Thank you, universe,I think, clicking off the phone and going back in to watch TV. Yet another reminder of my old life and how it’s finally gone forever. Funny though, I’m not nearly as upset as I thought I’d be.
Chapter Fourteen
Right then. Time for new beginnings. The following Monday morning and I can’t believe I’m starting my second new job in as many weeks. Steve called and offered to collect me, said he’d give me a lift on the back of his motorbike. I was perfectly happy to take the bus, but he insisted.
‘You offer me a decent job and you even take me there on my very first day?’ I say to him, smiling. ‘What are you,…the nicest guy in the world?’
‘Yup, that’d be me all right,’ he grins at me from under his helmet as I strap mine on. ‘Atta girl,’ he says approvingly. ‘Now just hop on. Boy, will this give all the neighbours something to talk about.’
I jump on behind him and grab on to his waist, raring to go.
‘Got to warn you, this thing goes fast.’
‘It’s OK. Speed’s not much of a problem for me,’ I shout back from under my helmet.
‘Well fair play to you, Miss Woods; you’re the first girl I’ve ever taken on this yoke who wasn’t petrified with nerves.’
I grin to myself. If only he knew.
Funny, but when he first told me back in Smiley Burger that he might have a job for me, my first thought was, as what exactly? Backing singer in the band he’s in? Because, believe me, when I sing, it sounds a bit like nails being dragged down a blackboard.
No, Steve laughed when I shared my worry with him. Not a singing job at all.
Which is how I find myself hopping off the motorbike outside what looks like a perfectly ordinary office block in the centre of town, about twenty minutes later. We’re now on Digges Lane, a small cobble-stoned street in the heart of the city, right in the midst of all Dublin’s busiest and most bustling bars and coffee shops, and I’m looking at a discreet plaque on the wall which reads, ‘Radio Dublin, Marconi House.’
Because this will be my new job. And no, I’m not here to clean the place.
Meet the new presenter of The Midnight Hourshow. (I know, I can’t believe it either.)
Steve parks the bike and leads us both inside, through revolving doors and into the foyer. He signs us both in, then guides me towards the lift and on up to the fifth floor. We step out into a huge, open plan office, with floor to ceiling glass walls full of light and air and with stunning views over the city centre below. As Steve steers me past row after row of desks, it seems like every second person looks up to give him a warm smile and a big, cheery, ‘Hi Steve!’
Mostly, it has to be said, women. All young ones, pert and pretty and probably wondering who the redhead trailing behind him is. For a split second, I find myself wondering if he has a girlfriend. Only because, if he were single, there’s certainly no shortage of admiring female looks headed in his direction here. It’s a tough one to call. He certainly hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend, but then I’ve so little information about him, how would I know anyway? All I do know for certain is that he lives in an apartment in Santry on his own and, according to Sharon, eats in Smiley Burger a minimum of three times a week. Which now that I come to think about it, kind of does sound a bit like single behaviour.
Anyway, he’s teasing bordering on mysterious about his connection to Radio Dublin and how he managed to get me a gig here in the first place. Not to mention the fact that everyone here is warmly greeting him by name, like he’s great buddies with them all.
‘Oh, just friends in high places, you know yourself,’ he grins infuriatingly at me when I ask him for about the twentieth time. ‘Come on, let’s get you a coffee.’
Next thing, we’re side by side in a tiny office kitchenette and he’s pouring us out two mugs of fresh brew. Him towering above me, somehow looking even taller in all the biker gear.
Steve’s older than me by about three years, which makes him early thirties, but somehow he permanently has a look of someone on a grown-up gap year. An adultescent, if they’ve even invented such a term yet. Utterly impossible to have a serious conversation with him; everything, absolutely everything gets turned into a joke.
Out of nowhere, a memory from years ago comes back. I remember him, aged about eighteen, out mowing our front lawn and Maggie first nicknaming him the Milky Bar Kid, on account of his fair hair and the roundey John Lennon glasses he used to wear back then. I did nothing whatsoever to stick up for him and now he’s like the saviour who rescued me from Larry the Louse and eight-hour shifts of shovelling fries into Smiley cartons. I blush a bit, utterly mortified, then make a silent vow to be super-duper nice to him from here on in. So sweet, it’ll nearly give him diabetes. I have a lot of making up to do. Years of horribleness from all the Woods family to atone for.
‘So, Steve,’ I say, smiling brightly up at him. ‘You’re in a band, aren’t you? Is that how you’re so in with the radio crowd?’
‘Don’t you ever listen to neighbourhood gossip?’ he grins, handing me over the mug of coffee. ‘Yes, I’m in a band, but only as a hobby. Just for the laugh more than anything else. If you ever heard us play, you’d understand.’
I smile and sip the coffee.
‘Actually, we’ve a gig in Vicar Street at the end of the month,’ he says. ‘Why not come along?’
Oh shit. Did that just sound like he was asking me out? Because saviour or not, I’m sorry but I do draw the line there. Not only am I not in a place where I could ever look twice at another fella, but…I’m just not interested in Steve. Sorry, but I’m not. At least, not in that way. Thing is, I’m the single most monogamous person you’re ever likely to meet. Even when I’m grieving the death of a relationship, I still can’t bring myself to look at anyone else. No Morphine Man for me (you know, one who’s there to dull the pain and nothing else). And now a fresh worry washes over me. Is that why Steve’s being so good to me? Because, if so, then I’ll just have to nip this in the bud, here and now.
‘There’s a huge gang from here coming, so you’d be more than welcome. Sure the more the merrier.’
Phew. Not a date then. Hallelujah be praised. All embarrassment avoided. ‘Fantastic, sounds lovely.’
‘Tell you someone else who’d really love to see you again. Hannah.’
Shit.
I keep forgetting about Hannah. Worse, I’m constantly saying that I’ll definitely call over to see her definitely sometime very soon, then not doing anything. I am a horrible person and a very bad friend. Or ex-friend, rather.
‘In fact,’ Steve grins down at me, ‘she’s having her little baby daughter christened this weekend, why not come along to the party afterwards? You could bring your family along too.’
‘Great!’ I say, delighted that yet again, this couldn’t sound further from a cosy à deux tête-à-tête.
Next thing, a pale, skinny guy so young he looks like he should still be ID-d in bars comes in and introduces himself as Ian. He’s wearing a U2 T-shirt from their 360 tour with jeans and trainers and looks like he survives on about two hours’ sleep a night.
‘I’m going to be looking after you,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I produce The Midnight Hour,but don’t worry, there’s nothing to fronting the show. Bit like spinning plates in the air and never letting then fall. Piss easy once you’re used to it.’
‘OK,’ I say a bit nervously. ‘But here’s the bit where I have to tell you both that I’ve never done anything like this before. Presenting on TV, yeah, but that was different.’
‘If you can handle TV,’ says Steve kindly, ‘as far as I’m concerned, you can handle anything. Ian here will spend the next few days showing you the ropes. Besides,’ he adds, playfully punching Ian on the arm, ‘nothing this eejit does can be thatcomplicated.’