thought of inviting me to. Not that I would have attended; it was to be held in some class of a nightclub and the very thought of it made me want to break out in hives, but still. It would have been nice to have been asked, that’s all.
Then, when everyone had been served a slice of cheap Christmas cake, the room cleared every bit as quickly as it had filled up, so minutes later it was just me on my own, left to tidy up the dregs of paper plates and half-masticated mince pies. From the corridor outside, I overheard the same gaggle of women who’d been gossiping about me earlier click-clacking their way back to the studio in good time for the two p.m. bulletin. Getting giddier and giddier, it seemed, the further they were away from me.
‘Imagine having to spend Christmas on your own,’ one voice filtered back to me, down the corridor. ‘It’s the saddest thing ever.’
‘Mark my words, Carole will spend Christmas Day working. And she’ll be in here at dawn on Boxing Day, same as always.’
‘She’s basically living the life of a nun on a six-figure salary.’
‘Feminist icon and trailblazer or not – if I ever end up like Carole, shoot me.’
Just to put a few myths to rest, contrary to received wisdom, I don’t live with a clatter of cats in a dilapidated house that smells of cat wee. As it happens, I live in a slick top-floor apartment on Dublin’s trendy Grand Canal Square, with a walk-in wardrobe to house all my work clothes (all in handy, convenient black), a kitchen I barely use and a giant American fridge-freezer neatly stacked with bottles of Pellegrino water – with the labels all uniformly facing outwards, naturally.
I’m home now as it happens, shoehorning myself into a cocktail dress (in black), which I haven’t worn in years, to get ready for the Christmas Eve drinks do my mother is insisting on hosting, same as she does every other year. Although frankly, I’m hard-pressed to think of anything I’ll enjoy less. Left to me, I’d catch up on work, do some preparation for tomorrow in the studio, and be in bed with a cup of chamomile tea (in a china cup) and my eye mask on by eleven p.m.
My mother, however, has put her foot down about this and there are some battles in life that just aren’t worth fighting. She’s heading off to the Caribbean shortly, as she’s done every year since my dad passed away, to spend the holidays with her cousins in Trinidad. So tonight is the last time our little family will be together till the New Year. And that’s it. That’s the sum total of my social plans for the holidays.
Already, it’s seven-thirteen p.m. – which gives me exactly seventeen minutes before I collect Jess, my sister and ‘date’ for the night. But for some reason, tonight I’m moving at half speed. Ordinarily I’d be a powerhouse of energy, buzzing around the place getting organized so I can be punctual to the dot. On a special occasion such as this, I even allow myself a strict limit of 1.5 units of white wine (Sauvignon Blanc, never, ever Chardonnay) served with a single cube of ice.
Tonight, though, I’m already onto my second glass and it’s not having the desired effect at all. Instead, my mind is unfocused and all over the place, as all manner of unwelcome thoughts bubble to the surface.
Piteous.
That’s the word that springs to mind, I think, dabbing on eye make-up that I bought a year ago on the advice of a personal stylist. Which, by the way, is still stuck in the same box that it came in, unused, up till now at least.
They all looked at me piteously at work earlier today. You may be a big success at work, I could almost see them thinking, but it’s Christmas and you’re all alone and that doesn’t make you any kind of role model for the rest of us.
Which wouldn’t bother me in the least, ninety per cent of the time. So why is it that tonight their stinging comments hurt me so deeply? After all, this is what I’ve chosen and I’m happy with my lot. Well, reasonably happy. I may not exactly be about to burst into song like some idiot in a Broadway musical, but compared with other people, I’m doing absolutely fine, thank you very much.
My days are full to the brim. I’m supremely busy. And active. I pay extortionate fees for gym membership and have disciplined myself to take two six a.m. Pilates classes at weekends, to maximize the value I get from it on a strict cost per use basis. I could socialize more if I chose to, but when do I have time? No matter what the twenty-somethings at Channel Ten may think, I actually do enjoy my job and am happy to spend all my waking hours there.
Women can have it all, we’re constantly told. In the à la carte buffet of life, you can pick and choose the kind of life you want to lead. But it’s not true, is it? You want to be a working mother with a young family? Fine, away you go, but don’t expect to scale the heights anytime soon. How can you, when family life takes up such a vast chunk of your time? There are, after all, only twenty-four hours in a day, last time I looked.
But if, like me, you’ve got a burning ambition for work and a real passion for your job that unexpectedly propels you to the top of the ladder, then good for you and away you go. However, you needn’t expect anyone to dance on tabletops at your wedding anytime soon because what man in his sane mind would put up with the hours you need to work, just to stay where you are?
I’ve done everything that good girls are supposed to do in life, I think, spritzing on perfume that I seldom ever wear. I worked hard when I was young, got great grades, went to a top college and then went on to my dream career – the only career I ever really wanted to pursue. I love working on a news show. It fulfils me; it challenges me every single day to be the best that I can be. I adore the fact that the day’s news stories can change on an hourly basis and it’s never a chore for me to work long hours, because I’m genuinely passionate about news.
So why is it that at this time of year, when the whole world is out celebrating, there’s a gnawing feeling of emptiness inside me that won’t go away? Ordinarily I’m a mistress of denial; I have the ability to box away emotion like you wouldn’t believe. But today it’s different.
Carole is basically living the life of a nun on a six-figure salary.
If I end up like her, spending Christmas all alone, shoot me.
Why do their words keeping coming back to me? They’re just a pack of idle gossips at Channel Ten, I remind myself, and that’s beyond dispute.
Then why am I letting them upset me so much? Is it that I envy my team their youth and general perkiness and the fact that they’ve got all these magical plans for the Christmas holidays lying ahead of them? Whereas apart from Mum’s drinks do tonight, I’ll work this Christmas, same as I do every other year. But then, I remind myself, I do run a 24/7 rolling news station. And the news doesn’t stop, so why should I?
Everyone I work with thinks I don’t have a life. That I’m utterly alone, friendless, and destined to live out the rest of my days like this. That I’ll end up unloved and unmourned when I’m gone, with money in the bank and a trophy shelf full of news awards on my sideboard, but no one to share either with.
Which isn’t true at all.
Well, it’s only partly true. Well, OK, so it may technically be true, but this is how I live my life and that’s all there is to it.
Slowly, I put my purse and keys into a neat little black bag, while I’m utterly wrapped
