Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother. Claudia Carroll

he was going straight back to yours last night, but I suppose he must have just gone home instead.’

      ‘But why the hell would he just go home instead? He knew the state I was in and he faithfully promised he’d come straight back here! Eva, you’ve no idea what it’s been like for me. Yesterday was a bloody nightmare.’ My voice sounds weak now, croaky and panicky.

      ‘Oh yeah, I meant to say how sorry I am. About…emm, you know, everything. How are you doing?’

      ‘I…I’m…’ I can’t finish my sentence though. So I just opt for bawling my eyes out instead, which in fairness, I haven’t done for at least half an hour.

      ‘Well, never mind. I mean, it’s only a job, isn’t it?’ she says airily and for a split second, her flippancy silences me out of my hysteria. The exact same shock you’d get if you’re crying and someone responds by smacking you wham across the face. It’s only a job, isn’t it? Did I really hear her just saying that?

      ‘Eva, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m unemployed, broke, up to my armpits in debt, out of my mind with worry, not to mention staked out by the press and now, on top of everything else, I haven’t heard a single word from my boyfriend all night or all morning, although apparently he’s well able to ring Nathaniel!’

      ‘Shh, shh, honey, take a deep breath. In for two and out for four, like they tell us in power yoga class. You need to de-stress. I’m sure Sam’s just busy. You know what he’s like when it comes to work, Jessie.’

      ‘Are you kidding me? My whole life has gone into freefall and you’re telling me that Sam is too busy to talk to me?’ I’m trying my best to keep the rising hysteria out of my voice, but not really succeeding.

      ‘You know, Jessie, listening to you, all I can think is, when was the last time this girl had acupuncture? Hey, here’s a thought, my masseuse is calling over later, why don’t you drop by and have a Swedish massage? Sounds like you might need one. Badly. Oooh, and then later on, I’m going to the Design Centre to see their new spring collection. You should come with.’

      Dear Jaysus. I’m inclined to forget. To Eva, the recession is just something that’s happening to other people. Somehow, I restrain myself from snapping at her, but firmly tell her I need to get off the phone to call Sam’s office. Like, now.

      ‘Oh, OK,’ she yawns. ‘I’m going back to sleep anyway.’ I know, for a mother of twin boys, this sounds extravagantly luxurious, but bear in mind that Eva has a lot of home help. ‘Just try to calm down, Jessie. And remember, at least we’ve got the trip to Marbella coming up really soon. Now isn’t that something lovely for you to look forward to?’

      I hang up, wondering if she even heard a single word I said.

      So I ring Sam’s office and am put straight through to his assistant, Margaret. Two things about Margaret: firstly, she’s incredibly protective of Sam, almost obsessing over him the way an Irish mammy would with a cherished only son. Secondly, to put it mildly, she’s not exactly a huge fan of mine. Can never quite figure out why. I’ve only met her a handful of times, but she always treats me like some telly-tottie blow-in who only distracts Sam from going out and making even more money than he already has.

      ‘He’s specifically asked not to be disturbed this morning, Miss Woods.’

      That’s another thing about her, she always calls me Miss Woods. I think it’s an intimidation tactic. Waste of time trying to intimidate me though; I may live in a fancy gated house in Dalkey, but scratch below the surface and you’ll find a true blue, working-class Dublin Northsider.

      ‘However, I’m very happy to pass on your message.’

      I know right well that she knows what happened to me over the weekend; bar she’s just come out of a coma, how could she not? But I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me sniffle down the phone – just thank her politely and hang up.

      Right then. So Sam is alive and well and going about his day’s work and not lying comatose in a hospital bed. Which is something, I suppose. Then a surge of optimism; of course he’s going to call me back later. Come on, this is Sam I’m talking about, Mr Perfect Boyfriend. Yes, it’s a bit odd he never came back here last night, but I’m sure there’s some perfectly plausible explanation. So when we eventually do get to talk and when he inevitably asks me what I’ve been up to since yesterday, what will I tell him then? That I lay in bed all day whinging like a crazy lady? Or that I took his advice, picked myself up like a winner who’s just taken one of life’s knocks, and is now bravely dealing with it head on? Right, that’s it. Decision made. Let Operation Damage Limitation begin.

      An hour later and I’m up, dressed in jeans and a sweater with my hair tied back under a baseball cap, along with the biggest pair of sunglasses I can find for maximum face covering. Just so no one gets to see my face which frankly is looking like a bag of chisels from all the crying and sleep deprivation. For better or for worse, I’m ready to face the world. Plus I’ve been busy lining up appointments in town for the week ahead with my agent, publicist and, the one I’m actually dreading most of all, my accountant.

      First hurdle though, is getting out the front gate without the hounds of hell stationed there having a pop at me. Added to this particular dilemma is the fact that a) I’ve no car and b) if I get the bus into town, there’s every chance the bastards will follow me and God alone knows the craic they’d have doing that. Right, nothing for it but to get a taxi to come through the security gates and right to the front door of the house, so I can hop into it and slip past the photographers at maximum speed. Slight problem though: I’ve no cash in the house to pay for said cab. Not a brass farthing.

      I can’t believe I’m doing this, but next thing, I’m rooting through coat pockets and old handbags foraging for loose change. Dear Jaysus; not one week ago, I spent around €180 on a La Prairie face cream and now I’m scrambling around looking for a few spare coins which I might have forgotten about. But I’m in luck; right at the bottom of a ridiculously expensive, impulse-buy Gucci bag, there’s a €20 note and about €4.50 in coins. Well whaddya know. I’m rich.

       Week from hell: day one

      I meet with my agent, one Roger Davenport, in his offices in town. Roger, I should tell you, is a sixty-something bachelor whose ideal client would probably be Audrey Hepburn. Always dresses a bit like a magician in velvet suits and bow ties, usually accessorised with a brolly; a bit like Steed in The New Avengers. He’s also a thorough gentleman of the old school and never loses his temper with the kids who always follow him, as he strolls from his converted Georgian townhouse to his equally elegant Georgian office. I’ve often seen him sauntering through town, like it’s permanent Bloomsday, chased by kids all chanting, ‘Here mister, where’s your boyfriend?’ Water off a duck’s back though; Roger is famous for his unflappable cool and permanent good humour. Until I go in to see him, that is.

      He’s sitting at his antique desk when I arrive at his office, surrounded by this morning’s papers. ‘Dear Lord, Jessie, what precisely were you thinking?’ is his opener, peering up from over Churchill-esque half-moon glasses. I fill him in, with particular red-eyed snivelling saved for the part where I stress that I didn’t know I’d done anything wrong. It’s fast becoming my new catchphrase.

      ‘Well, my dear,’ he frowns, looking like a consultant about to give me bad news, ‘naturally I shall do my best to source alternative employment for you. However, be warned. This will be no easy task.’

      Then I meet with Roger’s publicist Paul, a prematurely grey chain smoker with so much manic energy that after ten minutes in his company I’m so exhausted, all I want to do is lie down in a darkened room and take sedatives. Together with Roger, we draft a press release, which I think just about hits the right, apologetic note between deep contrition and remorse for what I did, yet gently touching on the fact that had I suspected for a second that what I was doing was wrong, I’d have been a distant speck on the horizon.

      On