Free I Never Fancied Him Anyway by Claudia Carroll

high-maintenance and I-go-nowhere-without-my-entourage-in-the-manner-of-Liza-Minnelli-ish, whereas all I really want to do is slip out of here, slink home, go straight back to bed and stay there, with my head well under the duvet, for the rest of the day.
    ‘I just
love
your column,’ says orange-fake-tan guy, vigorously lashing foundation on me, ‘you’re the main reason I buy
Tattle
magazine these days. Well, apart from all those fabulous dish-the-dirt photos they have of celebrities walking the streets without make-up, looking like total crap. I get through my day so much better knowing that I’m marginally cuter than Matt Damon when he’s caught off guard.’
    ‘Oh, emm . . . thanks, that’s good to hear.’
    ‘First time on TV?’
    ‘Yup. And to say I’m nervous would be a major understatement.’
    ‘Walk in the park, baby. Oh, I am going to have you looking so
fabulous
. Wish everyone I had in my chair had your cheekbones, it would make my job so easy. Hey, Joanie!’ he says, calling over to Joan Davis, a well-known newsreader I instantly recognize, who’s sitting in the chair opposite me having her hair blow-dried. ‘Honey, you won’t believe who I have sitting here! Only Cassandra, you know,
the
Cassandra from
Tattle
magazine!’
    ‘Oh wow! I’m such a big fan,’ she says, waving at me and shouting over the dryer.
    ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, hardly able to believe that an actual celebrity has heard of me.
    ‘Are you here for the
Breakfast Club?
’
    ‘If I manage not to pass out or throw up first, yes.’
    ‘You’ll be absolutely brilliant. Best of luck.’
    ‘Thanks. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you’re leaving here to go over to the BBC soon, aren’t you?’
    She immediately gasps. ‘Oh my God, can you see that in my aura?’
    ‘Emm, no,’ I mumble, a bit embarrassed. ‘I read it in the
Star
.’
    ‘Now, if you happen to see anything about me and my ex,’ says fake-tan man, still all bright and bubbly, ‘you will tell me, won’t you? No pressure, but we’ve just broken up and you know how there’s always, always,
always
a contest with any recent ex called “Who’s the happiest and who looks the best”, versus “Who’s put on two stone and who’s going to die alone and miserable”.’ He’s laughing but there’s something forced about it. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m fine about the break-up, absolutely tip top; I mean, it was very much a mutual decision, no question, but I just wondered . . .’
    OK, I’m not actually sure whether he’s protesting too much or if all his high-octane, in-your-face babbling sets me off, but before I know where I am, I get a flash.
    It’s him, fake-tan man, but, no, he’s not a bit fine at all. Far from it. I can see him lying in an unmade bed alone, cradling himself, rocking from side to side, with an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bedside table and an overflowing ashtray stuffed with butts. He looks hollow, baggy-eyed, thin and frail and the feeling of absolute desolation I’m picking up from him is almost overwhelming
. . .
    ‘Are you OK, love?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone very quiet. Nerves, huh?’
    Please let me see something good ahead for this guy, I’m thinking as he lashes the mascara on to me, still yapping away. Something, anything positive, please, please, please.
    ‘Emm, yeah. Nerves. That’s all.’
    Shit, come on, Cassie, you must be able to pick up something.
    Meanwhile, Charlene is punching impatiently at buttons on her mobile phone. ‘Ugh, Jack, for the love of God, will you
please
turn your bloody phone on? Call yourself a producer and your phone’s switched off?’
    ‘Are you trying to call Jack Hamilton?’ asks fake-tan guy in surprise. ‘ ’Cos, honey, you’re wasting your time till we’re off the air.’
    ‘Well, do you think someone could take me to him?’ says Charlene, effortlessly switching on her best little-girl-lost voice. ‘Or maybe just let him know that his