It beggars belief. Three interviews in total today and each and every one has been an unmitigated disaster. You want to see the standard – and I really wish I were joking, but some of these people would make Mel Gibson look employable. And so now, there’s no getting around it; as of the end of this week when Elka buggers off, I can’t get anyone to take care of Lily for me. I have no one. No one.
And believe me, I’ve done everything. I’ve swallowed my pride and called Elka, offering to double her salary and negotiate more time off if she’ll only reconsider, but no joy; she’s had enough of the job and wants out, simple as that. In desperation, I even thought of calling on my sister Helen, but know without even bothering to ask that it’s not a runner.
Being brutally honest, I have to admit that Helen and I have little in common and have never really been all that close, so she’s hardly someone I can expect to come to my rescue in my hour of need. Besides, since I had Lily, Helen’s gone and met a guy called Darren who runs a small seaside B&B in Cobh and within an alarmingly short space of time, she upped sticks and announced she was moving down the country to work side by side with him. Packed everything in for him; her job in a call centre, her brand-new flat, the lot. But then that’s my sister for you; she’s always struck me as someone who panic-dated, panic-settled and is now living with the consequences … in Cobh, miles and miles away from her old friends and her old life.
Total insanity, I thought at the time, and I still continue to think it. And although I’ve only met Darren a handful of times at Christmas dinners, or else on the rare occasions when they both come to Dublin and drop in to visit me and Lily, I can’t help wondering if Helen is actually happy living with him, two hundred miles away in a tiny remote village. But then, keeping up to date on what’s happening in each other’s lives is tough and apart from the odd ‘Hi, great to hear from you, but can I call you back? I’m running into a meeting’ type chat, we never seem to really get a chance to catch up properly.
And no, I still haven’t taken Lily down to Cobh to visit, in spite of all the child’s entreaties and in spite of the fact that she adores her auntie, because how could I possibly leave work? Every now and then Helen will email, mainly either to vaguely moan for a little bit about Darren or else, in a roundabout way, to ask for a lend of money; it seems people in the hotel business are even more savagely affected by the economic downturn than the rest of us. And I always oblige and fire off a cheque and never ask for it back, and she’ll gratefully accept, then send bright, breezy emails inviting Lily and me down for a freebie weekend anytime we want. Which is a nice thought and much appreciated, but come on … me? Get a whole entire weekend off? Saturday AND Sunday? One day after the other? Are you kidding me?
That aside though, I know Helen’s up to her tonsils with trying to make ends meet at the B&B à la Sibyl Fawlty anyway, so I’m sure she’s quite enough on her plate without me landing Lily on top of her too. Plus, no matter how desperate I was and no matter how much money I paid Helen to take care of her till I got sorted, it would mean I’d never get to see my little girl at all, wouldn’t it? And frankly the snatched glimpses of her slumbering little head first thing every morning and last thing at night are about the only thing keeping me sane after the daily grind I’m expected to get through. The one dangling carrot in my life that somehow makes the rest of it all that bit more bearable.
‘Barack Obama’s re-election campaign has just GOT to get a page one tomorrow, Eloise,’ Robbie Turner is thundering on, interrupting my incessant stream of worrying. Robbie is the Post’s chain-smoking, gravelly-voiced chief political editor; a likeable guy, young but never youthful looking, he just streels round the office night and day looking as washed out and baggy-eyed as the rest of us. But then, because of the time differences involved in covering any foreign story, the political editor is expected to put in hours almost as ridiculous as I do myself. The general rule of thumb is that if I’m here till the night editor takes over at eleven p.m., chances are I’ll catch a glimpse of Robbie’s thick, prematurely white shock of hair and John Lennon glasses still at his desk, bashing out a first draft of a story breaking in the Middle East while the rest of the Western world snoozes peacefully on.
So I happen to know that Robbie rarely gets any time off to be with his own young and growing family and to his credit, it’s something he’s never once complained about. I may not let it show, but I’m genuinely fond of him; as I’ve told the Board of Directors on many occasions, Robbie is someone who does consistent good work in the face of pressure that would drive a lesser personality straight to the nearest home for the bewildered.
The only slight downside in these meetings is that Robbie’s sole weak spot tends to come to the fore; his unhealthy obsession with Barack Obama, to the point that the running joke in the office is that he’s actually a tiny bit in love with him. I’m not kidding, he eats, drinks, sleeps and breathes Barack Obama and the highlight of his life to date was getting to shake the hand of The Mighty One when he visited Ireland. True, there were about four hundred other people in the room with him at the time, but Robbie still managed to wangle past the secret service and touch the hem of the garment of the Chosen One, so to speak. All while making it sound like they’d shared an intimate one-on-one meeting, just the two of them chatting about the re-election campaign over a nice cuppa and a plate of Hobnobs. He even had a photo of said momentous event taken and turned it into his personalised Christmas card last year.
‘Eloise, you have to listen to me,’ Robbie’s insisting, getting red-faced now as his voice rises to be heard about the clamour. He doesn’t lose his cool often, but when he does, it’s almost like watching a cartoon: eyes popping, red veins bulging out of the side of his neck, white hair nearly standing up straight on the top of his head, the whole works.
‘This is getting to be too big a story just to tuck away on page three in world news beside David Cameron making a speech about landmine victims in Angola, like we did yesterday.’ He has to almost shout to be heard above the racket in the room. ‘The primaries are in full swing, the election proper is only round the corner and it’s high time it got the front page! Can I remind you that it’s page one on every US national daily and has been for weeks now? So why are we lagging behind US coverage, when we need to keep pace with this story!’
Robbie might sound narky and aggressive, but I know he’s not; this is just how he comes across and I know him well enough to know it’s not bolshiness on his part, it’s purely because he cares so much.
Sign of a good political editor.
On and on he goes, enthusiastically firing off statistics about Democratic versus GOP expenditure on the President’s re-election, to heated shouts of ‘ahh, not this again! Give it a rest, will you?’ from the rest of the room, while a few hacks start humming a sarcastic chorus of The Star Spangled Banner.
Next thing, Seth Coleman sits back, arms folded, and throws in his two cents’ worth.
‘Yes, we’re all aware there’s an election coming up in the US, thanks for that Robbie,’ he spits dryly, with his lizardy unblinking eyes focused on me. ‘As ever, your fundamental grasp of the obvious is overwhelmingly helpful. Can we please move on to some actual hard news?’
And although I’m nodding, giving the outward appearance of being focused and interested in the game, the truth is … to my shame I’m actually miles away, utterly and totally absorbed in my own worries. I may look like I’m listening but all I can really hear is the sound of the blood singing in my ears as my pulse rate feels like it’s soaring well up into triple figures.
Then, dimly in the background, like a kind of accompanying soundtrack to all my stressing and fretting, our Northern correspondent, Ruth O’Connell manages to successfully shout Robbie down, take up the intellectual cudgels and is now aggressively pitching a two thousand word story on a car bomb that went off in Newry last night, injuring a high ranking senior sergeant in the PSNI.
Ruth’s from Belfast, thin and wiry with severe jet-black bobbed hair