is that I never even felt a thing.
And that’s when it happens. Out from the ranks of people swarming around me, a chunky-looking, balding guy steps out, aged about sixty-plus and built like a rugby player with a neck about the same width as his head. In a honeyed northern accent, he introduces himself as the head of Mercedes Ireland then grabs me by the shoulders to steady me.
‘Jessie, we’re all very proud of you…’
I nod and manage a watery smile but I’m actually praying the floor manager will cut him off and let me outta here. We’re under massive time pressure here, so whatever he wants to say, he has approximately four seconds to say it in. It’s not unusual for the sponsors to step in after a dare to plug their wares, but what they never think about is that there’s a motorbike driver standing by waiting to whisk me into studio for the rest of the show.
‘And to congratulate you on completing the course successfully and in such a fantastic time, we have a wee surprise for you,’ says baldie man. ‘Bring her round here, boys.’
Camera rolling, everyone looking at him, suddenly the roaring in my ears has stopped.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Being driven around the edge of the track is the most stunning, most amazing sports car I have ever seen. A two-seater hard-top Mercedes convertible, brand new, showroom condition, in a sleek black metallic colour with the softest-looking cream leather seats. So, so sexy and gorgeous and fab that I want to fall down on my knees, to howl and weep at its beauty.
That’s when my eye falls in disbelief down to the registration plate: Jessie 1.
‘Yes, Jessie, it’s your lucky day!’says baldie man. ‘We would like to invite you to be a brand ambassador for Mercedes and are offering you full use of this car, free, gratis, for one year! Absolutely no strings attached. Tax and insurance included; sure we’ll even throw in free petrol for you! Now whaddya say to that, you jammy wee girl?’
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. All at once, I’m gobsmacked, stunned and…interested. Well, it’s a nobrainer really, isn’t it? This is incredible. This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. OK, so it mightn’t solve all my financial woes, but it’s a bloody good start. I mean, come on, a free car for a whole year?
I think it must have been all the adrenaline pumping through my body after the stunt, but before I know what I’m doing, I’ve thrown my arms around baldie man, squealing, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
I think I may have even kissed him but I can’t be too sure.
First sign that something’s amiss: Are the looks the crew semaphore to each other as I’m helped up onto the motorbike and get ready to leave. Normally there’s cheering and messing from the camera and sound guys as I’m biked back to the industrial estate where the Channel Six studio is, especially when a dare has gone well. But this time, there’s total silence from them, to a man. Which is, to say the least, a bit weird.
I clamber up onto the back of the bike, clinging to the driver so tightly I might crack one of his ribs, and we’re off. As we zoom back to studio, which takes all of about three minutes at the speed we’re going at, I do my best to put it out of my head. Come on, I just got offered the use of a free Merc for a year. Chances are the lads are just a bit jealous, that’s all. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be? So why are they acting like I just ran over a small child? I can’t quite put my finger on how to describe their expressions. Disbelief? Shock? No. It was actually disgust.
Second sign that something’s amiss: Normally, when we get back into studio, the stage manager already has the doors open for me so I can race through, leg it into studio, then plonk down on the sofa beside Emma for the postmortem chat and to get the official ‘result’ of the dare. All in the space of time it takes for the commercial break to go out. But this time, something’s wrong. I sense it immediately. Instead of the usual high-octane panic, the stage manager meets me at the studio door, and in a low, flustered voice, says into her walkie-talkie, ‘Yes, she’s just arrived. OK, I understand. I’ll tell her now.’
‘Tell me what?’ I manage to pant, breathlessly.
‘You’re not going back into the studio. Emma will handle the rest of the show. You’re to go straight up to Liz Walsh’s office. Now. She’s says it’s urgent.’
‘But that’s ridiculous, I have a show to finish…’
‘Come on, Jessie, don’t make this hard on yourself…’ She looks red-faced, mortified and is actually blushing to her hairline. As though I’m some kind of embarrassment that it’s fallen to her lot to deal with.
‘For God’s sake, will you let me past? There’s no time for this; I have to get to the studio, they’re all waiting in there…’
‘I’m afraid it’s a no,’ she insists a bit more firmly this time. ‘I’m sorry but my instructions are very clear; I’m not to let you in, under any circumstances. Now will you please just go? Liz is already in her office waiting for you.’ As if to ram the point home, she even stands legs astride, blocking the studio door. Like a bouncer in a nightclub.
Third sign that something’s amiss: I’m completely winded and now my head’s reeling. As I stagger down the deserted corridor to Liz’s office I can see a TV monitor on in the background, with the show just coming out from the ad break. Emma’s looking a bit frazzled, which is most unusual for her, and she announces in a wobbly voice that there’s been a slight technical hitch and that I won’t be coming back into studio after all.
A slight technical hitch? But there’s no technical hitch! ‘No! No, I’m here, just outside the door, ready to finish the gig! Why the fuck won’t they let me in?!’ I scream at the TV monitor with sheer frustration, can’t help myself. I’d kick the shagging thing only it’s hanging about three feet from the ceiling. Right now, I’m starting to feel like I’m stuck in a horror movie, where I’m screeching away and no one can hear. What the hell is happening? Why won’t they let me finish the gig?
I can hear Emma telling the audience that I did actually manage to beat the professional driver’s time and the good news is that everyone in the audience who bet on me to win is going home tonight with a voucher for two people to the Multiplex cinema in Dundrum, valid for three whole months of free movies. Her voice is reverberating loud and clear the whole way down the empty corridor and it’s beyond weird to be hearing it from outside of the studio. Then I hear the audience cheering and stomping their feet, deafening and thunderous, all while I continue to stumble on, head pounding, sweat sticking to me, still in my racing gear with a helmet tucked under my arm.
This is turning into a nightmare. The door to Liz’s office is open and she’s already standing there, waiting for me, hands on hips, like in a western. Unheard of. Normally, on the rare occasions when you’re summoned to this office, you’re left outside making small talk with her assistant for at least a good twenty minutes.
So in I reel, nauseous with tension, almost ready to pass out. Liz is tiny, smart, sassy and I’d ordinarily describe her as the coolest, calmest woman I know. But right now, the look on her face would stop a clock.
‘Close the door and sit down,’ she all but barks at me.
‘Liz, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is…’ Bloody hell, I’m actually stammering. Heart pounding,
