Slight problem though: I’ve no cash in the house to pay for said cab. Not a brass farthing.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but next thing, I’m rooting through coat pockets and old handbags foraging for loose change. Dear Jaysus; not one week ago, I spent around €180 on a La Prairie face cream and now I’m scrambling around looking for a few spare coins which I might have forgotten about. But I’m in luck; right at the bottom of a ridiculously expensive, impulse-buy Gucci bag, there’s a €20 note and about €4.50 in coins. Well whaddya know. I’m rich.

Week from hell: day one

I meet with my agent, one Roger Davenport, in his offices in town. Roger, I should tell you, is a sixty-something bachelor whose ideal client would probably be Audrey Hepburn. Always dresses a bit like a magician in velvet suits and bow ties, usually accessorised with a brolly; a bit like Steed in The New Avengers. He’s also a thorough gentleman of the old school and never loses his temper with the kids who always follow him, as he strolls from his converted Georgian townhouse to his equally elegant Georgian office. I’ve often seen him sauntering through town, like it’s permanent Bloomsday, chased by kids all chanting, ‘Here mister, where’s your boyfriend?’ Water off a duck’s back though; Roger is famous for his unflappable cool and permanent good humour. Until I go in to see him, that is.

He’s sitting at his antique desk when I arrive at his office, surrounded by this morning’s papers. ‘Dear Lord, Jessie, what precisely were you thinking?’ is his opener, peering up from over Churchill-esque half-moon glasses. I fill him in, with particular red-eyed snivelling saved for the part where I stress that I didn’t know I’d done anything wrong. It’s fast becoming my new catchphrase.