I deserved that. Being abandoned on a bench. It was the least he could do, the least I deserved and, after taking a moment to gather my emotions, I walked home. But as soon as I’d said hello to Rosie, there was a knock on the door belonging, I was sure, to Red. I was ready now to talk, really and truly about everything, to open up to him… to try to explain. I felt a sublime gratitude to whoever or whatever was owed it that he hadn’t given up on me. But it was Clodagh, crying, her mascara and make-up was running down her face.
‘I’ve been dumped. Sacked. Booted out. Removed from office. My contract was not renewed. It’s been renewed every three years for the past fifteen and now…!’
‘What do you mean? Who’s done this?’
‘Max. The tiny, miniature bastard. Personally. And. Professionally. Personally, I can deal with. Professionally, I am livid. Bridget is taking over the reading of the news.’
‘What? But she’s not a journalist…’
‘No. But she’s popular. People want to see her. More than they want the news. My services are not required.’
‘What happened?’
‘So, I’m standing in his office, ready for our standard contract renewal chat but Max tells me I am no longer needed or wanted on the six o’clock news and that Bridget is going to be reading it because, and I quote, a monkey could read the bloody autocue and someone else can write the copy, and then he says that this won’t affect our personal relationship and, at that point, I laughed and said it bloody well did.’
‘Clodagh, slow down and start at the beginning.’
She breathed in. ‘First of all,’ she said. ‘Do you have any cake?’
‘What kind? I have coffee and walnut, mini rolls and baklava. Which would you like?’
‘All of them.’
This was serious, I thought, as I watched Clodagh systematically demolish the sugar smorgasbord.
‘After the meeting with Max, I went straight to the vending machine which I had passed several times a day for the last decade but had never sullied with my hard-earned cash. I flung in the coins, pressed the code for a Mars Bar and waited for the drop. I ate it standing there. And I haven’t stopped eating sugar since. God, this coffee and walnut is good. I’d forgotten how nice food can actually be. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go out with Max? I think I was desperate.’ Sugar had made her slightly hyper, I noticed. But maybe that was the whole point.
‘After I’d eaten the Mars Bar, I was practically buzzing with the sugar. I felt almost luminous like ET or something, like I could take off. I barged right into his office and I could swear he was playing a game on his phone. Sudoku or something. Anyway, Max says…’ She couldn’t quite get the words out. ‘He says that I’m not the right fit for the news anymore. They want a new look. Freshen it up, that was the phrase he used. It’s a euphemism for using younger talent, that’s all. He said that I had to be realistic, now I’m forty. He said that no one wants to see a mature woman on television except for notable exceptions. And I’m not a notable exception.’
‘That’s outrageous.’
‘He said that there’s always going to be someone younger and prettier and more talented so just get on with it. Which I think, in his weird little world, was him actually trying to be comforting, but I told him to fuck off.’
‘Would you like a drink? There’s still the Baileys in the cupboard. Cake in alcohol form.’
‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘I may as well become diabetic as well as jobless, old and single.’ She shrugged. I poured us both a drink, thinking I needed one too after the conversation with Red and worrying about Rosie. ‘How could Max do this to you?’
‘He’s ruthless. Told me not to take it personally. It’s business. He’s not a very nice person, you know. And mad. Quite, quite mad.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Christ on a bike. What am I going to do?’ she said, mascara-streaked, her hair all over the place, her silk blouse had signs of chocolate and cake over it. ‘God knows what I’m qualified for? Reading an autocue. Wearing make-up. Pronouncing unpronounceable names.’
‘Those are important skills.’
‘Right.’ She picked up her Baileys and drained the glass. ‘I used to be a journalist,’ she said. ‘I used to know things. I still know things. And I know a damn sight more than Bridget fecking O’Flaherty. So what if I can’t leap around the stage in ringlets.’ She waved her glass at me.
‘More?’
She nodded and tears began to trickle down her face. ‘Bridget came to find me,’ she said. ‘I was getting my make-up done and she gave me a big hug. Said she was sorry and hoped there were no hard feelings. I said there wasn’t and I wished her the very best; that I was delighted to be given the opportunity to try out something new, that I was thinking of going backpacking with a yak in the Siberian Steppes for a year, was renouncing all my worldly goods and if she wanted my biro she could have it.’
‘Did you really?’
‘No, I just said I was delighted for her and the best of luck.’ She paused. ‘I had my fingers crossed behind my back, of course. But Nicky says to lay low, go on holiday… maybe a Saga cruise or something suitable. Says she’ll come up with something. But I can’t think what.’ She began to cry again while I topped up the Baileys. ‘I’ve got a week to go. And then that’s it. News-reading career over. And it’ll be in the papers tomorrow. I’ve already been tipped off. Can’t wait for that.’
And she swigged back the drink in one go, a Baileys slammer.