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Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother
Claudia Carroll
The fairytale ending was just the beginning…Contains exclusive sneak peek of Claudia’s latest novel A Very Accidental Love Story.Jessie Woods absolutely believes in fairytale endings. So would you if you had a recession-proof career as a daredevil TV host, a palatial pink mansion, and the dream boyfriend.But, quicker than you can say Cinderella, her life falls to pieces and suddenly her prince isn't quite so charming, her party-loving friends disappear and even her faithful friend Visa no longer loves her…Utterly heartbroken and jobless, Jessie is forced back home, to live with her stepmum and two evil stepsisters.Is it time for her to give up on the dream - or will Jessie learn that happy endings can come in the strangest of places?One of Avon's hottest writers presents a tale of princes who turn out to be frogs, Manolo Blahnik glass slippers and not-so-happily-ever-afters…



CLAUDIA CARROLL
Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother



Copyright (#ulink_a69657c0-c998-512d-a901-f65d8aec0e36)
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2010
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2010
Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2010 ISBN: 9780007338528
Version: 2014-12-09

Dedication (#ulink_96f31e57-7175-5ab2-b77b-c1c9ee1830b0)
For my great friend, Weldon Costelloe. With love and thanks.
‘Only when the tide goes out, do you discover who’s been swimming naked.’
Warren Buffet

‘They say that when you ask God for your heart’s desire, he’ll give you one of three possible answers. The first is yes. The second is, not yet. And the third is, I have something far, far better in mind.
Answer three is kind of where this story starts …’
Jessie Woods
Table of Contents
Cover (#u44ea85af-ad70-5332-a1eb-9e6965efc1ed)
Title Page (#uafa59e94-e430-5be9-a9f4-10e5c2d36e43)
Copyright (#u29f922a5-fd67-549f-885b-e60e9089a06c)
Dedication (#u32a25187-639d-5c55-bc10-f6c5aa964f52)
Excerpt (#uec2746da-b831-57ae-8de6-2b4bf9236305)
Prologue (#u1c117872-9d04-5ce4-93e4-9de4872de23c)
Nineteen Years Later (#u96063233-9b98-5f2f-b686-f1e3ac942a27)
Chapter One (#u3514568d-da71-50f9-87f2-cdf43a9fb603)
Chapter Two (#u48b9e3bd-96af-5f5b-b692-4e6edb6e283e)
Chapter Three (#ua8d97ab5-e5d2-53c4-bd04-e9962887c7c7)
Chapter Four (#ucc408ced-d42a-5904-b5b2-c31234079986)
Chapter Five (#ub69241db-750e-566e-b9cf-248fc41f54b1)
Chapter Six (#u59e8367a-0f78-5f6a-ab49-0821a33df849)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
May (#litres_trial_promo)
June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_0b29a40b-c3aa-5146-bdb2-36404d77bab6)
Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose favourite fairytale character was Cinderella. It was easy for her to relate to her heroine because, you see, they’d so much in common. Just like Cinderella, her mum had died when she was three years old, leaving only herself and her dad. Course, she was too young to remember; all she was aware of was that everyone – neighbours, distant relations she’d never met before or since – was suddenly an awful lot nicer to her. Money was tight and her dad had to slave away all the hours he could to support them. But no matter how busy he was, he’d always rush home and snatch time to read his little princess her favourite fairy story.
And so this child, whose name was Jessie by the way, grew up dreaming. But never about fairy godmothers or pumpkins magically changing into glass coaches with mice to drive them, which frankly she thought was all a bit daft and OTT. No, what Jessie really loved most about Cinderella’s story was the very last sentence, ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’ Because that’s what she wanted more than anything else. To live happily ever after in a huge big castle, far from where she came, where she could make sure her dad never had to work so hard or fret about money ever again. Somewhere she could feed him more than just spaghetti hoops on toast for dinner night after night, which was pretty much all she knew how to cook. Somewhere miles from the corporation house they lived in, where they’d be able to afford a glittery tree and presents at Christmas and maybe where they could even take a holiday to the seaside, just like all the other girls in her class did. And most of all, somewhere she wouldn’t have to worry about her dad any more. A place where he’d be happy; so happy, that never again would she have to listen through the paper-thin walls to the muffled sound of him softly crying to himself alone in his room at night, when he thought she was sound asleep.
Then, when she turned ten years old, a life-altering event happened that suddenly turned Jessie’s whole little world upside down. Something which made her feel even more Cinderella-like than ever. If she’d been in a hurry to get out and make her dreams come true before, now she was in a race against the clock. But all the odds in life’s lottery seemed to be stacked against her. Because how could a girl from the wrong side of the tracks ever hope to live a life of wealth and security? She wasn’t brainy enough to be a successful doctor or sharp enough to be a rich lawyer, even if they could have afforded the college fees. And that’s when Jessie realised exactly how she could unlock the low door in the wall that would lead her to this magical wonderland.
Fame, she decided, would be her key. Her escape.
Celebrity. Because nobody minded where stars came from or how little they had growing up, did they? She’d work hard, shake off her past, haul herself up and become a real-life rags-to-riches success story, with all the trappings, just like the presenters she loved watching on TV. And their job seemed so, so easy. Talking into a microphone. Asking questions to interviewees, then nodding and listening. Sure any eejit could do that! And if there was anything Jessie was good at, it was asking questions and listening. It would be a doddle. She could do it in her sleep. She’d get paid a fortune, be able to afford beautiful things, be recognised everywhere she went and, most of all, be able to get far away from where she came and take proper care of her dad in a house so big you could nearly sign a peace treaty in it.
And of course if she just happened to meet Prince Charming along the way, then whoop-di-do…

NINETEEN YEARS LATER (#ulink_3f0f1bd5-b59f-5df7-8f97-a0b8baf80568)

Chapter One (#ulink_baa83e7e-0201-5bf9-a766-52f36a5879d5)
‘Once upon a time, there lived a stunning, modern-day princess whose life was so perfect, it was like a beautiful dream. And here she lives, in her very own fabulous palazzo, with real-life Prince Charming, successful entrepreneur Sam Hughes. I’m speaking, of course, about the nation’s favourite TV girl, who’s kindly invited me into her breathtaking home today, the one and only Jessie Woods!’
‘And……CUT!’
Oh God, I knew this was a bad idea. In fact, there’s so much wrong with that last statement, I don’t even know where to begin. For starters, my house is definitely not a ‘palazzo’, that’s just what pushy estate agents call it, just because there happens to be a lot of pink marble going on. Which looks great in photos but, take it from me, is like living inside an ice rink in winter. Well, either an ice rink or a mausoleum. It isn’t mine either, I’m only renting it from a couple who are away for a few years. If it was properly mine, I’d have to do a major rethink on all the pink; from certain angles, it’s like something Jordan vomited up. Oh, and I don’t live with Sam either, not officially anyway. He still has his own place down in the country because, get this, he thinks here is too small for a couple. His home, by the way, is the approximate size of Versailles.
‘Jessie, do you think we could get a shot of you over here at the grand piano?’ Katie, the interviewer, trills across the room at me, to where I’m perched up on a bar stool, still getting make-up slapped on and nowhere near camera-ready. For the record, Katie’s absolutely lovely; young and spray-tanned and skinny, hungry for work and only delighted to be in front of a TV camera. Just like I was at her age. In fact, give her another two years and she could very well end up doing my job. She’s also bouncy and energetic and, when there’s a microphone in her hand, talks in exactly the same sing-song cadences that air hostesses do. Honest to God, she’ll be doing seat-belt demonstrations next. Plus, like most TV presenters, she talks in exclamation marks and uses the word ‘fabulous’ a lot.
‘Oooh, Jessie, I’ve just had a fabulous idea. Maybe we could film you actually tinkling away at the piano? Would that be OK, do you think?’
She beams at me, brightly, expectantly, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that the only thing I could possibly manage to bash out would be ‘Chopsticks’. The piano, like so much in this house, is kind of just for show, really. I mean, no one actually plays these things outside of concerts in Carnegie Hall, do they?
‘Oh, no, hold on, wait now…I’ve a far more fabulous idea,’ Katie thankfully changes her mind, but still somehow manages to sound like cabin crew cheerily telling you to clip up the tray in front of you, that there’s only fifteen minutes to landing. ‘Instead, how about a shot of you standing just here by the piano and talking us through all the amazing photos you’ve displayed on it? Yeah? Wouldn’t that just be, emmmmm…what’s the word? Fabulous!’
‘Yes, Katie. That would be…fabulous.’
I am such a moron. When will I learn that it’s a really crappy idea to let a film crew into your house to shoot an ‘at-home-with, day-in-the-life-of’ piece when a) I’m as hung over as a dog, b) on account of point a), I’ve had exactly seventeen minutes’ sleep, c) I only barely managed to haul myself out of bed in time to clean up the living room for this lot arriving, so if they ask to see any other room, I’m finished. In this house, the law of mess transference applies; i.e., no sooner do I tidy one room than an equal and corres-ponding amount of clutter appears somewhere else. Plus, because the downstairs loo has been blocked for about three weeks now, the entire house is beginning to smell like low tide in Calcutta and I can’t afford to get a plumber out. Ahhh, plumbers. God’s way of telling you that you make too little money. Worst of all, though, is point d) in what’s become something of a monthly nightmare in this house: my Visa bill has just arrived in a worryingly thick envelope and is now plonked on the fireplace looking accusingly at me, almost daring me to open it.
I’ll come back to that last point later. What’s immediately bothering me now is that the poor unfortunate make-up artist is having a right job of it trying to disguise the purpley bits under my saggy, baggy, bloodshot eyes, to make me look even halfway human. Because I’m supposed to be all glowing and healthy and radiant for this shoot, not pasty and washed out, with a tongue that feels like carpet tiles and a cement mixer churning round inside my brain.
Then another horrible tacked-on worry; my agent would put me up against a wall and shoot me if he could see the minging state of me right now. In fact, it was his idea that I take part in this whole, lunatic A Day in the Life documentary, on the grounds that the TV show that I present is coming up to its season finale, which means my contract is up for renewal, which means, in his sage words, it’s time to ‘Beef up your profile and hope for the best.’
The show I front, you see, is a light, fluffy, tea-time, family-friendly programme called Jessie Would, where people text in mad, wacky ideas for dares and then I have to do them. Yes, all of them; the good, the bad and the downright unprintable. So basically, my job is whipped cream and as said agent is constantly reminding me, this is not a good economy to be whipped cream in. Particularly not when you’re in debt up to your oxters, desperately trying to keep up this lifestyle with friends who insist on partying like it’s the last days of Rome.
‘Late one last night, was it Jessie?’ the lovely make-up artist whispers sympathetically to me, brandishing a mascara wand in the same, skilled way that a surgeon holds a scalpel. I manage a guilty nod back. Wasn’t even my fault either. In fact, if it were up to me, I’d have been in bed by half ten with a cup of milky Horlicks and two cucumbers on my eyes. Honest. But then you see Sam, that’s my boyfriend, got a last-minute invitation to a launch party that a sort of rival-frenemy-business contact of his was having and we had no choice but to go along. Long story, but basically Sam’s got wind of the fact that there’s a vacancy coming up as a panellist on one of those entrepreneurial TV programmes where people pitch business ideas, some terrific, some crap, to a terrifying gang of business experts, who subsequently either rip them apart or else rob their ideas and claim them as their own. Sorry, I meant to say invest in these wonderful commercial opportunities, ahem, ahem. Anyway, the guy who was hosting the launch party last night is already a regular panellist on this particular show, and Sam figured it would be the perfect way for him to network and get his spoke in early, as it were. And I’m not just saying it because I adore him, but he really would be wonderful on the show; Sam is young, charming, successful, has a finger in just about every corporate pie you can think of and genuinely believes that being good in business is a shamanistic power bestowed on the few. Plus, because he’s a high-profile economist by trade, with an occasional column in The Times and everything, he’s already done loads of bits and pieces on telly and one commentator even hailed him as something of a poster boy for the world of finance, ‘who manages the not inconsiderable feat of making economics accessible to the man on the street’. Blah, blah, blah. In fact, pretty much every time there’s either an interest rate hike or a bank collapse, some news show on Channel Six will be sure to wheel Sam out for keen yet insightful commentary on said crisis. Mind you, it helps that he’s outrageously good-looking, in a clean-cut, sharply tailored, chiselled, TV-friendly kind of way. Darcy-licious. Conventionally tall, dark and handsome, like one of the junior Kennedy cousins, right down to the thick bouffey hair, the toothiness and the tan. The kind of fella that even gay men drool over. He’s also incredibly hard-working, with about twenty different business interests on the go and basically hasn’t slept for about the last five years or so. Oh, and as if all that wasn’t enough, in his spare time he’s written a soon to be published autobiography entitled, and I swear I’m NOT making this up, If Business is the New Rock & Roll, then I’m Elvis Presley.
Don’t ask me why he wants this particular TV gig so desperately, although he often jokes and says that you’re never closer to God than when you’re on television. I think for a high-achiever like Sam it’s just the next logical rung on the ladder, the jewel in the crown. Although, knowing him and his Type A personality, no sooner will he get what he wants, than he’ll stop wanting it and start chasing some other rainbow. Politics, maybe. He’s one of those guys that could basically turn his hand to anything and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he ended up running the country in a few years’ time. But for now, his one goal is to be a panellist on this investment show for budding entrepreneurs and knowing him, he’ll basically drill his way through concrete to make it happen.
Anyway, I could talk about Sam all day, but I won’t. Suffice to say that like a good little Super Couple (the tabloids’ mortifying tag, not mine) I went along to the party with him, intending to only stay for just the one and somehow it ended up being 5 a.m. by the time we crawled out of there…
The funny thing is, people think that Sam and I have this glittering, red carpet, party lifestyle; what they don’t realise is that it’s actually work. Honestly. OK, so it may look like our lives are one big, long bank holiday weekend, but trust me, it takes it out of you. It is also costing me a bloody fortune.
‘Stop looking over at the fireplace, keep your eyes to me, Jessie,’ whispers lovely make-up girl as she gamely dabs concealer into eye sockets which still haven’t properly opened up yet.
‘Oops, sorry,’ I mutter.
Shit. She caught me staring up at the Visa bill. Which, now that I come to think of it, mightn’t be too bad this month, I desperately try to convince myself. Because I really did try my best to be good, cut back and live within my means, as my accountant put it during one particularly stern phone call which I’d quite frankly prefer to blank out, after she discovered that the interest on my credit card was more than half what I pay in rent for this house. And that’s only the credit card she knows about; I’ve another secret one, also maxed out, that I’m too scared to even mention to her, for fear the woman will have an anxiety stroke.
‘You don’t understand,’ I hotly defended myself to her. ‘Anyone who lives and works in the public eye has a lot of unavoidable day-to-day expenses.’
‘And what exactly would these “unavoidable expenses” be?’ she politely asked. The business-class flights for a trip to New York that I forked out for? The clothes and blow-dries and manicures and spending money which I needed for said trip? Not to even get started on the hotel we stayed in, which only cost about five times more than I could afford.
Sam’s unstoppable drive and my chronic over-spending, you’ll see, are pretty much the twin kernels of my life right now. Tell you something else too; toxic debt-related anxiety and a thumping hangover make for one helluva lethal cocktail. As the sainted make-up girl lashes on more bronzing powder than you’d normally see on the whole of Girls Aloud, I do a few quick mental sums.
OK. I’m three full months behind on rent. I can’t even remember the last time I wasn’t overdrawn. All I know is that the letters I keep getting from my bank manager are becoming progressively snottier and snottier. Phrases such as, ‘Central debt recovery agencies,’ and ‘You realise this will affect your credit rating for a period of XXX…’ have even been invoked. Shudder.
And there’s worse. Far worse. Up until last week, I was the proud owner of a flashy, zippy little BMW Z4 sports car, cherry red with bright lemon-yellow seats, which I know makes it sound like a packet of Opal Fruits on wheels, but trust me, the colour scheme did actually work. Anyway, I got it on one of those car-leasing HP deals, where the idea is you drive off in a brand, spanking new set of wheels immediately, then pay it off by the month. Perfect deal for someone like me; live now, pay later. Trouble is, I got so scarily far behind in repayments that, one night last week after way too many glasses of wine at some art gallery do, I crawled home at all hours in a taxi to find the car gone from my driveway. Just gone. Disappeared. So I thought it was stolen, natch, and was on the verge of ringing the police when I found a letter on my doorstep telling me it had actually been repossessed. Course I was way too morto to tell anyone the actual truth, so I decided the best humiliation-avoidance tactic was to stick to my original ‘stolen car’ story. Which I would have got away with too, only Emma Sheridan, my best friend and co-presenter at work, bounced into the production office a few days later and told me she’d just seen my ‘stolen’ car in the forecourt of Maxwell Motors with a big ‘For Sale’ sign stuck on it. Definitely mine, she insisted, sure how many other bright red Z4s are there on the road with lemon-yellow leather seats?
So I was rightly rumbled and had to confess all, but the thing about Emma is that she’s not just a showbiz pal, she’s a genuine pal. In all the years I’ve known her, there are two things I’ve never, ever seen her do; repeat gossip or eat chocolate. As discreet as a nun in a silent order about her own private life and yet the only woman I know who’s honest enough to admit to Botox. Bless her, when I came clean about my money woes, she even offered me a cash loan to tide me over. So now, whenever anyone asks me when I’m getting a new car, lovely, loyal Emma laughs and waves it aside and tells me it’s nearly cheaper for me to get cabs all the time.
Whereas the actual truth is, the way things are going, I’ll probably end up walking everywhere from now on. Barefoot. In the lashing rain. With newspaper tied with twine around my feet and bloodhounds baying at my heels. Singing the orphans’ chorus from Annie, ‘It’s the Hard Knock Life.’
Worse, though, I think, as a fresh wash of anxiety comes over me, is that there doesn’t seem to be any end to my money troubles. Ever. You see, with myself and Sam, there’s always the next night out, the next weekend away, the next trip abroad. Easter is only round the corner and we’ve already booked to go down to Marbella which I can’t afford and yet at the same time, can’t get out of.
Honest to God, I sometimes feel like I’m stuck on a never-ending financial hamster wheel where I’m constantly stretching my almost-melted credit cards just to keep pace with him. I’m not even certain how it happened, but somehow I’ve got sucked into a world where appearances are everything and it’s like I’ve no choice but to spend big just to hold my own against all my new, posher, wealthier friends.
This house being the perfect example. The logical part of my brain, which let’s face it, I don’t hear from all that often, tells me that it’s completely mental; the place is ridiculously expensive and way too big for me, but when it first came on the market…hard to put into words, but it was like all my childhood fantasies finally coming true. I just had to have it, simple as that. So now I’m a lone, single person renting a five-bedroomed mansion which I can’t even afford to get the downstairs toilet unblocked in. Christ alive, let it be engraved on my tombstone. ‘Here lies Jessie Woods. Fur coat and no knickers.’
On the plus side though, I really have made a heroic effort to economise this month. In fact, I distinctly remember suggesting to Sam last weekend that there was no need for us to bother eating out in Shanahan’s on the Green, where the starters are so tiny, they’d leave a fruit fly gagging for more. Instead, let’s stay in and I’ll cook, I gamely volunteered. Well, the man nearly had to pick himself up off the floor he was laughing so hard. Honest to God, he was still sniggering two full days later. I’m the world’s worst cook and have the burn tissue to prove it. And for some unfathomable reason, no matter what I do to food, it always ends up tasting like wood. Wood, or else feet.
But the point is that I’m trying.
Take last month’s New York trip for instance. It wasn’t even my fault. Well, not really. You see, Sam and I are really matey with this other couple, Nathaniel and Eva, who are old buddies of his, dating back to his school days, and we always pal around in a foursome with them. They’re lovely, gorgeous people, but…the thing is, they just have so much more money at their disposal than I have. Nathaniel is chief executive of his family’s recession-proof beef export business and basically keeps himself on a Premiership footballer’s salary. He and Eva have been married for years and have two perfect twin boys, with an army of nannies to take care of them, leaving Eva with a lot of free time on her hands for weekends away, charity lunches and shopping trips abroad. Which is actually how that New York trip came about in the first place; it was their wedding anniversary and nothing would do them but to organise this lavish trip to stay at the Plaza, where they got married. And of course, Sam and I, as their closest friends, were invited along. Now I know Sam would gladly have offered to pay for me if I’d asked, but he knows me well and knows I’d die rather than do that; I’m so much happier paying my own way. OK, I may be up to my armpits in debt, but at least I have my independence.
There’s a fair chance I could end up in the bankruptcy courts, but I have my pride, which as my dear departed dad always used to say, is beyond price. Poor darling Dad. The best friend I ever had. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think of him and miss him so much that it physically hurts. But at the same time, half of me is glad he’s not around to see the insolvent, overstretched financial disaster that I’ve become. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ he always used to say and every time I hear his soft voice repeating those wise words in my head, honest to God, the guilt feels like heartburn.
But can I just add this? In my defence, on said New York trip I did suggest we stay in a cheaper hotel, or even rent an apartment between us all, but Sam just laughed at me and I didn’t want everyone to think I was some tight-fisted ol’ cheapskate, so, instead, I did what I always do. Put it on the Visa card and decided to worry about it later. Because the very, very worst brush you could possibly tar any Irish person with is to inflict them with the Curse of the Meany. You know, someone who doesn’t stand their round. Who goes out with no cash, then expects everyone else to subsidise them. Or, worst of all, someone who hangs around with rich people and automatically assumes they’ll just bankroll evenings out and expensive dinners and weekends away, etc. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that why credit cards were invented? To help people like me who may have…cash flow issues. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it a bit more logically, if my accountant is going to get arsy about this month’s Visa bill, then I’ll just remind her that I have a job. My lovely, lovely job, that I adore so much that I actually look forward to going into work. A really good, well-paid, telly job too. And these days, sure that’s like the Holy Grail.
Come to think of it, I don’t even know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like the bubble is about to burst or anything, now is it?
I just need a new accountant, that’s all.

Chapter Two (#ulink_416cb692-bf8e-5917-853d-8203f380a9fc)
Twenty minutes, one strong Americano, two Solpadene and three Berocca tablets later and I’m standing beside Katie, feeling an awful lot sparkier and up-for-it. More like myself. Even if on days like this, I almost feel like my nickname could be Solpachina.
‘Oooh, look at you! You look fabulous!’ Katie squeals in my ear. Which we both know is just a well-meant but polite lie. However, I will say this, the make-up girl deserves a BAFTA for at least managing to make me look like I didn’t sleep the night up a tree, before being savaged by werewolves on the way home; the only thing which might possibly account for the nesty, Russell Brand-esque state of my hair when I first opened the door to the camera crew earlier this morning.
‘Right then,’ says Katie, lining herself up in front of the camera, with a load of framed photos strategically dotted on the piano between us. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I’ve been ready for the last two hours, actually,’ the cameraman growls impatiently back at us, coughing and spluttering like a Lada.
Lovely. It’s going to be one of those days.
‘Well, as you can imagine, we’re all so excited about this very special edition of A Day in the Life and here’s the reason why…Presenting our fabulous hostess, Jessie Woods herself!’
So off Katie riffs in the air-hostess voice and I find myself wondering if anyone’s ever told her that there are, in fact, other adjectives than fabulous.
‘Oooh, isn’t she just like a little girl’s idea of what a princess should be?’ she says straight to camera and not actually looking at me. ‘With her beautiful, blonde hair and fabulous, trim, toned figure! It’s like skinny jeans were designed especially with this woman in mind!’
She giggles and I resist the urge to a) vomit, b) remind her that this is, in fact, TV, not radio, so viewers presumably can see for themselves and besides, you should never ever, EVER talk down to an audience. Instead, I just grin inanely and do a false TV laugh back. You know, head thrown back, jaw fish-wired into a grin: ha, ha, HA!
‘So, Jessie, we’re loving, loving, LOVING your fabulous home, but maybe you could tell us a little about some of the photos you have on display here?’
The camera does an obliging panning shot of some recent pics and just for a split second, I get to see my own life from the outside. It’s weird but somehow every single snap manages to look like a posed photo opportunity. Sam and I at the Derby with Nathaniel and Eva; me wearing what appears to be three table napkins strategically sewn together to cover up my girlie bits. The four of us on a ski trip, me in the centre; laughing, messing around, having great craic, the life and soul of the party. Two things strike me. One is that Sam is on his mobile in every single shot. The other is, our lives look so stunningly, dazzlingly perfect…Christ alive, no wonder we piss people off.
‘Ooh, here’s a terrific one!’ Katie sing-songs. ‘Just look at you! Like a classier version of Paris Hilton! What a stunning dress! So, tell us, where was this taken?’
OK. The real answer to that question is, Are you kidding me, Katie? The only thing I have in common with Paris Hilton is dyed blonde hair and a credit card. And the dress isn’t a bit stunning; it’s more like a big, flowery shower curtain from a Bed, Bath and Beyond sale bin. Lesson: if you are eejit enough to listen to stylists, then you deserve everything that’s coming to you. As long as these people garner column inches, believe me, they’re not bothered if you end up beaten into a skinny size zero pant suit, looking like a boiler that’s too big for its lagging jacket.
However, I go with the interview answer instead. ‘Why thanks, Katie. That photo was taken at the National TV awards, where Jessie Would was nominated for best TV show, can you believe it, for the second year running?!’ I omit to mention that we lost out to a home video programme where people send in clips of their dogs playing musical instruments, that kind of thing. It sticks in my mind because next day there was a pap shot of me rubbing my eyelid to try and get a bit of fluff out, with a headline, Who Let The Dogs Out? Jessie’s Tears At Being Upstaged By Mutt.
‘Oooh, look at this one, you brave girl, you!’ says Katie, picking up a still shot from the show of me skydiving. ‘Tell me, is that the hardest dare you ever had to do on Jessie Would?’
Real answer: Funnily no. Sure any eejit can skydive; you just hold your breath and jump. What was weird about that one though, was that some pervert actually texted in a suggestion that I do it in a bikini.
Interview answer: ‘Ha, ha, HA. Not at all, Katie. As a matter of fact, I’m often asked that question…’
‘Oooh, or what about the time you had to spend the night alone in a haunted house?’
Real answer: Are you off your head? Best night’s sleep I ever had.
Interview answer: ‘Ha, ha, HA. Yes, that one did put years on me, but by far the most challenging dare I’ve ever had to do on the show was the time I had to work as head chef in a restaurant. Sixty covers in a single night. Nearly killed me.’ I might add that fifty-eight out of the sixty customers demanded their money back after they were kept waiting for almost two hours with nothing but the bread sticks in front of them to nibble at. And that was after I had to announce to the whole, starving dining room that if anyone happened to find my earring inside the fish pie, would they please mind letting me know? Oh and for the record, the two people in the restaurant who didn’t complain were Sam’s parents; God love them, they desperately wanted to be on the show and were just being kind. What people don’t realise though, when they’re texting in all their wacky dare ideas, is that the extreme stuff doesn’t knock a feather out of me. It’s normal everyday, bread-and-butter things that make me want to lie down in a darkened room listening to dolphin music and taking tablets. Like bank statements. Or Visa bills. Or anything with ‘Final Notice’ stamped in red across it.
‘Oooh, and look at this fabulous shot of you and the sexy Sam Hughes! Tell us, Jessie, how did you two first meet?’
I glow a bit, the way I always do whenever I get a chance to talk about Sam. OK, the real answer to this question is:
we met at Channel Six when I first started working there, God, almost nine years ago now. I was just twenty-one years old, straight off a media training course and working as a runner on News Time, which Sam seemed to appear on every other week, talking about GNPs and PPIs and whatever you’re having yourself. ‘Runner’, though, as everyone knows, is a glorified word for ‘dogsbody’, so my job basically involved getting the tea, emptying bins in dressing rooms and on more than one occasion, having to blow-dry under one newsreader’s armpits with a hair dryer, so her couture dress wouldn’t get deodorant stains on it. I’ll never forget it; her name was Diane Daly so all the floor staff, myself included, used to call her Diva Di. A nasty nickname I know, but she’d really earned it; this was a woman who’d regularly ring me at 6 a.m. before work, to order me to the fruit and veg market so I could buy supplies of sprouted beans for her, the time she was doing her whole wheat-free, gluten-free, lactose-intolerant thing. And who would think absolutely nothing of getting me to drop her kids to school, while she skipped off to get her Restylane injections. All of which I did happily, gratefully and without whinging because I was just so overjoyed to be working in TV. This, as far as I was concerned, was It, the Big Break, which could only lead on to bigger and better things.
Two things came out of that whole experience for me. One is that to this day, I always treat the runners on Jessie Would like royalty: iPods for their birthdays, posh spa treatments at Christmas; toxic debt or no toxic debt, the way I look on it is, they’ve earned it, the hard way. The other thing is…that’s where I first met Sam. Vivid memory; it was just before a live broadcast and there he was, patiently waiting behind the scenes to take part in a panel discussion piece about debt to profit ratios or something equally boring. Radiating confidence, not a nerve in his body. He ordered a coffee from me and I was so petrified, my shaking hands accidentally spilled some of it onto the lap of his good suit, but instead of ranting and raving about it, he couldn’t have been sweeter. Just laughed it off, said it was an accident, that he’d be sitting down behind a desk anyway so he could be naked from the waist down and sure no one would even know the difference. Then he smiled that smile; so dazzling it should nearly come with a ping! sound effect, and I was a complete goner.
Course it turned out every female on News Time fancied him, but he was dating some famous, leggy, modelly one back then, so it went without saying that we all knew none of us had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting near him. But just for a bit of devilment, myself and the make-up girls used to invent all kinds of imaginary sex scenarios about him, like he was the ultimate Prince Charming; utterly unattainable, but great craic to fantasise about.
‘Me and Sam Hughes, on a sun lounger, at sunset, looking out over the Caribbean…’
‘No, I’ve a better one, me and Sam Hughes in a dressing room, just before the show…’
‘No, NO. My go: me and Sam in a log cabin during a power cut with only a king-sized double bed for our entertainment centre…’
…was all you could hear along the corridors of Channel Six on the days we knew he’d be in. We even had a ‘hottie alert’ system, whereby the minute one of us saw his car in the car park, we were duty bound to text the others IMMEDIATELY, so everyone had a fair and equal chance to get their make-up on.
Anyway, whenever I did see Sam after the whole, mortifying coffee-on-the-crotch episode, which was maybe about once a month or so, he always made a point of asking me how I was getting on in the new job. Always friendly, always playfully nicknaming me Woodsie, always encouraging, always respectful and never, ever someone who looked down on me as just a humble gofer with Pot Noodle for brains.
Then, one day about three months later, he found me in the staff canteen, hysterically trying to babysit Diva Di’s bratty eight- and ten-year-old boys, who were running riot around the place and ambushing me with lumpy cartons of strawberry-flavoured yoghurt. The pair of them had completely doused me in it; clothes, hair, jeans, everything, soaked right through to my knickers. And, of course, life being what it is, at that very moment, in sauntered Sam, as Darcy-licious as ever. He let out a yell at the kids, which did actually manage to shut them up, then sat me down and helped dry me off with a load of paper napkins. I’ll never forget it; he x-rayed me with jet-black eyes, laughed and said, ‘To think they say working in TV is glamorous.’ I gamely managed a grin, suddenly aware that he dated famous models and here I was, stinking of sticky, strawberry yoghurt-y crap.
‘So, tell me. Is this really what you signed up for, Woodsie?’
Now the thing about Sam is that he can be a bit like those motivational speakers you’d normally see on Oprah; you know, the ones who convince you that you can turn your life around in seven days, that kind of thing. It’s like he comes with a double dose of drive and it can be infectious.
So I told him everything. Out it all came; about how I wanted to work for Channel Six so desperately that I really was prepared to do anything without question. Including letting Diva Di take complete and utter advantage of me. I was so terrified of losing my job, I explained, that I just hadn’t the guts to point out that babysitting her horrible children and blow-drying under her armpits with a hair dryer, was well above and beyond my job description.
‘And where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’ I remember him asking, a favourite question of his.
‘In front of the camera,’ I told him without even having to pause for thought. That’s all I’d ever wanted or dreamed about. I can even remember the exact phrase I used, ‘I’d ring the Angelus bell if I had to.’ But then back came all the old insecurities; would someone like me ever be given a shot, would I even be good enough or would I fall flat on my face and make a roaring eejit of myself?
‘Are you kidding me, Woodsie?’ he grinned, wiping a bit of strawberry yoghurt off my hair with a napkin. ‘A knockout like you? They’d be bloody lucky to have you. And always remember that.’
Anyway, I think right there and then he must have seen some spark of ambition in me that mirrored his own, because any time I’d bump into him after that, he’d always make a point of asking me who exactly I’d sent my CV off to, what contacts I’d made, did I know what internal jobs were coming up? Kind of like a career guidance officer with a grinding work ethic, except one that I fancied the knickers off.
Then, by the end of that year, through an awful lot of grovelling/hassling/pounding down doors, etc., I eventually managed to land a proper front-of-camera gig. It was only doing the weekend late-night weather report (at 10 p.m., midnight, then again at 2 a.m.) but to me, it was the stuff of dreams. It was there I first met the lovely Emma, in fact; she used to do the news report, I’d do the weather, then the two of us would skite off to some nightclub and laugh the rest of the night away. We were exactly the same age, we’d both started working at Channel Six at the same time and what can I say? From day one, we just bonded.
The only downside was, I never bumped into Sam any more. In fact, apart from Emma, the only person I ever saw regularly was the nightwatchman at the security hut on my way to and from work. I kept up with Sam through the papers, but of course the only thing I was ever really interested in was who he was dating. An ultra-successful, Alpha female type usually; his identikit women always seemed to be groomed, glossy, gorgeous and it went without saying, high achievers. It was like his minimum dating requirement was that you had to work an eighty-hour week and earn a minimum six-figure annual salary. So I put him to the back of my mind and for the next few years just kept my head down and got on with it. Funny thing was though, the harder I worked, the luckier I seemed to get. It was miraculous; as though the planets had aligned for me and, even more amazingly, I seemed to be able to do no wrong. Job followed job at Channel Six, until eventually, hallelujah be praised, the Jessie Would show came about.
Then, flash forward to about two years ago, when I was at the Channel Six Christmas party with Emma, both of us pissed out of our heads. She was celebrating the show being commissioned for a second series, I was drowning my sorrows having just found out that my then boyfriend was seeing someone else behind my back. During Christmas week too, the worthless, faithless bastard. Everyone kept coming over to say congratulations on the show and I was obliged to beam and act all delighted. All whilst sending Cheater Man about thirty text messages, ranging in tone from disbelief to accusation by way of pleading. Waste of time though; every one of them was completely ignored. It was beyond awful; Christmas is when I lost my darling dad and God knows, given the highly dysfunctional background I come from, it’s a hard enough time of year to get through without adding ‘serially single man-repeller’ into the mix as well. And then I saw Sam. Also alone, also dateless. My heart stopped; I’d forgotten how uncomfortably handsome he was. He came straight over, congratulated me on the show’s success and then, sensing something was amiss, asked me what was up. Now it takes an awful lot for me to start snivelling or bawling, but the combination of too much Pinot Grigio and being dumped and missing Dad was all just too much for me. I knew if I didn’t get the hell out of there immediately, I was in danger of making a complete and utter holy show of myself in front of him and everyone else, so I blushed scarlet, mumbled some lame excuse about having another party to go to and bolted for the door.
But when I replay it back in my head now, it seems almost like a scene from a French movie, complete with mood-enhancing smoke machines and violins playing as a soundtrack in the background. There I was on the road outside Channel Six, in the lashing rain, holding back the tears and frantically trying to wave down a cab; next thing a sleek black Mercedes pulls up beside me on the kerb and the window elegantly glides down. It’s Sam. Who knew I was upset and who followed me, bless him. He coaxed me out of the icy rain and into the warmth of his car, gently asking me what the problem was and how he could help fix it. And so, not for the first time, I ended up pouring out my whole tale of woe to him. All about Cheater Man and how he actually broke up with me…via text message, the cowardly gobshite. Didn’t even have the manners to dump me for someone younger or thinner either.
Sam flashed his Hollywood smile at that, then turned to me. ‘Woodsie,’ he said, strong, clear and firm as ever, ‘any guy that would treat a gorgeous girl like you that way is an idiot and why would you want to be with an idiot? Get rid of him.’ Then the scorching black eyes gave me the sexiest up/down look before he cheekily added, ‘So then…’
‘So then…?’ I swear, I could physically feel my heart thumping off my ribcage.
A long pause while we looked at each other, exchanging souls.
‘So then…you can go out with me.’
Well, it was like something religious people must experience. Could this really be happening to me? Sam was too rich, too cool, too out of my league. I couldn’t get my head around it. Then when we sailed through our first few magical dates and when it became obvious he was slowly morphing from fantasy fling to proper boyfriend, I worried so much about what he’d see in someone like me. Turned out the answer was the very thing that I thought would turn him off me; the fact that I’d never had any of the luxuries he took for granted and was now acting like a kid in a sweetshop, loving every second of the high life he introduced me to. Until he met me, he’d often say, he was becoming jaded with his fabulous lifestyle, but seeing it all fresh through my excited eyes somehow kept it all real for him. Every time he’d see me bouncing up and down on the bed in some posh hotel or gasping in awe at some view he’d long since tired of, like the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building, he said it made him fall in love with life all over again.
And in love with me too, I’d silently hope.
‘Jessie?’
Oh shit. The interview. I almost forgot.
‘You’d drifted off there for a moment,’ Katie sing-songs. ‘We were asking you about how you first met Sam?’
I go with the standard interview answer. Of course. ‘Through work, Katie. You might say Channel Six brought us together. Ha, ha, HA.’
‘And, tell us the truth now, any wedding plans?’
Real answer: Ehhh…no. Mainly because he hasn’t asked. At least, not yet, he hasn’t. But then, with Sam you never know what’s around the corner, so I live in hope. I mean, this is a guy who’s big on spontaneity and we have been together for just over two years now, my longest relationship by a mile.
‘Jessie?’
Yet again, out comes the interview answer: ‘Well, you know how it is, we’re both so busy at the moment; honestly, it’s just something that’s never come up. But if it does, you’ll be the first to know. Ha, ha, HA!’
‘Oooh, but, look what I found here; what are you hiding from us?’ says Katie, waving at the camera to pan right to the very back of the piano.
My heart skips a beat; something embarrassing I forgot to clean up? A pair of knickers from the last party I had? An empty tin of beer stuffed with cigarette butts? A final notice bill from the gas board? It’s OK, I think, breathing normally again. Nothing too offensive, thank Christ; just an old photo of me when I first started out as a weather girl, with a horrible mousey brown bob, which kind of gave me a look of Julie Andrews from certain angles. Then another one of me in studio with Emma, my hair as spiky as a toilet brush and far, far blonder, taken when we first started working together, all of five years ago. Emma looks neat, be-suited and pristine, with her chestnut hair elegantly groomed as always, like she’s ready to start reading the nine o’clock news at the drop of a hat.
Actually, at the time that photo was taken, I only had a tiny little five-minute feature-ette on what was then Emma’s chat show; the wacky sidekick to her more sober, grounded TV persona. The balance of personalities seemed to work though; me wild and scatty, her cool and ordered. Then by some miracle (and a lot of encouragement from the mobile phone companies, who made a fortune out of all the texts people bombarded us with) my mad dare piece took off, and got so big that now the whole show is about me making an eejit of myself out on location, while Emma acts as anchor back in studio. Lesser women than Emma may have been slightly peeved at me stealing her thunder, but like I say, the girl is a walking saint and has never been anything but super-cool and encouraging about the whole thing. If there are angels masquerading as people wandering round this earth then Emma Sheridan most definitely is one.
Back to the interview and by now the camera is panning in on a photo of me with a broken leg, which I got after a bungee jump dare. But no, it was nothing as dramatic as whacking it off a bridge while suspended upside down by knicker elastic or anything; just a piece of camera equipment fell on me as I was clambering back into the van on our way back to base. My hair is longer in that shot and still blonder again; in fact, it flashes through my mind that the more successful I got on TV, the brighter the highlights got, right now the hair is almost platinum, the exact colour of Cillit Bang.
Then, out of nowhere, eagle-eyes Katie grabs up a photo which I’d forgotten all about. ‘And here you are as a teenager. So pretty, even then! Tell us, Jessie, who are your two friends in the photo with you?’
Oh God, I’d completely forgotten. That’s the trouble with airbrushing your past; the people you knew back then can sometimes seem like ghosts from a bygone age. OK, so the real answer to her question is that yes, that’s me, aged about fourteen, with my then best friend Hannah and her older brother Steve, who lived across the road from us and who were amazingly kind to me during a very rough time in my life. We were thick as thieves, Hannah and I; after we left school, we even shared a flat for a few years, which suited both of us down to the ground. We were both eighteen and she wanted her independence, while I had just lost my darling dad and had to get the hell out of our house for…well, let’s just say for personal reasons. Anyway, Hannah and I had a ball together. My life was slowly starting to turn a corner; I was working as a lounge girl in a bar at night so I could put myself through a media training course during the day, right up until I landed my first gig as a runner at Channel Six. Meanwhile Hannah was doing an apprenticeship in hairdressing and it seems like we just spent the whole time laughing and messing and getting on with our young lives. Steve worked as a handyman doing odd jobs wherever he could, but was always hanging out with us too, and it was just such a happy, joyful time all round. But then Hannah got married, I moved from behind the camera to in front of it and the last I heard of him, Steve had upped sticks and moved to the States. And so the three amigos drifted apart a bit. The way you do.
It’s no one’s fault or anything, these things just happen. You know how it is; you try meeting up whenever you can, but then realise that actually you don’t have all that much in common any more. And in an alarmingly short time, old pals become shadowy people who you exchange Christmas cards with and scrawl across them, ‘We must meet up sometime, it’s been too long!!’ But you never do.
God, I wonder what Hannah would say if she could see me now, given that this is exactly the type of show that we used to crack ourselves up laughing at, slagging off the D-list celebs desperate enough to go on them. ‘For feck’s sake, Jessie, what are you doing, dressed up like a dog’s dinner and throwing your home open to these eejits?’ most likely. ‘You look like a right gobshite.’ Hannah was never one to pull her punches.
I don’t get a chance to go with the interview answer though. Because by then Katie has snatched on another, even older photo that brings a whole new set of memories flooding back.
This time it’s an ancient, grainy shot of me aged about four, up a tree in our back garden at home, with my dad standing proudly at the bottom, arm rested against the tree-trunk, like he’s just planted it all by himself. I’m in a pair of shorts, with a dirty face, scraped knees and a plaster on my arm.
‘Oooh, look at little Jessie…such a cute little tomboy!! I think you must have been a daredevil even from a young age!’
Real answer: Funny thing is I can remember that photo being taken so clearly. It wasn’t long after my mum died and I remember spending all day every day up that tree. Coaxing me down was a daily ritual for my poor dad. He used to call me his little firecracker and would proudly tell neighbours and aunties that I was afraid of nothing. But then, losing your mum young makes you fearless. Because the worst thing that can possibly happen has already happened, so what’s there left to be afraid of? I can’t say that though, because, even after all these years, there’s a good chance I might start sniffling.
Interview answer: ‘Yes, Katie, that’s me with my darling dad, who passed away almost twelve years ago now.’
A pause, while Katie fingers the old photo frame thoughtfully.
‘And you’re an only child?’
‘Yup, certainly am.’
When I was younger, during interviews I used to do a wistful look into the middle distance whenever it came up about my being orphaned. I stopped though, when it was pointed out to me that actually, I just looked constipated.
‘But your father remarried, didn’t he?’
Shit. How does she know that?
‘Emm…well, I suppose he did, yes, but…’
‘And in actual fact, you grew up with your stepmother and two stepsisters, didn’t you?’
‘Well…the thing is…’
‘She’s called Joan, and her daughters are Maggie and Sharon. Isn’t that right?’
Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, she even knows their names? OK, now the saliva in my mouth has said, ‘I’m outta here, see you!’ Come on Jessie, think straight. Right then. Nothing to do but brush it off. I mean, everyone has family skeletons in the closet they don’t necessarily want to talk about, don’t they? And believe me, this is something I never talk about. Ever. In fact the only person in my new life who knows is Sam and that’s only because he was giving me the third degree about my deep background and I’d no choice but to ‘fess up and tell all.
‘Well, you’ve certainly done your research, haven’t you Katie?’ is what I manage to come out with. Perfect answer. I even tag on the false TV laugh for good measure, because that’s how cool I am talking about this. ‘Ha, ha, HA!’ Then I go into distraction mode; anything just to get off this highly uncomfortable subject. ‘So, em, anyone fancy a coffee then? I’ve a lovely new espresso maker in the kitchen that I’m only dying to try out.’
No such luck though, it’s as if Katie smells blood here and isn’t budging.
‘Yes,’ she nods slowly and for the first time I can see steel in her eyes. Bloody hell, is all I can think, this one will make a brilliant investigative reporter in years to come. ‘In fact, I’ve done an awful lot of research on you, Jessie. For starters, your Wikipedia entry said that you went to school at the Holy Faith School in Killiney, but when I called them, they had absolutely no record of you at all. So they suggested I try their sister school on the Northside, who did have a Jessie Woods on file. Yes, they said, you’d been a pupil there right the way through secondary school. They were incredibly forthcoming with information, you know; they even had your old address on file. Which is how I eventually tracked down your family.’
No, no, no, please don’t use the F word. You don’t understand, I have NO family, I had nothing to do with those people and they have nothing to do with me…
‘Emm…or we could shoot out in the back garden if you like?’ I’m gabbling now, panicking a bit, while thinking, Curse you, Wikipedia. ‘Ehh…there’s a gorgeous water feature out there that looks lovely when it’s switched on. I mean, it’s a bit clogged up with dead leaves at the moment, but apart from that, it could make a great shot for you…’
‘In fact, as it happens, Jessie, I’ve already spoken to your stepfamily. We interviewed all three of them only yesterday. For the full afternoon. Fabulous interviews. And you know, they were all so generous with their time, we couldn’t have been more grateful. So, it’s in the can, as you might say!’
Oh no no no no no no no no no no no…

Chapter Three (#ulink_e328cfed-96e9-5a55-ba8c-5b6487af71a8)
I should fill you in a bit. Relations between me and my stepfamily are as follows: they can’t abide the sight of me and for my part…just when I think I’ve come to the very bottom of their meanness, turns out there’s a whole underground garage of mean to discover as well.
First up there’s Maggie; eldest stepsister, thirty-three years of age and still living at home. Honest to God, if you handed this one a winning lottery ticket in the morning, she’d still whinge and moan about having to drive all the way into town to collect the oversized novelty cheque. A woman with all the charm of an undertaker and the allure of a corpse, her philosophy of life can be summarised thus: ambition leads to expectation which inevitably leads to failure which ultimately leads to disappointment, so the best thing you can possibly do with yourself is not try. Just get up, go to work, come home, then spend all your free time, nights, weekends, bank holidays, the whole shebang, crashed out on the sofa in front of the telly, with the remote control balanced on your belly. Low expectations = a happy life.
Don’t ask me how she does it, but the woman actually manages to radiate sourness. In fact, as a teenager, I used to reckon that the ninth circle of hell would be like a fortnight in Lanzarote compared with a bare ten minutes in Maggie’s company. And that the only reason she didn’t actually worship the devil was because she didn’t need to; more than likely, he worshipped her.
Oh, and just as an aside, in all my years, I’ve only ever seen her wearing one of two things; either a polyester navy suit for work or else a succession of slobby tracksuits for maximum comfort while watching TV. Which for some reason, permanently seem to have egg stains on them, but I digress.
She works for the Inland Revenue as a tax commissioner; probably the only career I can think of where a horrible personality like hers would be a bonus. In fact, I was hauled in last year for a ‘random’ tax audit; all deeply unpleasant and I’d nearly take my oath that she had something to do with it. Wouldn’t put it past her. Be exactly the kind of thing she’d do just for the laugh.
I also happen to know for a fact that behind my back she calls me Cinderella Rockefeller, which is absolutely fine by me. Behind her back, I call her Queen Kong. Then there’s Sharon, thirty-two years of age and also still living at home. Works as a ‘Food Preparation and Hygiene Manager’ at Smiley Burger (don’t ask). Honestly, it’s like the pair of them just settled down without bothering to find anyone to actually settle down with. Like, God forbid, actual boyfriends. The best way to describe Sharon is that she’s PRO Coronation Street/eating TV microwave dinners straight off the plastic tray and ANTI exercise/non-smokers/ anyone who dares speak to her during her favourite soaps. For this girl, every day is a bad hair day. Plus her weight problem is so permanently out of hand that I often think she must be terrified to go near water, in case she’s clobbered by a bottle of champagne and officially launched by the Minister for the Marine. Nor, I might add, are any of the tensions in that house helped by my stepmother Joan, who refers to the pair of them as ‘the elder disappointment’ and ‘the younger disappointment’. To their faces.
I don’t even blame Dad for remarrying and allowing a whole new stepfamily to torpedo into our lives; I knew how desperately lonely he was, how much he missed Mum and how worried he was about me growing up without a stable female presence at home. When Mum died I was too young to remember her and for years didn’t fully understand the enormity of her loss. Even now, I find it hard to accept; come on, dead of ovarian cancer at the age of thirty-eight? But back then, as a scraped-faced, grubby tomboy, permanently up a tree, all I knew was that suddenly it was me and Dad against the world. And, in my childish, innocent way, I thought he and I were rubbing along just fine; we were happy, we were holding it together. OK, so maybe a ten-year-old shouldn’t necessarily be cooking spaghetti hoops on toast for her dad’s dinner five nights a week, or doing all the cleaning while all her pals were out on the road playing, but it didn’t bother me. I’d have done anything to make Dad happy and stop him from missing Mum. I can even see what attracted him to Joan, to begin with at least. Years later, he told me it was a combination of aching loneliness and heartbreak at seeing a little child desperately struggling to step into her mum’s shoes and somehow keep the show on the road. Then along came this attractive widow; glamorous in a blonde, brassy, busty sort of way, with two daughters just a few years older than me.
Joan, I should tell you, is one of those women with the hair permanently set, the nails always done and never off a sun bed, even in the depths of winter. She looks a bit like how you’d imagine Barbie’s granny might look and can’t even put out bins without lipstick on (by the way, I’m NOT making that up).
With a chronic habit of talking everything up as well. Like when she first met Dad, she’d introduce him as ‘Senior Manager of a Drinking Emporium’. Whereas, in actual fact, he was a humble barman. How they first met in fact: she used to go into the Swiss Cottage pub where he worked for the Tuesday poker night games, only she’d insist on telling everyone she played ‘bridge, not poker’.
I’m not even sure how long Dad was seeing her for before they got married; all I knew was that one miserable, wet day, when I was about ten, he took me to the zoo for a treat, to meet his new ‘friend’ Joan and her two daughters. That in itself was unusual and immediately set alarm bells ringing; because he never took a day off work, ever. Poor guileless Dad, thinking we’d all get along famously and would end up one big happy family.
I was the only one who actually enjoyed the zoo; to the twelve-and thirteen-year-old Sharon and Maggie everything was either ‘stupid’ or else ‘babyish’. By which of course, they meant that I was stupid and babyish. I can still remember the two of them ganging up on me behind the reptile house to slag me off for not wearing a bra. Then, in that snide, psychological way of bullying that girls have, they said I was so immature, I probably still believed in Santa Claus.
Which, right up until that moment, I had.
I can date my childhood ending back to that very day.
Nor did things improve after Dad remarried. Turned out Joan’s first husband had been a chronic alcoholic who’d left her with even less money than we had, which of course meant that right after the wedding, she and the Banger sisters all came to live with us in our tiny corporation house. Me, Sharon and Maggie all under the one roof? A recipe for nuclear fission if ever there was one.
So Christ alone knows what tales they’ve told the film crew about me. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a Jessie doll somewhere in the house with pins and needles stuck in it. But if it comes to it, I’ve a few choice anecdotes I could regale them with myself. The innumerable petty tortures they’d inflict on me were worthy of the Gestapo; like using my maths homework as a litter tray for their cat, or else, a particular favourite of theirs, hiding my underwear so I’d have to go to school either wearing swimming togs underneath my uniform or else nothing. Then the two of them would gleefully tell the other kids in the playground, so they’d all point at me, roar laughing and call me Panti-free. I’m not kidding, the nickname stuck right up until sixth year.
And there was never anyone to defend me, only myself, as Dad was always off working morning, noon and night, seven days a week, to support the whole lot of us. Bless him; in the days after he remarried I think he honestly believed we were a reasonably happy, if slightly dysfunctional family. Mainly because I didn’t tell him a quarter of what went on behind his back, on the grounds that it would only upset him. It wouldn’t be fair and hadn’t the poor man been through enough already?
Then one fateful day, not long after they first moved in, Maggie made a devastating discovery: we had no cable TV in the house. I’ll never forget her turning round to me and sneering, ‘So, what did your mother die of anyway? Boredom?’
Well, that was it. Break point. I lunged at her, punched her smack in the jaw and even managed to pull out a fistful of her wiry hair before Joan pulled us apart. There was murder, but I was actually quite proud of my scrappy behaviour, considering that Maggie was then and is now about four stone heavier than me.
Then, the same year I turned eighteen, three life-altering events happened in quick succession. I finally left school, got a place on a media training course in college and, just when I thought my life was finally turning a corner for the better, my darling dad, my wonderful, loving, long-suffering dad, suffered a massive coronary attack when he was in work and died instantly. It was Christmas Eve and he was only fifty-two years old.
So that was it for me. Toughened and hardened, I got the hell out of that house, or the Sandhurst of emotional emptiness, as I like to call it, moved into a flat with Hannah and now only ever see my stepfamily on 24 December, at Dad’s anniversary mass in our old, local parish church, purely for the sake of his memory and nothing else.
I try to get through it as best I can by treating it as a penance for all my sins throughout the year. I’ve even tried my best to drag Sam along with me for moral support/ back-up in case a catfight breaks out, but he always seems to have something else on. Mind you, I think the real reason is that he’s too terrified to leave his Bentley parked outside the church in case it gets stolen. Our corporation estate = not posh and I happen to know for a fact that Sam refers to it as ‘the land of the ten-year-old Toyota’.
It’s astonishing; even ten short minutes of tortuous small talk with my stepfamily on the church steps inevitably descends into a row. Honest to God, it’s like Christmas Eve with the Sopranos. It’s eleven years now since Dad passed away and they’ve never as much as invited me back to the house – to my house – for a cup of tea and a Hob Nob after the anniversary mass.
Well, you know what? Good luck to them. Whatever crap they’ve told the TV crew about me, I’ll do what I always do: laugh, smile and deal with it. And in the meantime, I choose to take the mature, adult approach; complete and utter denial of their very existence. Those people are firmly part of my past and I have nothing whatsoever to do with any of them. End of story.

The ‘At home’ part of the interview thankfully wraps up as soon as Katie cops that there’s just no drawing me out on the painful subject of my stepfamily, so the documentary crew pack up and get ready to tail me for the day’s feature presentation…me actually doing a bit of work for a change. Now, technically, I’m not really supposed to know what each week’s dare is; the idea is that when I’m told live on camera, the audience see me react looking shocked/terrified/ready to bolt for the hills/whatever. But the thing is, half the time you’d need to be a right eejit not to cop on to what’s coming your way.
So when the production office call me and tell me to be at the Mondello Park racing track in an hour, I’m guessing the dare won’t involve tightrope walking over the River Liffey. Which, by the way, I did have to do once and of course, much to everyone’s amusement fell into the gakky, slimy, rat-infested water below.
Anyway, my point is, working in TV is brilliant, but glamorous it ain’t.
‘Are you driving yourself, Jessie?’ Katie calls over to me as the crew clamber into the unit minivan, just as we’re all getting ready to leave my front garden and hit the road. Next thing, I can physically see her getting a ‘light bulb over the head’ eureka moment. ‘Oh, wait now, I’ve a fabulous idea! Why don’t we get a shot of you driving through the gates on your way to work? Where do you keep your car anyway? Do you park it in the garage? I’m sure you must drive something zippy and fabulous!’
Please, please, please dear lovely God, please don’t let them ask me to open up the garage door and see that it’s empty.
‘Actually…emmmm…I’m afraid…the thing is…well, you see, there’s a bit of a problem with my car…’ Stolen car story, remember the stolen car story…
‘In for a service, is it?’
Oh wait now, that’s miles better.
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s, emm, in for a service.’
Phew.
So Jessie Would goes out live on Saturday at 7 p.m. for thirty minutes with one commercial break; classic family-friendly, tea-time TV. The format is simple. Emma is in studio in front of a live audience, and does a lot of interacting with them, getting them to bet on whether I’ll actually manage to do the dare or whether I’ll fall flat on my face, then giving out sponsored prizes if they guess right. It can be pretty tricky to predict; my success rate would be about fifty-fifty. But then in the sage words of Liz Walsh, Head of Television and, I think, a fan of the show, seeing as how she’s the one who keeps on recommissioning it, it’s not about my succeeding or failing on each weekly dare, it’s about making a complete tit of myself every week, live to the nation. She reckons the secret of lowest common denominator TV is that it should always appeal to a kid of about twelve and then you’re laughing.
There’s not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for Liz Walsh. She’s an incredible woman and has been almost like a Simon Cowell-esque figure in my life. Tough as an old boot but with solid gold instincts that can’t be bought or sold. In fact, when I graduated from doing the late-night weather report, then spent the next few years doing random reporting from places where no one else could be arsed going, she was the one who first spotted me and decided I was ripe to groom for bigger and better things. Like so much else in my life though, this was as a result of pure chance and not being afraid to make an eejit of myself on a regular basis. Example: one time I was sent to cover the winter solstice at Newgrange and a giant granite crater, which had happily held up for thousands of years, chose that exact moment to fall on top of me, knocking me to the ground to much hilarity and sniggering from the background crew. I was fine, just a bit concussed, but did what I always do: got back on my feet, brushed myself down and laughed it off. Course, three days later, the clip had nearly eight thousand hits on YouTube and when I saw it back I had to admit, it was one of those laugh-in-spite-of-your-self, slapstick Buster Keaton-type moments. It even made it onto the annual Channel Six blooper show.
Funny thing was, the audience seemed to get a big kick out of the hapless, accident-prone side of me, so from those humble origins, Liz moved me to a ‘dare’ slot on Emma’s talk show and it all snowballed from there. But no matter what challenge Jessie Would throws up at me week after week, her wise words are forever ringing in my ears. ‘Fall on your face and get covered in as much shite as you possibly can, then haul yourself up and laugh it all off. Remember, that’s all they really want to see.’
And so we pull into the Mondello Park race track and, as it’s only a few hours to transmission time, hit the ground running. The Channel Six location crew are all here to set up for the live show while Katie and the A Day in the Life crew are still trailing me, so we’ve the surreal situation of one film unit filming another. Anyway, I get busy with the training instructor who fills me in on what’s ahead.
The gist of it is as follows: their resident Jeremy Clarkson will do four laps of the circuit in one of those Formula Sheane cars where you sit uncomfortably in a single-seat racer with your bum approximately three inches away from the ground, then I have to try and beat his time. All with not one, but two cameras pointing at me. It’s all very Monaco Grand Prix looking, chequered flags, the whole works and everyone here keeps referring to it as a ‘time attack’. Anyway, that’s the doddley part. The high blood pressure bit right after any dare is when I’m biked back into Channel Six at speed, clinging on to the driver for dear life, then race into studio while the commercial break is being aired, still panting and dripping with sweat. Whereupon a graceful, elegant Emma will interview me about the whole experience, the highs, the lows etc. Then we show footage of me doing the dare, looking petrified and to keep Liz happy, hopefully all caked in mud and crap. Then the ta-daa moment when Emma reveals how many of the audience thought I’d actually make it versus how many thought I’d end up in the A&E. Cue everyone going home with a prize, roll credits and administer Valium to myself and Emma. All done and dusted just in time for the Lotto draw. Before we go through the safety instructions, I slip off into a locker room to change into the scarlet red jumpsuit and safety helmet they’ve kitted me out with, but just as I’m standing semi-naked in my bra and knickers, the door behind me opens.
‘Jessie?’
I look up to see Katie, microphone in hand, camera at her shoulder, peering around the door.
‘Oooh, don’t you look fabulous! Just wondered if you could tell us what’s going through your head right now?’
I think it’s at this point of the day, that she officially starts to grate on my nerves.
Mercedes is sponsoring the whole stunt, so there’s a couple of be-suited bigwigs grouped formally on the track behind me, looking tense and nervous and I wouldn’t blame them either. The stake for them is high; according to the instructor, there’s a fifty per cent chance that I’ll crash, in which case they’re looking at writing off two hundred and fifty grand worth of car as it literally goes up in smoke in front of their eyes. There’s also the slightly lesser concern that I could end up hospitalised, paralysed or worse, but to be honest, judging by the tense, fraught looks on their faces, I’m guessing the car is worth far, far more to them than I am.
Seven p.m. Show time. A hand signal from the floor manager and we’re off. The professional driver, who I think has done stunts on movies and everything, takes to the track first and, in a nano second, is off and away, four frenzied laps at a breakneck, dizzying speed. I nearly get whiplash on my neck just following him. His time recorded, he’s out of the race car in a single leap and then it’s over to me.
Much waving and thumbs up from the crew as I lock the helmet on then clamber in through the window, giving the crew a delightful shot of my big, scarlet arse. Then, I’m not joking, Katie’s over, microphone in hand, ‘So tell us, Jessie, how are you feeling right now?’
Like smacking you across the head, is what I want to say, but lucky for her, I can’t talk properly with the crash helmet on. A second later, a chequered flag is waved in front of the dashboard, a few people start cheering and I’m away.
Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been doing this lark for almost three years now and my survival mechanism is this: when doing anything extreme or life-threatening, the trick is to completely focus your thoughts elsewhere and just let your body take over on auto-pilot. Never fails me. Because there’s something about extreme situations which provides solace and absolutely concentrates the mind.
Lap one whooshes by but my thoughts are miles away. In fact, all I’m thinking about is the shagging Visa bill, still lying unopened on the fireplace at home, like an undeton-ated time bomb. And so I make a firm decision right here and right now…I will reform my spendthrift ways and go on an economy drive…no more ridiculously expensive nights out, Sam will just have to get used to sitting on the sofa watching DVDs with me at home…Lap two comes round and now I’m thinking I’ll ban all trips to fancy hair salons as well, I’ll just do a Nice and Easy home colour instead. Lap three rockets past…hmmmmmm…brainwave…I could just buy a bike and cycle everywhere and hide my shame by telling everyone I’m being eco friendly…and by the final lap I’m wondering if I could be really cheeky and maybe talk to my agent about getting some kind of endorsement or sponsorship deal that might supplement my income a bit…hmmmm…worth a try…
In what feels like the blink of an eye, it’s all over. Suddenly, I’m being helped out of the car, dizzy and disorientated, with legs like jelly.
‘Amazing, bloody fantastic, good girl, Jessie!’ says the floor manager, steadying me on my feet and guiding me towards the camera, so all of this can be relayed back to studio, live. I’m not joking, I’m so woozy and light-headed from the whole thing, he actually has to prop me up.
The next few seconds are a blur; I’m desperately trying to catch my breath while Katie’s shoving a microphone under my nose to ask, ‘What was going through your mind on the course?’ and in the background, the mafia guys from Mercedes are rushing over, shaking my hand and congratulating me. Apparently I was doing 140 miles per hour at one stage. What’s weird is that I never even felt a thing.
And that’s when it happens. Out from the ranks of people swarming around me, a chunky-looking, balding guy steps out, aged about sixty-plus and built like a rugby player with a neck about the same width as his head. In a honeyed northern accent, he introduces himself as the head of Mercedes Ireland then grabs me by the shoulders to steady me.
‘Jessie, we’re all very proud of you…’
I nod and manage a watery smile but I’m actually praying the floor manager will cut him off and let me outta here. We’re under massive time pressure here, so whatever he wants to say, he has approximately four seconds to say it in. It’s not unusual for the sponsors to step in after a dare to plug their wares, but what they never think about is that there’s a motorbike driver standing by waiting to whisk me into studio for the rest of the show.
‘And to congratulate you on completing the course successfully and in such a fantastic time, we have a wee surprise for you,’ says baldie man. ‘Bring her round here, boys.’
Camera rolling, everyone looking at him, suddenly the roaring in my ears has stopped.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Being driven around the edge of the track is the most stunning, most amazing sports car I have ever seen. A two-seater hard-top Mercedes convertible, brand new, showroom condition, in a sleek black metallic colour with the softest-looking cream leather seats. So, so sexy and gorgeous and fab that I want to fall down on my knees, to howl and weep at its beauty.
That’s when my eye falls in disbelief down to the registration plate: Jessie 1.
‘Yes, Jessie, it’s your lucky day!’says baldie man. ‘We would like to invite you to be a brand ambassador for Mercedes and are offering you full use of this car, free, gratis, for one year! Absolutely no strings attached. Tax and insurance included; sure we’ll even throw in free petrol for you! Now whaddya say to that, you jammy wee girl?’
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. All at once, I’m gobsmacked, stunned and…interested. Well, it’s a nobrainer really, isn’t it? This is incredible. This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. OK, so it mightn’t solve all my financial woes, but it’s a bloody good start. I mean, come on, a free car for a whole year?
I think it must have been all the adrenaline pumping through my body after the stunt, but before I know what I’m doing, I’ve thrown my arms around baldie man, squealing, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
I think I may have even kissed him but I can’t be too sure.

First sign that something’s amiss: Are the looks the crew semaphore to each other as I’m helped up onto the motorbike and get ready to leave. Normally there’s cheering and messing from the camera and sound guys as I’m biked back to the industrial estate where the Channel Six studio is, especially when a dare has gone well. But this time, there’s total silence from them, to a man. Which is, to say the least, a bit weird.
I clamber up onto the back of the bike, clinging to the driver so tightly I might crack one of his ribs, and we’re off. As we zoom back to studio, which takes all of about three minutes at the speed we’re going at, I do my best to put it out of my head. Come on, I just got offered the use of a free Merc for a year. Chances are the lads are just a bit jealous, that’s all. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be? So why are they acting like I just ran over a small child? I can’t quite put my finger on how to describe their expressions. Disbelief? Shock? No. It was actually disgust.
Second sign that something’s amiss: Normally, when we get back into studio, the stage manager already has the doors open for me so I can race through, leg it into studio, then plonk down on the sofa beside Emma for the postmortem chat and to get the official ‘result’ of the dare. All in the space of time it takes for the commercial break to go out. But this time, something’s wrong. I sense it immediately. Instead of the usual high-octane panic, the stage manager meets me at the studio door, and in a low, flustered voice, says into her walkie-talkie, ‘Yes, she’s just arrived. OK, I understand. I’ll tell her now.’
‘Tell me what?’ I manage to pant, breathlessly.
‘You’re not going back into the studio. Emma will handle the rest of the show. You’re to go straight up to Liz Walsh’s office. Now. She’s says it’s urgent.’
‘But that’s ridiculous, I have a show to finish…’
‘Come on, Jessie, don’t make this hard on yourself…’ She looks red-faced, mortified and is actually blushing to her hairline. As though I’m some kind of embarrassment that it’s fallen to her lot to deal with.
‘For God’s sake, will you let me past? There’s no time for this; I have to get to the studio, they’re all waiting in there…’
‘I’m afraid it’s a no,’ she insists a bit more firmly this time. ‘I’m sorry but my instructions are very clear; I’m not to let you in, under any circumstances. Now will you please just go? Liz is already in her office waiting for you.’ As if to ram the point home, she even stands legs astride, blocking the studio door. Like a bouncer in a nightclub.

Third sign that something’s amiss: I’m completely winded and now my head’s reeling. As I stagger down the deserted corridor to Liz’s office I can see a TV monitor on in the background, with the show just coming out from the ad break. Emma’s looking a bit frazzled, which is most unusual for her, and she announces in a wobbly voice that there’s been a slight technical hitch and that I won’t be coming back into studio after all.
A slight technical hitch? But there’s no technical hitch! ‘No! No, I’m here, just outside the door, ready to finish the gig! Why the fuck won’t they let me in?!’ I scream at the TV monitor with sheer frustration, can’t help myself. I’d kick the shagging thing only it’s hanging about three feet from the ceiling. Right now, I’m starting to feel like I’m stuck in a horror movie, where I’m screeching away and no one can hear. What the hell is happening? Why won’t they let me finish the gig?
I can hear Emma telling the audience that I did actually manage to beat the professional driver’s time and the good news is that everyone in the audience who bet on me to win is going home tonight with a voucher for two people to the Multiplex cinema in Dundrum, valid for three whole months of free movies. Her voice is reverberating loud and clear the whole way down the empty corridor and it’s beyond weird to be hearing it from outside of the studio. Then I hear the audience cheering and stomping their feet, deafening and thunderous, all while I continue to stumble on, head pounding, sweat sticking to me, still in my racing gear with a helmet tucked under my arm.
This is turning into a nightmare. The door to Liz’s office is open and she’s already standing there, waiting for me, hands on hips, like in a western. Unheard of. Normally, on the rare occasions when you’re summoned to this office, you’re left outside making small talk with her assistant for at least a good twenty minutes.
So in I reel, nauseous with tension, almost ready to pass out. Liz is tiny, smart, sassy and I’d ordinarily describe her as the coolest, calmest woman I know. But right now, the look on her face would stop a clock.
‘Close the door and sit down,’ she all but barks at me.
‘Liz, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is…’ Bloody hell, I’m actually stammering. Heart pounding, mouth dry as a bone. Doing 140 miles an hour around a race track was a breeze compared to this. My heart is twisting with the worry and I swear to God, I’ve lost the feeling in my legs.
Mercifully, there’s never a preamble with Liz. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you or didn’t you just accept the use of a free sports car? Live on air? In front of six hundred and fifty thousand viewers?’
‘Well…yes, but…’
‘You are presumably aware that it’s an unwritten rule and an absolute no-no for a presenter to accept a freebie of any kind whatsoever?’
‘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.’

Chapter Four (#ulink_83533a36-0b30-5aa6-9bfe-7809feb716a6)
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.
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 (#ulink_758c7447-4af5-5df3-8d71-c228a590ad63)
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.
‘Well, my dear,’ he frowns, looking like a consultant about to give me bad news, ‘naturally I shall do my best to source alternative employment for you. However, be warned. This will be no easy task.’
Then I meet with Roger’s publicist Paul, a prematurely grey chain smoker with so much manic energy that after ten minutes in his company I’m so exhausted, all I want to do is lie down in a darkened room and take sedatives. Together with Roger, we draft a press release, which I think just about hits the right, apologetic note between deep contrition and remorse for what I did, yet gently touching on the fact that had I suspected for a second that what I was doing was wrong, I’d have been a distant speck on the horizon.
On his way out the door to have a cigarette, statement tucked under his oxter, Paul turns to me. ‘Oh, by the way, I do have one bit of good news for you, Jessie.’
I look at him stunned, but then, optimism is an unfamiliar sensation for me right now.
Then he tells me that some topless glamour model who I never heard of has just left her boy band drummer husband who I also never heard of, for a Premiership footballer whose name I couldn’t even attempt to pronounce.
‘Sorry Paul, excuse my addled brain, but how exactly is this good news?’
‘Means you’re relegated to page four.’
I see what he means. By the time I get back to the house, the photographers and press who were there yesterday and this morning have completely dispersed. So now I know exactly what they mean by ‘yesterday’s news’.
By nine that night, I’ve broken the magical half-century barrier with the amount of messages I’ve left for Sam, which in stalking terms is probably the equivalent of running the four-minute mile. And not one single call answered. I’m too exhausted even to cry, so I just collapse into bed and sleep the sleep of the damned.

Week from hell: day two
My policy of call bombardment to Sam continues. Except now that I’ve actually had a night’s sleep and am thinking a bit more clearly, I’m furious with him. Madder than a meat-axe. I mean, for feck’s sake what exactly is going on here? Me going through career meltdown and him ignoring me? Cowardly bloody bastard. With woman’s intuition, the only possible reason I can come up with for his bizarre carry on is that Sam, media lover, with a book about to be published in a few months’ time and an ongoing campaign to become a panellist on that entrepreneur’s TV show, can’t hack being around the PR disaster that I’ve become. So if it comes to a choice between his precious career and me, his girlfriend, then guess who gets the boot? Which leaves me with exactly two courses of action to choose from: Plan A, I barge into his office to have it out with him there. Except then I’d only have to face snotty Margaret acting like a sentinel, who’d probably force me to wait in reception for the rest of the day out of pure badness. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction. Plan B is just to go round to his house and stake him out there, but he lives in deepest County Kildare, about fifteen miles from any bus route and let’s face it, there’s no way I could ever afford the taxi fare. Probably just as well for him that neither plan is a runner, because the mood I’m in right now, if I did get to see him, I’d bloody kill him, then feed his rotting carcass to starving alsatians.
I leave about six messages for Nathaniel too, but, surprise, surprise, he doesn’t get back to me either. I’ve always liked Nathaniel, but in my yo-yoing emotional state, now I’m furious with him too. I always thought he was a bit weak, a bit too easily dominated by Sam and his Type A personality. Now here’s the proof. I ring Eva too, the only one of our foursome who’s still actually speaking to me, but it turns out she has another yummy mummy friend over with her kids for a play date, so she can’t talk. She swears she’ll call me later on though. Which of course, she doesn’t.
Roger calls to say that, as he suspected, no one is hiring right now. He’d put out a few feelers on my behalf, but nothing doing. ‘Best lie low for a bit, Jessie dear,’ is his sage advice. ‘When this unpleasantness all dies down, I’ll try again. Perhaps not a primetime show, but maybe something on one of the digital channels.’ This is about as close as polite, gentlemanly Roger would ever come to saying, ‘Your stock is so low in this town, you’ll be bloody lucky to get a job in community radio reading out the funeral notices on the 5 a.m. graveyard slot.’
Then Paul the publicist rings with an update; our press release has done the trick and seems to have killed the story for the moment at least. I’m now further relegated to page eight, which is marginally better than being publicly stoned.
‘Any actual…em…good news?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Are you kidding me? You don’t pay me for good news; you pay me to make bad news go away. You’re now on page eight beside the horoscopes and the weather report; as far as you’re concerned, that’s a miracle up there along with the second coming of Christ.’
Funny, my entire career, which I worked so hard for, is lying in ashes around me and yet all I can eat drink or focus on is Sam and this disappearing trick he’s pulling. I don’t even sleep that night. Every time I hear a car on the road outside, I keep thinking that it’s him and that he’ll knock on my door and that there’ll be some completely rational explanation for this crucifying silence and then he’ll hold me in his arms and everything will be just fine.

Week from hell: day three
There is a completely rational explanation! I ring snotty Margaret at the office who tells me that Sam is in London on business and will be back tomorrow! A wash of near-euphoria comes over me. Of course, Sam wasn’t ignoring me, he’s out of the country, that’s all and when he gets home everything will be back to normal. Well apart from my being broke and unemployed that is. But like I say, once he’s back in my life, everything else will seem bearable again. I conveniently brush aside the fact that every other time he’s away, he never fails to call day and night. He was probably just stressed up to the ceiling about all his meetings in London, that’s all. I actually have a spring in my step for the first time in days, which lasts all the way up until 11 a.m., when the phone rings. It’s the letting agency who found this house for me. ‘Bad news,’ says the property management guy, who sounds about fifteen. ‘You’re now almost four months behind in rent which means you’re in breach of the lease agreement. The owners have instructed me to request that you vacate the premises and return the keys ASAP. Otherwise, they’ll be left with no choice but to instigate legal proceedings.’
For a second, I think I’m going to black out as I slump against the stairs, with my back to the wall. It’s official; I’m on the express train to hell.
‘Listen to me, Jessie,’ says Teen Boy kindly. ‘This could be an awful lot worse. I know these people and trust me; all they want is you out of the house by the end of the week. Fair’s fair, you do owe them well in excess of €12,000 in back rent.’
‘€12,000?’ is all I can think, fresh beads of panicky sweat forming in the small of my back. How in the name of Jaysus did I let that happen?
‘Go quickly and quietly,’ he says, ‘and I’m pretty certain that they’ll leave it at that. Going to court will cost time and money and the owners already have interest from people who want to come over and view the place.’
By now I’m actually drenched in sweat. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I’m made homeless. I thank the poor guy as politely as I’m able to; after all, none of this is his fault and like he says, go quietly and I won’t get sued. But go where?
Now the tone of all my messages to Sam has completely changed from angry to pleading. I urgently need to talk to you, I almost beg. Something calamitous has happened. Ring me and I’ll explain. Then, a brainwave; he always stays at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel when he’s in London; vintage Sam, only the best will do. So I call them and ask to be put through to his room. The over-polite receptionist asks me for my name first, checks the room, then comes back to me and says Mr Hughes isn’t there. Trying my best not to sound like some kind of psycho stalker, I explain that I’m his girlfriend and would she pretty please with knobs on have any idea when he’ll be back?
The blind panic in my voice seems to do the trick.
‘Well, I normally wouldn’t dream of giving out personal information, but seeing as you are his girlfriend…OK then. He should be back in the room in about an hour or so. He’s down in the spa at the moment having a sports massage.’
So he’s not up to his eyes in meetings, too busy to return my calls. He’s lying naked, wrapped in a hot towel having aromatherapy oil rubbed into him. I spend the rest of the day trying to pack, then collapsing into floods of heaving tears. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It’s the ambulance coming to take me away.

Week from hell: day four
Funny thing is, when the final blow falls, it happens fast. I’m lying in bed with all the life and energy of a used teabag. My phone rings and it’s him. It’s Sam. I almost drop it with nervous anxiety and before he’s even said a word, my heart’s already twisting in my ribcage.
‘So…you got my messages then?’ is my opener. Shit, I didn’t mean to sound sarky, it just slipped out.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all you’re going to say? “Yes”? A monosyllable?’
There’s an awkward pause, so I do what any TV presenter does when faced with a hiatus, fill it up with gabble and shite. The nightmare the last few miserable days have been, the agonising worry over why he was blanking me out—
‘Woodsie,’ he interrupts and I jibber over him. But then nervous tension tends to have that effect on me.
‘I need somewhere to stay,’ I stammer. ‘So – and I know it’s an awful lot to ask – is it OK if…Look, what I’m trying to say is…and of course, it would just be until I get back on my feet again…but the thing is…can I move in with you?’
There’s silence. I didn’t expect silence. I have to say ‘Sam?’ a few times just to check that he’s still on the line.
‘I’m here,’ he says dully and I swear to God, now I can actually feel the beads of sweat starting to roll down my face. ‘To be honest, Woodsie, I think right now, that would be a bad idea. A really bad idea.’
For a second I can’t speak. Then more gibberish comes tumbling out, Tourettes-like. ‘Look, I know it’s a big ask, and an even bigger imposition, but Sam, it’s just temporary, just until I find another job, that’s all…’
‘I’ve got my parents coming to stay, so I’m afraid it’s not going to work.’
‘But your house has seven bedrooms! It’s not like we’ll all be on top of each other!’
‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but I really feel that…’
The breath catches in the back of my throat. ‘You really feel that…what?’
‘That you and I should take a bit of a break. I need to be honest with you; I’m finding all of this negative media attention very difficult to live with.’
There it is, the one cold, bald sentence that I’ve been dreading this whole, horrendous week. Funny, now that it’s out in the open, a dead calm comes over me. ‘Just so you’re clear on a few things, Sam,’ I say icily, almost spitting, staccato style. ‘The negative media attention as you call it, is dying down. We put out a press release and that’s pretty much killed the story—’
‘Woodsie,’ he interrupts, ‘you know where I’m coming from here.’
I’m cooler now so I let him talk. And out it all comes, all my worst fears, verbalised. He’s worked so hard to get to this level of his career and bad press is the last thing he needs right now, he feels his position is utterly compromised because he and I are so publicly linked together…blah-di-blah-di-blah.
It’s like he’s reading from an instruction manual on how to break up with someone and leave them with absolutely no hope of reconciliation. And all I feel is numbness, like I’m anaesthetised from pain that’s going to hit me like a sledgehammer any minute now.
‘What you’re trying to tell me, Sam, is that you don’t want to be tarred by association with me. Like my fall from grace is something contagious.’
‘Woodsie, look—’
Then I throw in an old classic. What the fuck, I’ve nothing to lose. ‘I thought you loved me. But here you are, at the first real hurdle we’ve ever had to face, bailing out, running for the hills. You’re the single most important person in my life and I mess up once and suddenly you decide that I’m flawed and therefore dispensable. Have you any idea how that makes me feel?’ My voice is shaking so much, I’m amazed I even managed to get that much out coherently.
‘Woodsie, you’re taking this the wrong way…’
‘What other way is there to take it? You’re dumping me over the phone? After two years?’
‘Can we drop the dramatics? No one is dumping anyone. I’m just suggesting we take a break, that’s all.’
It’s an odd thing when the man you love asks you for ‘a bit of time out’. Makes you feel like the first quarter in a basketball game.
‘Woodsie? Are you still there? Because there’s something else I need to say to you.’
I catch my breath, waiting on some crumb of comfort he might throw my way.
‘I’m having my PR people put out a press release to say we’re not together any more. I think it’s best for both of us to put a full stop to this. Don’t you?’

Week from hell: day five
Somehow I manage to get out of bed and haul myself to the one meeting I’ve been postponing all week but have now run out of excuses for. My accountant. You should see me; I’m like a dead woman walking. Literally. Dead on the inside and dead on the outside. The whole way there, all I can think is, If I were to getrun over by that bus…it wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing that could happen. Given the rate at which my entire life is unravelling, I’d be surprised if Satan wasn’t waiting at the gates of hell for me with a fruit basket and a complimentary robe.
My accountant is called Judy: she’s a widow with four sons all of whom she’s single-handedly putting through schools and colleges, and I’d say she’s never been in debt once in her whole life. I think she realises that there’s rock bottom, followed by another 500 feet of crap before you finally arrive at where I’m at right now. So, for once, she’s going easy on me.
She sympathises over my being turfed out of the house and even manages not to invoke the one phrase that really would send me over the edge, ‘I told you so.’ Then, for a full hour, Judy goes through every sickening, nauseating entry on my credit card statements, household bills, the works, trying to figure what we can write off against my tax bill versus debt that just has to be saddled onto all of my other loans and toxic debts. I’ve even come clean with her about the secret Visa card I’d been hiding all along. At this stage, on the brink of bankruptcy, what’s another few thousand? But, try as I might, even in my numb, deadened state I still can’t tune her out entirely and snippets of past extravagances keep filtering through, stabbing me right in the solar plexus.
Shopocalypse Now. Story of my life to date. Veni, Vidi, Visa.
‘The fifteenth of last month, crystalware from Louise Kennedy, €485.’
I remember. Six beautiful long-stemmed champagne flutes. An anniversary gift for Nathaniel and Eva. Who by the way, I rang this morning to ask/beg/plead for a temporary roof over my head. Eva didn’t even have the good grace to sound concerned about me; just said that they’d now decided to stay down in Marbella with the kids for longer than they’d thought, so it just wasn’t a runner. Anyway, she’d spoken to Sam and knew about our break-up. Knew about it before I did, I’ll warrant. And her final word on the subject? ‘Yeah…you know, we’re really sorry but I suppose these things happen. Shame you won’t be coming away with us this Easter. You’re always such fun to be away with.’
Like I’m some kind of court jester. But however vague and dismissive she sounds, the subtext is clear as the crystal I bankrupted myself to buy for her; Sam was their friend long before I came along, so, foursome or no foursome, if anyone is going to get jettisoned, it’s me. Of course it is. I’m utterly dispensable. In Eva’s eyes, I’m broke = I’m out.
In fact, the only real friend that’s come out of all this for me is Emma. Before I’d even had a chance to ask, she said that I’d be more than welcome to stay at her flat in town. The only person I know who actually offered to put me up. There was a catch though; she’s on a few months’ paid leave from Channel Six and is going down to stay with her parents in Wexford for a few weeks, so she’d already sublet the flat before she’d heard about my, ahem, domestic difficulty. Nice of her to offer though. More than some people. A lot more.
‘So to recap,’ Judy the accountant is still droning on, ‘I’ll have to get on to credit control at Visa and explain the situation. Needless to say, your card will be cancelled forthwith. But, with luck, maybe we can stall them from referring this to their legal team.’ She smiles at me. God love her, she must think this’ll cheer me up. ‘Obviously with a commitment from you to come to a long-term payment arrangement with them,’ she adds.
‘A payment arrangement?’ I say, temporarily stunned out of my deadened stupor. ‘Emm…sorry to state the obvious, Judy, but payment from what exactly? I have nothing.’
‘Come on, you must have valuable items you could possibly sell? When you were earning, did you invest in paintings? Jewellery? Anything?’
I’m too embarrassed to tell her that the only investments I ever made were in handbags/shoes/designer clobber etc, so instead I just focus on dividing the snotty Kleenex that’s lying on my lap into half, then quarters, then eighths and not bursting into tears. Yet again.
‘Jessie,’ she says, softly, ‘you have to understand that I’m trying to help you as much as I can. And I want you to let me know if there’s anything else that I can do for you.’
‘You could lend me the bus fare home.’
‘Please, be serious.’
‘I was being serious.’
‘What I meant by that was, do you have any assets at all which I could liquidise for you? Something that would give you a cash injection to get you through this?’
Me? Assets? For a second I want to laugh. I’m a live now, pay later kind of gal.
‘Jessie, I hate bringing up a distasteful subject but needs must I’m afraid. When your father passed away, didn’t he leave you anything at all?’
‘No,’ I mutter dully. ‘Poor Dad had nothing to leave. Well, apart from the house that is.’
Her eyes light up.
‘He left you a house? Explain, please?’
‘Nothing to explain. Dad left our family home equally to my stepmother and me. That’s all.’
‘So this would be the house that you grew up in?’
‘Yup.’
‘And he left it to be divided fifty-fifty between both of you?’
‘Ehhhh…yeah.’
‘So, all this time, you’ve been part-owner of a house and you never told me?’
Swear to God, the woman’s eyes look like they’re about to pop across the room like champagne corks. ‘And was it sold? Is it rented out?’
‘No, my stepfamily still live there. The three of them. But I have absolutely nothing to do with those people and they’ve nothing to do with me. Trust me; it’s an arrangement that suits all of us.’
‘But you’re the legal owner of half of this property.’
‘Judy, I’m not with you. What do you suggest I do here? Turf them all out and sell the place from under them? They’d get a hit man after me. You have no idea what these people are like; they’d have me knee-capped. This is their home.’
‘You needed somewhere to stay, didn’t you? Well here’s the answer staring you in the face.’
For a second I look at her, my mouth I’m sure forming the same perfect ‘O’ that the kids do in the Bisto commercial.
‘Jessie, welcome to the wonderful world of “Got no choice”.’

Chapter Six (#ulink_a1dcaadb-9d99-5f9c-85cf-98f9d4a71308)
It’s like a mantra with me the whole of the next day: I have no choice, I have no choice. I. Have. No. Choice. And in fact, if I don’t get a move on, chances are I’ll come home to find all my stuff in cardboard boxes outside the security gates, the locks changed and new people already living there. All of which fits in beautifully with the recurring theme of my life right now; when you’ve got everything, you’ve got everything to lose.
It’s late Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, paralysed. Praying that at this exact moment Sam is doing the same thing. That he’s dead on the inside too. Despondent. Missing me. Willing himself to swallow his pride, pick up the phone and beg me to get back with him.
I’ve been practically a ‘Rules Girl’ since our last, harrowing conversation and by that I mean I’ve only texted him approximately a dozen times and left around eight voice messages on his mobile. Per day, that is.
TV is my only friend, but as I’m avoiding the news for obvious reasons, I stick to the History Channel where there’s bound to be nothing on that’ll only upset me more. An ad comes on where they quote Buddha saying that all suffering stems from failed expectations. Yup, sounds about right to me. Next thing, out of nowhere, there’s a massive, urgent walloping on my hall door downstairs, which my first instinct is to ignore, but then it flashes through my mind, Suppose it’s Sam? Standing there with a huge bouquet of flowers and a speech all prepared about what a complete moron he’s been? I dive out of bed like I’ve just had an adrenaline shot to the heart and race downstairs, still in my pyjamas. Course, it’s not Sam at all though. It’s the estate agent, with a middle-aged-looking couple standing on either side of him like twin bodyguards, wanting to view the house. The estate agent is super-polite and says he’s mortified for disturbing me, but his implication is clear; just disappear for the afternoon and let people who can actually afford to live here get a once-over of the place in peace.
Which is how, about an hour later, I end up back in our humble little corporation estate in Whitehall, on Dublin’s Northside. My first time back to the house since I was eighteen, all of eleven years ago. I’m absolutely dreading what lies ahead and at the same time, so punch drunk by all the body blows I’ve taken in the last week, that the part of me that’s numb just takes over everything; all bodily functions like walking down streets and holding conversations without crying. Anyway, like I said, where I come from is not posh. Nor, from what I can see so far, has much of it changed since I used to live here. It’s basically 1950s corpo-land that’s so close to the airport, you can actually see the wheels going up and down on the bellies of all overhead flights. It also gets so deafeningly noisy at times that you feel like you could be living on the near end of a runway. But it just so happens that deafening noise suits me right now. As does anything that drowns out the loop that’s on eternal long play inside my head: dumpedhomelessjob-lessdumpedhomelessjoblessdumpedhomelessjobless…etc., etc., etc., repeat ad nauseam.
The house is right at the very end of a cul-de-sac, which means that when I get off the bus, I have to do the walk of shame down the whole length of the street, alone, unprotected and totally exposed. Which, I know, makes it sound like I come from Fallujah Square and it’s not that I’m worried about broken bottles or other random missiles being flung at me; no, it’s the kids on this street you’ve got to watch out for. They’re complete savages and their cruelty knows no bounds. Plus, as it’s a warm, balmy evening, they’re all out swarming round the place like midges. Sure enough, right across the street, there’s a gang of them led by a boy of about ten, a dead ringer for the kid in The Omen, all harassing someone I can only presume is a Jehovah’s Witness making door to door calls.
‘You says there’s no Our Lady, you says there’s no Our Lady!’ they’re chanting at the poor gobshite, hot on his heels. I pull the baseball cap I’m wearing down even lower over my forehead and pick up my pace a bit, head down at all times. But just then an elderly neighbour out doing her hedges spots me.

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