Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother. Claudia Carroll

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