I Never Fancied Him Anyway by Claudia Carroll Page A

Another headline and Maura’s still snapping at me. Bloody hell, this is unbelievable. It’s like the more she talks and the ruder she gets, the more I’m seeing: ‘TV STAR BRANDED HOMEWRECKER AS HER MARRIED BOYFRIEND’S WIFE SPEAKS OUT.
BREAKFAST CLUB
CONTRACT “UNDER REVIEW” SAYS CHANNEL SEVEN SOURCE. ’
    ‘Emm . . . no. Not really,’ I say in a small voice.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Nothing. At the moment. Sorry . . .’
    Well, what am I supposed to say? Yes, I’ve seen the writing on the wall for your television career? What do you want me to do, I’m frantically thinking, announce it live to the nation? Oh hell, this is where I’d kill
not
to be psychic . . .
    ‘So,’ says Maura, who’s gone back to looking bored again. ‘How do I phrase this politely? Maybe your psychic powers aren’t at their best first thing in the morning?’
    By now, I’m starting to wish for either (a) a medical emergency or (b) some major international incident, like an assassination attempt or the collapse of a government, something that’ll mean they have to go straight to a news bulletin and stay there for the rest of the day. Hopefully. With a bit of luck. Anything, and I really mean
anything
, just to get me out of here.
    What’s even worse is Maura’s stony silence. She’s glaring at me with an expression that manages to say both ‘despicable con-artist’ and ‘chancer who has just been ruthlessly exposed in huge important
Breakfast Club
scoop’ all at the same time. And then the miracle happens.
    ‘What’s that?’ says Mary, nervously tapping her earpiece before turning back to camera. ‘Oh, right, OK. Ladies and gentlemen, a bit of good news, we have a caller on line one who’d like to ask Cassandra’s advice, if that’s OK?’
    ‘Emm . . . yes, sure, I’m delighted to . . . emm . . . help . . .’ Thank God, thank God, now please just let me be able to see something, anything . . .
    A woman’s voice immediately fills the studio. She sounds about as agitated as I feel and her voice is low, hushed. ‘Ehh, hello? Am I through to Cassandra?
The
Cassandra?’
    I’m dimly aware of Maura glowering at me, willing me to fall flat on my face (again) and I’m madly trying to tune out her negative energy – this caller really sounds like she needs help.
    ‘Yes, I’m Cassandra. What’s the problem?’
    ‘Can you hear me? I have to whisper just in case anyone in my office overhears me. I’d die of embarrassment if anyone here copped on to what I’m at.’
    ‘I understand,’ I say, dropping my voice instinctively too, so it really feels like an intimate chat and that half the country isn’t listening in.
    ‘We were all having coffee in our office canteen and the TV was on and there you were and . . . I just HAD to ring you. I hope you don’t mind?’
    ‘Of course not. What’s your name?’
    ‘Emm, Jenny.’
    She’s lying, I instantly feel, but then, would you blame her? Although her name begins with a G, I think.
    ‘Emm, well, here’s the thing. I’m . . . thirty-nine’ – her voice is now a total whisper and I have to sit forward and really strain to hear her – ‘next birthday and I’m still single and I
so
don’t want to be. I mean, all my friends are getting married and engaged now and are dropping babies like you wouldn’t believe and I can’t even get arrested. So I went to’ – another whisper – ‘a speed-dating do last night—’
    ‘Brave girl,’ I say, hoping to calm her down a bit. Gina, that’s it, that’s her real name, but I better be careful not to mortify the poor girl by calling her that live to the nation.
    ‘So there I was, all dressed up, hair done, nails done and probably looking like a right dog’s dinner, but I really felt like I’d put in the effort, and you know how many guys ticked my box? None, not a single one. So there was a drinks do afterwards and I was on my own, as per bloody usual and, oh God, I’m so embarrassed to tell you what happened . .