I Never Fancied Him Anyway by Claudia Carroll Page B

.’
    ‘It’s OK, emm, Jenny,’ I say gently, coaxingly, ‘none of us here is Judge Judy and executioner.’
    I’m dimly aware of Mary and Maura both staring at me, unsure of whether I’ll fall to pieces or not, but I’m suddenly filled with a huge surge of confidence. I can do this. I do this every day of the week. After all, ninety per cent of all the letters I get sent are from women and ninety per cent again all involve relationship queries, don’t they?
    The only thing that’s making this different is that I’m being watched by thousands— No, banish that thought and keep concentrating on Gina. Sorry, Jenny.
    ‘So, we were all in this very trendy cocktail bar after the speed dating wrapped up,’ she’s going on, ‘and most of the women there are far younger and far, far hotter than me and then as the night wears on, everyone’s starting to pair off with a few drinks in them, you know the way . . .’
    ‘I do indeed. My flatmate’s always saying that, with Irish fellas, alcohol is the only jump lead you’ll ever need.’
    There’s laughter coming from behind the camera as Gina/Jenny keeps on talking, sounding a bit less wobbly now and a lot more self-assured.
    ‘And then, oh Cassandra, I’m so embarrassed, I just stood at the bar, all on my own, and started feeling so miserable for myself . . . and I know all the self-help books tell you that you have to smile at the room brightly and confidently and trust that some guy will eventually come and chat you up, but no one did and then . . . Oh, it was just so
embarrassing
. . .’
    ‘It’s OK, you can tell me. Can’t be anything worse than what I’ve done myself in the past.’
    ‘Promise you won’t judge me?’
    ‘Cross my heart.’
    ‘I burst into tears. In public. And not just a few snivels. I wailed, and I really mean
howled
, to the four walls. So everyone’s looking at me thinking what a poor, sad spinny and they’re probably right – I mean, how pathetic am I? It’s one thing to have a bit of a bawl in the privacy of your own home, or in front of a girlfriend, but to let yourself down in front of a bar full of total strangers . . .’
    ‘And you start looking like you’re dangerously close to butterfly-net territory,’ snipes Maura and without even being aware of what I’m doing, I find myself signalling at her to
shut up
.
    Jenny/Gina mercifully doesn’t hear and is now in full flow. ‘So then the barman comes over to me, just to make sure I’m not about to open a vein or anything and, I’m not joking you, he’s about half my age and the next thing he’s escorting me to a taxi and . . . oh Cassandra, I just felt so completely and utterly alone that I ended up dragging him into the back of the cab with me, and then he came back to my place and I don’t even have the excuse of being plastered because I was stone-cold sober but in my desperation I was thinking: He’s way too young for me, I don’t really fancy him all that much so he
can’t
break my heart . . . hey, this could work! But of course when I woke up this morning he was gone and I can’t tell you how sordid and cheap I felt, that I let a total
    stranger pick me up in a bar and now I’m frightened that I’ll end up as one of those pathetic older women who go out with shiny guys called Brad who just use them for sex and never marry them and, Cassandra, the thing is I really, desperately want to have a child and, please God, a family and I’m so afraid it’ll never happen for me . . . I mean is this really my life? Miserable and unhappy and phoning up a psychic on a TV show, desperate for some chink of hope?’
    Thank God.
Thank you, God
. During her monologue, a flash comes.
    Jenny/Gina’s on a train, and it’s lashing rain. I can see her clear as crystal. She’s small, tiny, very pretty, with dark brown hair and big soulful brown eyes. She’s laden down with files and folders and is looking very stressed and hassled, then
. . .
    ‘Sorry to interrupt