Come to think of it, I don’t even know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like the bubble is about to burst or anything, now is it?
I just need a new accountant, that’s all.
Chapter Two
Twenty minutes, one strong Americano, two Solpadene and three Berocca tablets later and I’m standing beside Katie, feeling an awful lot sparkier and up-for-it. More like myself. Even if on days like this, I almost feel like my nickname could be Solpachina.
‘Oooh, look at you! You look fabulous!’ Katie squeals in my ear. Which we both know is just a well-meant but polite lie. However, I will say this, the make-up girl deserves a BAFTA for at least managing to make me look like I didn’t sleep the night up a tree, before being savaged by werewolves on the way home; the only thing which might possibly account for the nesty, Russell Brand-esque state of my hair when I first opened the door to the camera crew earlier this morning.
‘Right then,’ says Katie, lining herself up in front of the camera, with a load of framed photos strategically dotted on the piano between us. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I’ve been ready for the last two hours, actually,’ the cameraman growls impatiently back at us, coughing and spluttering like a Lada.
Lovely. It’s going to be one of those days.
‘Well, as you can imagine, we’re all so excited about this very special edition of A Day in the Lifeand here’s the reason why…Presenting our fabulous hostess, Jessie Woods herself!’
So off Katie riffs in the air-hostess voice and I find myself wondering if anyone’s ever told her that there are, in fact, other adjectives than fabulous.
‘Oooh, isn’t she just like a little girl’s idea of what a princess should be?’ she says straight to camera and not actually looking at me. ‘With her beautiful, blonde hair and fabulous, trim, toned figure! It’s like skinny jeans were designed especially with this woman in mind!’
She giggles and I resist the urge to a) vomit, b) remind her that this is, in fact, TV, not radio, so viewers presumably can see for themselves and besides, you should never ever, EVER talk down to an audience. Instead, I just grin inanely and do a false TV laugh back. You know, head thrown back, jaw fish-wired into a grin: ha, ha, HA!
‘So, Jessie, we’re loving, loving, LOVING your fabulous home, but maybe you could tell us a little about some of the photos you have on display here?’
The camera does an obliging panning shot of some recent pics and just for a split second, I get to see my own life from the outside. It’s weird but somehow every single snap manages to look like a posed photo opportunity. Sam and I at the Derby with Nathaniel and Eva; me wearing what appears to be three table napkins strategically sewn together to cover up my girlie bits. The four of us on a ski trip, me in the centre; laughing, messing around, having great craic, the life and soul of the party. Two things strike me. One is that Sam is on his mobile in every single shot. The other is, our lives look so stunningly, dazzlingly perfect…Christ alive, no wonder we piss people off.
‘Ooh, here’s a terrific one!’ Katie sing-songs. ‘Just look at you! Like a classier version of Paris Hilton! What a stunning dress! So, tell us, where was this taken?’
OK. The real answer to that question is, Are you kidding me, Katie? The only thing I have in common with Paris Hilton is dyed blonde hair and a credit card. And the dress isn’t a bit stunning; it’s more like a big, flowery shower curtain from a Bed, Bath and Beyond sale bin.Lesson: if you are eejit enough to listen to stylists, then you deserve everything that’s coming to you. As long as these people garner column inches, believe me, they’re not bothered if you end up beaten into a skinny size zero pant suit, looking like a boiler that’s too big for its lagging jacket.
However, I go with the interview answer instead. ‘Why thanks, Katie. That photo was taken at the National TV awards, where Jessie Wouldwas nominated for best TV show, can you believe it, for the second year running?!’ I omit to mention that we lost out to a home video programme where people send in clips of their dogs playing musical instruments, that kind of thing. It sticks in my mind because next day there was a pap shot of me rubbing my eyelid to try and get a bit of fluff out, with a headline, Who Let The Dogs Out? Jessie’s Tears At Being Upstaged By Mutt.
‘Oooh, look at this one, you brave girl, you!’ says Katie, picking up a still shot from the show of me skydiving. ‘Tell me, is that the hardest dare you ever had to do on Jessie Would?’
Real answer: Funnily no. Sure any eejit can skydive; you just hold your breath and jump. What was weird about that one though, was that some pervert actually texted in a suggestion that I do it in a bikini.
Interview answer: ‘Ha, ha, HA. Not at all, Katie. As a matter of fact, I’m often asked that question…’
‘Oooh, or what about the time you had to spend the night alone in a haunted house?’
Real answer: Are you off your head? Best night’s sleep I ever had.
Interview answer: ‘Ha, ha, HA. Yes, that one did put years on me, but by far the most challenging dare I’ve ever had to do on the show was the time I had to work as head chef in a restaurant. Sixty covers in a single night. Nearly killed me.’ I might add that fifty-eight out of the sixty customers demanded their money back after they were kept waiting for almost two hours with nothing but the bread sticks in front of them to nibble at. And that was after I had to announce to the whole, starving dining room that if anyone happened to find my earring inside the fish pie, would they please mind letting me know? Oh and for the record, the two people in the restaurant who didn’t complain were Sam’s parents; God love them, they desperately wanted to be on the show and were just being kind. What people don’t realise though, when they’re texting in all their wacky dare ideas, is that the extreme stuff doesn’t knock a feather out of me. It’s normal everyday, bread-and-butter things that make me want to lie down in a darkened room listening to dolphin music and taking tablets. Like bank statements. Or Visa bills. Or anything with ‘Final Notice’ stamped in red across it.
‘Oooh, and look at this fabulous shot of you and the sexy Sam Hughes! Tell us, Jessie, how did you two first meet?’
I glow a bit, the way I always do whenever I get a chance to talk about Sam. OK, the real answer to this question is:
we met at Channel Six when I first started working there, God, almost nine years ago now. I was just twenty-one years old, straight off a media training course and working as a runner on News Time,which Sam seemed to appear on every other week, talking about GNPs and PPIs and whatever you’re having yourself. ‘Runner’, though, as everyone knows, is a glorified word for ‘dogsbody’, so my job basically involved getting the tea, emptying bins in dressing rooms and on more than one occasion, having to blow-dry under one newsreader’s armpits with a hair dryer, so her couture dress wouldn’t get deodorant stains on it. I’ll never forget it; her name was Diane Daly so all the floor staff, myself included, used to call her Diva Di. A nasty nickname I know, but she’d really earned it; this was a woman who’d regularly ring me at 6 a.m. before work, to order me to the fruit and veg market so I could buy supplies of sprouted beans for her, the time she was doing her whole wheat-free, gluten-free, lactose-intolerant thing. And who would think absolutely nothing of getting me to drop her kids to school, while she skipped off to get her Restylane injections. All of which I did happily, gratefully and without whinging because I was just so overjoyed to be working in TV. This, as far as I was concerned, was It, the Big Break, which could only lead on to bigger and better things.