My closest friend, Clodagh Cassidy, is a newsreader and is practically the most famous person in the country. So well-known, that she once forgot her photo ID while taking a Ryanair flight to Paris and they let her on. I know.
After dinner, I sat down to watch the news. ‘If you were watching last night,’ Clodagh was saying on screen, ‘then you will have seen our goodbye to Cathal O’Callaghan, who, after thirty-five stalwart years of weather reporting has retired to pursue his other passion, stargazing in Kerry. Well, tonight we welcome Bridget O’Flaherty, who is stepping into Cathal’s shoes.’
The camera pulled into a wide shot and a tall woman, long red hair cascading down her back wearing an emerald green body-con dress came on screen. Smiling, Bridget gave a little wave of just her fingers. We hadn’t seen the like on Irish television since Riverdance, when everything went a little bit sexy and no one knew what to do with themselves. Except this wasn’t a little. This was a lot.
Bridget was now perching herself on the front of Clodagh’s desk. ‘I’m not literally filling Cathal’s shoes!’ She laughed. ‘I don’t do lace-ups. As you can see.’ She waggled a sky-scraper patent platform seductively. I detected a slight eye flicker from Clodagh to beyond the camera.
‘So, let’s get going, shall we?’ said Bridget.
The camera went to a close shot of Bridget as she began vaguely gesturing to a blue screen map of the country, but instead of the usual cloud or rain symbols, Ireland was dotted with emojis. Donegal had a thumbs-down on top of it. Galway had a wavy hand. Cork a thumbs-up and Dublin a crying with laughter face.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you all will be wondering if ye’ll need jackets tomorrow.’ A jacket emoji popped up on screen. ‘Well, in Donegal, bring your umbrellas…’ Umbrella emoji. ‘…in Cork pack a jumper…’ Jumper. ‘And the sun screen.’ Sunglasses sun. Bridget laughed. ‘And in Dublin, it’s looking to be another gorgeous day!’ She smiled for the camera, her head slightly cocked, looking right down the lens. ‘So, that’s it for this evening,’ ended Bridget. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ And she winked.
*
By 7.30 p.m., Clodagh was on my doorstep, still in TV make-up, looking like an impossibly glamorous, a hyperreal version of herself. I’d just come down from upstairs after taking Rosie up a cup of herbal tea, which was supposed to be relaxing. And a chocolate biscuit. I suspected that they would count each other out, but Rosie had looked quite pleased with both offerings. ‘You didn’t tell me?’ I knew exactly what she was referring to. Red. We’d all been friends at college.
‘I’ve just run into him. In the newsagents. I almost died. He recognised me, despite the fact I have my TV face on. It took me ages to realise who it was. “Red Power,” I said. “I thought you were dead.”’
‘Well, he’s not,’ I said breezily. ‘And he’s working in my school.’ Just reminding myself of it made it seem strange. As though a unicorn had taken up residence in the garden. ‘Are you coming in or just standing there on the doorstep.’
‘I’m coming in,’ she said, following me into the kitchen. ‘You need to tell me everything. For a moment I thought that perhaps he was one of my farmer fans. Come to stalk me.’ She sat down at the table and looked at me. ‘Jesus Christ, Tab. How could you have not told me? How are you coping? Are you all right? Have you talked?’
‘He only came in today. Starting on Monday…’
‘God, that must be weird. Is it weird? I mean, on a scale of one to ten, how weird is it?’
‘Eleven.’
‘You should have told him about it years ago,’ she said. ‘You should have explained properly. I always said it. And then it wouldn’t be weird. It might be nice. Meeting an old boyfriend. Reminisce gently, laugh a little and then move on, slightly nostalgic for the old days but relieved that you didn’t end up together.’
‘Will you stop projecting? That happened to you, didn’t it? Which one was it?’
‘Kevin Higgins,’ she admitted. ‘Met him last week. He should never have carried on playing rugby. His nose has been broken so many times, it’s like he’s had a potato transplanted on his face.’
‘Clodes. Red and I are slightly different to you and Kev.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Nothing. He’s only with us until the end of term and then he goes. Wherever. It’s a stop gap. It’s all fine. Don’t panic. Anyway, it was all such a long time ago, wasn’t it…? And I have Rosie now to worry about. And Michael.’ Even though I hadn’t seen him all week.
‘Since when have you worried about Michael?’
‘Can we change the subject?’ I said. ‘What about Bridget… she’s a breath of fresh air.’
Clodagh rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the party line, anyway,’ she said, gloomily. ‘Breath of fresh fecking air. Ten years I’ve been presenting that programme. Ten years! There was a text surge, whatever that is. Twitter set itself on fire. I mean, we’ve had no streakers, no protestors, and no on-air nervous breakdown. Apart from my imminent one. Nothing. Until this. A mad woman doing the weather. She’s like Dana’s deranged lunatic aunt on some kind of sex drug.’
‘She’ll certainly get people talking,’ I said, getting up to fill the kettle. ‘Although I imagine that’s entirely the point.’
‘I mean, for feck’s sake,’ Clodagh went on, adrenaline taking longer than normal to dissipate. ‘Did you see how she was deliberately upstaging me? Those shoes. I am surprised that she was able to walk in them.’
‘You sound like her mother.’
‘Her mother! She was sitting beside the camera, the entire time. She’s her agent. Apparently, Bridget’s an Irish dancer, toured the world with Riverdance…’
‘I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’
‘She looks like a Riverdancer, that’s all.’