Chapter Eight

The next morning I wake to a head that throbs like a lawnmower going full throttle and a house which looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Alice has been up for a good couple of hours and is noisily loading glasses into the dishwasher. When I emerge fuzzily, she pops an Alka-Seltzer into a glass without even being asked.

‘Morning, dearest,’ she says, smiling in mock pity.

‘Don’t start!’ I say.

‘I didn’t say a word!’

‘You didn’t have to. Anyway, you’re the one who’s best friends with an Exorcist reject.’

‘And you’re the one whose friends think central Islington is central Ibiza.’

I put the kettle on grumpily, searching for a way to change the subject. I can’t remember the last time I was this hung-over.

‘So what gives with Richard? I thought he stayed over?’ The last time I saw him he was disappearing into her room at about two a.m. after Jenna had finally been deemed sober enough to climb into a cab unaided.

‘Oh God,’ says Alice, suddenly vulnerable. ‘I think I’ve really screwed it up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we were at about second base, I s’pose –’

‘What, hiking in the hills, but not foraging in the forest?’

‘Yeah, roughly, and then I said I thought that was about far enough, and he got a bit, I don’t know…’

‘Angry?’ I posit, a little too quickly.

‘No, not angry exactly – frustrated.’

How is that different? I wonder to myself.

‘You know, it’s kind of flattering that he wanted me so much.’

‘So then what happened?’

‘He said he couldn’t stand being so pent up and he went home. He must’ve really liked me to send the card and now I’ve completely fucked it up.’

I don’t have the heart to tell her the real story behind the mystery missive. Seeing how crestfallen she looks, I suddenly feel every bit as furious as Richard: how dare he make my sister feel this way?

‘You had every right to say no to him, and if he’s going to try and make you feel bad about it, it just goes to show he’s a total dick. And if he’s a total dick, it’s better to know now. Even if it means we have to live on Lambrusco from Costcutter, it’ll be a small price to pay.’

Alice raises a tiny smile then goes back to looking downcast.

‘It was just really nice to feel excited about someone again. I know Jenna’s track record is a bit hit and miss, but at least she keeps signing up.’

‘Please don’t suggest we start using her as a romantic role model. That way madness lies.’

‘She’s just lonely, Lulu. We’ve got each other, but she’s… talking of which, when are you off on location so I know to book myself up?’

‘Very end of the month. A week in Ripon: pity me.’

‘I do, I do, but at least you’ll have Gareth with you to paint Ripon red.’

She wanders off to hoover up the layer of ground-in crisps which covers the living-room carpet, leaving me to contemplate how different this job is from the work hard/play hard assignments of yore. Quite apart from the twin stresses of the dwindling budget and the lusciousness of the leading man, being the boss is starting to get to me. Natural authority doesn’t seem to come naturally, which is why I was perfectly happy as second-in-command.

Alice and I don’t even bother to leave the house for the rest of the day. Instead we veg out on the sofa watching Dirty Dancing, with Alice trying to persuade me that there’s a case for texting Richard. My admission that the Valentine’s card was a case of mistaken identity leaves her gutted, but I need to do whatever it takes to persuade her to steer clear. I distract her with the vicarious thrill of Ali turning up on the doorstep, and then suffer her badgering me to go on the date I’m determined to cancel.

‘Oh, go on, Lulu, what have you got to lose?’

She’s right, of course, but I’m stupidly fearful that I’ll sit opposite him feeling nothing because he’s not Charles. I can’t stand how sad that’ll be, how trapped I’ll feel by an infatuation that cannot bear fruit. I come so close to telling her everything, but I don’t want to pass on the melancholia that’s plaguing me. Much better I nip it in the bud in private.

‘Maybe,’ I say neutrally. ‘But what do I do? Admit that I lied to him or carry on undercover?’

‘You could give one date a go, see if you like him, and if you do come clean. That way you can see if he’s some kind of authoritarian fascist before you risk it. You deserve some fun, Lulu, you’re working your arse off.’

‘I guess I could counter-claim that he stalked me,’ I say, gradually persuading myself until I’m struck by an image of Charles’s hand gently reaching towards my face. ‘Oh, I just can’t be bothered.’

‘Why are you being so stubborn?’ says Alice, understandably exasperated.

‘It’ll be bad enough pretending I’m you, without the added complication of us then having virtually the same name. And can any good come out of a relationship built on a tissue of lies?’

And there’s Charles again, doggedly invading my mental space. A tissue of lies is the only possible basis we could spring from, which is what makes it a non-starter. Besides, my strong moral code would never allow it. I might have to retreat to bed with a shot of bromide, three Hail Marys and the Girl Guide handbook.

‘Stop being so melodramatic,’ counters Alice. ‘He might find it funny. He might even get off on having had so much power over you at the outset.’

‘Yeah, cos that’d be a good sign,’ I shout, heading upstairs to brush my teeth.

Sunday doesn’t remotely resemble a day of rest. I spend the whole day working on designs while Alice takes off to the cinema with Jenna. Time alone simply doesn’t suit me and soon I’m feeling royally sorry for myself again. My belief is that Sundays should be spent gaily romping through parks with a devoted man and a well-kempt Red Setter, despite the fact I’ve never achieved anything remotely approaching that level of carefree romantic optimism. My Sundays with Steve would most likely involve a drunken lunch with his scary professional friends, in which I’d end up feeling like a pointless curiosity – one step up from a hirsute potter in a self-knitted beret. Now I find myself pining to spend Sunday with another woman’s husband, while an available hottie goes to waste. Suitably chastened by my internal lecture, I send Ali a text. Of course, it’s not that simple. What I actually do is agonize for a good half hour about what to send, and then call Alice.

‘I’m so glad,’ she yelps. ‘And, Lulu, Richard texted me. We’re going for a drink on Tuesday, so it wasn’t a disaster after all.’

‘Great,’ I say, aiming my voice upwards. I can’t risk saying anything else, so I plough on with my dilemma. ‘How’s this: Good to see you last night. If the dinner invitation was for real, I’d love to accept.’

‘Oh no, Lulu,’ says Jenna.

‘Sorry, I’m driving, should’ve said you were on loudspeaker,’ chips in Alice. ‘I think that sounds great.’

‘No, no, no,’ chants Jenna, North London’s self-appointed answer to Barbara Cartland. ‘It should be more playful. How about: Hi, Ali, I’d love you to take me, full stop, for dinner, exclamation mark.’

Where to start? ‘Exclamation marks are the scourge of text messages,’ I snap. ‘They’re only one step up from emoticons.’

‘Fine,’ says Jenna huffily. ‘But you must admit you’re a bit out of practice. In the world of dating it’s important to sell yourself.’

Hmm, prostitution. Even for Jenna, I think that might be a step too far. I hang up, send the text and feel proud of my maturity. Charles, Schmarles: he’s nothing to me.

But come Monday morning, he’s everything again. The entire day is devoted to the sea rescue, for which I’ve created a particularly fetching pair of cream breeches, designed to be worn with a tight, ruffled shirt. Outfit donned, he seeks me out in the wardrobe caravan.

‘Will I do?’ he asks cheekily. ‘Am I as Lulu intended?’

Oh God, isn’t he just. My Wednesday-night assignation with Ali looms ever closer, but right now it seems utterly irrelevant. There’s only me, Charles and the all too snug-fitting breeches.

‘You’ll absolutely do. Are they comfortable?’

Have I effectively just asked how his penis is feeling? I detect a crimson blush creeping up my cheeks.

‘They’re shipshape.’

‘Oh, good. Good, that’s… perfect.’ Stop talking, Lulu, stop talking about his penis.

‘Will you be on-set for any last-minute adjustments?’ he asks innocently.

‘Er, of course… I’ll – I’ll see you there.’

Utterly confused how to interpret it all, I blunder my way towards Emily’s caravan. She’s a one-woman cold shower if ever I met one.

‘There you are!’ she whinges. ‘These fucking corsets. I dunno how they lived in the Victorian times, I really don’t. Briony’s laced me up so tightly, my nipples can hardly breathe.’

I think about giving her a brief lesson in anatomy, before deciding I’ve had quite enough conversations about cast members’ erogenous zones for one day.

‘Here, let me see if I can loosen you up a bit,’ I tell her, fiddling with the laces. ‘I hate the water, if I’m honest,’ she says as I let the dress out. ‘I hope it’s only going to be a couple of takes.’

Yeah, right, cos that’s really likely between Tarquin’s auteur pretensions and her inability to remember the simplest of lines.

‘Do you like him, Lulu?’ she asks.

‘Yes, he’s lovely,’ I respond, before my self-censor mechanism kicks in. ‘I really like him.’

‘I just think he’s a bit up himself. All that “Let me shoot it from the top of a tree” bollocks. I know everyone thinks I’m some jumped-up soap star, but at least on “Enders” they just get through it, job done.’

‘Oh, Tarquin!’ I say.

‘Yeah, who’d you think I meant?’ she fires back. ‘Charles?’ she asks, a sly smile playing around her lips.

‘Tarquin, Charles… they’re both great,’ I bluster. ‘Anyway, I must see how everyone else is doing.’

‘It’s just me and Charles today, Lulu, nobody else.’

‘Exactly! I’m going to go and check on him.’

‘I thought you came from there?’

For someone stupid, Emily’s remarkably clever. I breeze out of the trailer faux casual, visibly trembling. This is all getting way out of hand.

I start off towards the water’s edge, taking deep, calming breaths. But the problem with film sets is that you’re never more than five metres from a crew member – privacy is simply not an option. In fact, here’s Tarquin right now, brandishing his script.

‘Boy, am I glad to see you. I swear you’re the only sane person on this job.’ Why does everyone keep saying that to me? Particularly considering I feel like I’m going literally insane. It’s only a matter of time before I come on-set with knitting needles poking out of my nostrils, pretending to be a woolly mammoth.

‘What’s up?’ I say, fixing a caring smile on my face. Why are they all so damn needy?

‘Suzanne’s saying we’ve got to shoot two pages of dining-room interiors this afternoon. I was meant to have the whole bloody day for this sequence. It’s the living, breathing heart of the love affair – it’s got to be perfect or you won’t believe any of it.’

I glance down at the scene, wondering if Tarquin’s hurtling towards his own mammoth moment. Surely he knows lines like ‘Without you my life is a dry, sandy desert, parched of love’ might be beyond saving? Still, my job is to soothe, not to criticize.

‘But you’re so well prepped. Emily’s on side for pushing on through and Charles is brilliant, so it should be absolutely fine.’ Can I please stop bringing Charles into every single conversation? And God strike me down for spinning Emily’s spiky attitude with such alacrity.

‘Yeah, I suppose. You will be there the whole time, won’t you? They both seem like your biggest fans. It’s just good to have you on hand.’

‘I’ll be welded to the beach, I promise. I need to talk to you anyway…’ I decided this morning that it’s time to share my titanic struggle with the budget. If tough choices need to be made about where the remainder is spent, Tarquin has to tell me where his priorities lie.

‘Yeah, sure… whatever,’ he says, visibly distracted.

‘I’m just having problems –’

‘Lulu, can we talk about it another time?’ he snaps, turning away. ‘I’ve got quite a bit on my plate right now.’

I back off, feeling an idiot for raising it on such a tough day. It’s just that I know that I’m hurtling towards bankruptcy, and it’s so hard to get time with Tarquin away from the hawk-like gaze of Suzanne. If she, queen of the bean counters, finds out the truth, Zelda will never forgive me.

Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. It’s been three weeks since I saw her, and I have to admit I’m almost avoiding her. I have good reason – the fact that I’m terrified I’m not living up to her expectations, my reluctance to avoid her perceptive eye when it comes to Charles – but it runs way deeper than that. However stressful this production gets, all we’re really engaged in doing is telling a story. How can that ever be as difficult as engaging with a reality as fraught with dark possibility as Zelda’s? I’m feeling myself filling up when I’m tapped on the shoulder.

‘Shit,’ says Tarquin, holding out a cup of coffee. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you so much. Here, peace offering.’

If he knew the amount of times I’d been screamed at by queenie actors, or indeed Zelda, he’d know how egotistical his assumption is.

‘Thanks, Tarquin. It’s fine… honestly.’

‘You’re my mate, Lulu,’ he says, with an attempt at a disarming smile. ‘You do know that, don’t you? That’s why you’re the one I let off steam around.’

What a privilege.

‘Sure, yeah. It was just that I needed to –’

Tarquin cuts straight across me.

‘Anyway, we’re nearly set up, so I’ll see you down there.’

And with that he tootles off, whistling, pausing only to pull up the hood on his huge, goose-down puffa, a garment designed to withstand sub-zero temperatures in deepest Antarctica.

‘Cock,’ says Charles, coming up behind me.

‘Sorry?!’

‘Oh, I know you like him, and blah blah blah. But the man is a complete and utter penis.’

Every time I see Charles I feel like I’ve come home. It’s like every single, solitary cell in my body knows every cell of his.

‘No, you’ve got a point,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’d go as far as to say you’re right.’

‘Excellent!’ says Charles. ‘I love to have my wisdom appreciated by a beautiful woman.’

The second assistant director is frantically beckoning him, so he sets off down the beach.

‘I’ll see you over there!’ he shouts back at me, hair extensions blowing back comically in the wind.

Knowing it’ll take a good half hour to get the actors in place, I go and kill some time at the catering truck. I swear I put on at least a stone on every job. Gary the chef foists a bacon sandwich on me and I scoff it greedily, throwing out the odd crumb for the hordes of seagulls circling his van. By the time I get down to the beach, Emily’s already standing in the water, complaining bitterly about the cold. Tarquin’s still in the cajoling stage, the deceptive precursor to out-and-out rage.

‘Just lean forward, Ems, and ease yourself in. The quicker you do it, the quicker we’ll wrap.’

‘I can’t, Tarquin!’ she whines. ‘You couldn’t do your job if you were as cold as me.’

Charles hovers on the beach, face betraying nothing. We share a tiny smile, but I know I can’t risk approaching him. With so much standing around, all the crew have got to do is gossip, and the last thing I want to do is become hot topic numero uno. With a hysterical wail, Emily finally launches herself into the water.

‘OK, we’re going for a take,’ shouts the first assistant director.

Emily is meant to spot Charles on the beach and cry out for his assistance.

‘Sir Percival, Sir Percival!’ she squeaks, so high-pitched that I’m surprised there’s not feedback. Her arms fly up pathetically, making it blatantly obvious that her feet are safely rooted to the seabed.

‘You know what, Emily, I just don’t believe you,’ says Tarquin. ‘You keep telling me you’re desperate to get out, so show me that desperation when you’re calling for Charles.’

‘I am desperate!’ snarls Emily. ‘Look at my teeth,’ she continues, pointing at her gleaming, professionally whitened gnashers. ‘They’re chattering like fucking maracas!’

‘We all have to suffer for our art, Emily,’ shoots back Tarquin. ‘Take it from me, I’m suffering.’

I think we can safely say that cast relations are not Tarquin’s strong suit. Emily bursts into angry tears, storms from the water and slams the door of her trailer. With Suzanne speeding towards set, confidently assuming this shot’s in the can, Tarquin’s desperate. And guess who he thinks he can call on in his hour of need?

‘She just swore at me when I tried to go and see her,’ he pleads. ‘If she rings her agent then Suzanne will find out and I’ll be toast. I’m going to get my anger stuff under control, I promise. As a friend, please will you help me?’

Hmm, Tarquin getting fired. Much as I’m going off him, it’s his inexperience that’s saved me from getting busted. Anyone with more nouse would’ve known that I’ve already burnt my way through most of the cash. As I’m weighing up what’s best to do, I see Charles give me a tiny, imperceptible pleading look. Stuck there in his breeches, desperate for it all to be over, I’m his only hope. How can I let him down?

‘Emily?’ I say, rapping on the metallic door. ‘Can I talk to you?’

‘Go aw-aaay,’ she shouts nasally.

I pause, tempted to turn back and let Suzanne deal with the car crash that is this production, but then I remember Charles’s look of intimacy and trust. It’s us against the world and I for one am not giving in.

‘I totally understand why you’re upset. He behaved like a pig. But this is a war we can win.’

There’s a long pause and then the door creaks open.

‘A war?’ she says, a nasty smirk crossing her chops. Emily is pure poison and the prospect of a fight is way too tempting to turn down.

‘Yes, Emily, a war,’ I say, stepping inside, wondering when it was I became such a master manipulator. Then I remember how we used to play on Dad’s guilt about his absentee parenting skills to bankroll our teenage excess, and it all becomes clear.

‘Tarquin doesn’t think you’re up to the challenge, but we all know you are.’

‘Do you know that, Lulu, really?’

‘Your vulnerability is extraordinary,’ I tell her earnestly. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we’re at the BAFTAs next year, thanks to you.’

‘Seriously?’

Going on our current performances, I’m a way more worthy candidate. I know I’m a two-faced liar, but I’m prostituting my soul for the greater good. Or at least for love, however misplaced.

‘Oh yes,’ I continue. ‘But only if you can force yourself to take his shit for a few more weeks. He’s going nowhere fast, whereas you… well, in six months you’ll be sending him a postcard care of “Hollyoaks” from your hotel in Hollywood.’

Emily gives a honking giggle. ‘Aah, you’re well funny sometimes, Lulu. You’re right, I rule!’

‘Too right you do, girlfriend,’ I say, a phrase I never could have predicted would come out of my mouth.

Emily gives me a damp hug before letting me adjust her costume in preparation for receiving Tarquin’s grovelling apology.

‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,’ he sings as she approaches the water again. ‘Anything you want, Lulu, anything…’

Ten thousand pounds more budget and Charles’s marriage annulment spring to mind. Still, you can’t have everything. Thus far there’s no sign of either, but Charles does give me the most melting smile imaginable, causing my heart to not just turn over, but also do the splits and vault over a horse.

My pep talk has worked miracles. Emily knuckles down and does her bit, only resorting to the odd spot of pantomime shivering. Before long we’ve got to Charles’s turn in the water, which involves a long sprint up the beach before he frantically throws himself in. ‘Wish me luck,’ he whispers as the second assistant director takes him up the beach to the starting point. Tarquin, meanwhile, is virtually orgasming at the prospect of the running shot. He’s channelling Chariots of Fire and imagining he’s somehow going to snare an Oscar nomination for a low-budget TV potboiler. His arms are windmilling around as he instructs the camera team to do his bidding. ‘You’re in turmoil!’ he’s telling Charles. ‘You’ve been stamping down on your passion for Bertha for months, but now it’s cascading out of you!’ Charles looks faintly bemused by the spitting, fulminating director and quietly goes to find his mark. Eleven takes later (‘Run faster!’, ‘Run slower!’, ‘Groan in distress!’) Tarquin is forced to call it quits. The light is starting to go and we haven’t even begun the water section of the rescue. Charles retreats to his trailer while the camera team set up the shot. ‘Nice work, mate,’ shouts Tarquin, clapping him on the back, curiously oblivious to the hostility that’s radiating off him.

As I’m busying myself in the wardrobe caravan, my phone beeps. ‘Has my favourite crew member got time for a much-needed hot chocolate?’ I run over my good intentions from last week, before tossing them aside. Surely I can make an exception for such a stressful day? I take a circuitous route round the back of the beach, paranoid about being spotted. Why am I feeling so guilty when so little has happened? I sense he feels the same, judging by the way he bundles me into his trailer and slams the door.

‘Here you are, darling,’ he says, thrusting a mug into my hand. ‘I only wish it was something stronger.’

‘Me too,’ I agree, a tad too fervently.

‘You did brilliantly earlier. It’s so obvious you should be directing this show, not that dwarfish dick-head.’

‘Oh, I know,’ I say. ‘If only they’d recognize my genius!’

‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he laughs.

We guzzle our hot chocolates, sitting a little too close, until I’m lost in a fantasy that we’re on a caravanning honeymoon (a fantasy I could never have predicted, but it’s good to riff on the reality that’s presented). We’re weaving through rural France in a charming 1940s model, taking frequent sex stops in beautiful valleys. My reverie’s broken by a harsh rap on the metal door. I flinch, illogically casting my eyes around for somewhere to hide. ‘Charles, on set in five,’ shouts the second AD.

‘Coming!’ he shouts back.

‘I’m so glad you’re here for this,’ he says conspiratorially. ‘I’m utterly dreading it.’

‘I’m totally here.’

‘Good,’ he says gently then springs to his feet. ‘Will I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, leaning forward and readjusting his shirt a bit. What am I thinking? Touching him is asking for trouble. I know it’s a cliché, but it feels like a current of electricity is running between us. We break away and I make for the door.

‘I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes,’ he says, the subtext of people might talk ringing out loud and clear.

‘OK,’ I say, shaken and stirred.

Tarquin’s pretty much frothing at the mouth by now, doing a strange, rocking dance as he describes the handheld angles he’s going to use to cover some of the rescue. The laddish blokes who make up the crew humour him, but look distinctly bemused. Once Charles and Emily are in the water, Charles slips effortlessly into character, yanking her from the surf in an utterly convincing state of love-struck panic. Although my brain knows he’s acting, my innards experience a sharp pang of jealousy. How misplaced and absurd is that? The real issue is the fact that he goes home to a wife and children, not that he’s good at acting. Take after take ensues, with Emily’s whinge-o-meter gradually creeping up the scale. To be fair, she’s got a point, although not one word of complaint crosses Charles’s lips.

Finally we get to the last shot, a blatant rip-off of From Here to Eternity, where Percival carries a sodden, half-dead Bertha out of the water and back to the big house. Mutters of relief ring round the set as Tarquin’s hellishly slow seaside sojourn starts to look like it might be drawing to a close. I spot Charles give me a subtle smile from the water, more relieved than most that it’s nearly done.

‘Action!’ shouts Tarquin.

And within a matter of minutes my brief reign as on-set golden girl is over. As the dwindling winter sun starts to dry out the cheap Lycra mix that I used for Charles’s breeches, they don’t just cling to his form but turn virtually transparent. The entire crew stands transfixed, staring at his (not inconsiderable) tackle, until Tarquin finally notices.

‘Cut, cut, cut!’ he shouts, beyond enraged. ‘How the FUCK did this happen?’

Charles, now aware his crotch is the star of the show, is trying to cover himself. I rush over with a towel, apologies streaming forth.

‘I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea that –’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ says Tarquin, icily menacing, ‘but doesn’t your job description suggest that having an IDEA about the costumes is key?’

‘I know, I know… I’m sorry, but the budget…’

I’m trying my best not to cry, unable to look at Charles who I’m right next to.

‘I don’t wanna hear it. You’re a fucking amateur and I want you off my set. You’ve humiliated the most important person here.’

I seriously think about drowning myself, but I fear it would take too long.

‘Just stop there!’ shouts Charles unexpectedly. ‘You do not talk to her like that. It was an honest mistake. What gives you the right to talk to people like they’re dirt?’

‘I was defending you from that fucking incompetent!’ shouts Tarquin.

‘The only person we need defending from is you,’ counters Charles. ‘Not Lulu.’

‘Fine,’ says Tarquin, all ice. ‘You’ve made your feelings clear.’ He turns as if to return to his trailer, staying long enough to mutter ‘You stupid little bitch’ under his breath. As he says it I feel my guts contract, acutely aware he’ll make my life a misery for whatever time I’ve got left on this job.

‘What did you say?’ snarls Charles, who’s still right next to us. Before Tarquin’s had time to reply, he’s launching himself at him. ‘Don’t you dare talk to her like that.’

I’d like to say that he fights a duel for my honour, but the first AD steps in before he can even land a punch. Charles shakes him off and storms off to his trailer, after which the day is mercifully declared a wrap. The shot will have to be picked up, at a cost of thousands, and I’ll be lucky to stay in my job.

I know I’ve got a lot of grovelling to do, but I need to pull myself together first. I run to my car, shaking off the kindly colleagues who try to talk to me, desperate to find the bottle of Rescue Remedy I keep in the glove compartment. I shake a few drops under my tongue, lean on the steering wheel and sob my heart out, praying for the moment to arrive where I’ll be calm enough to call Alice. How could I have done that to Charles? And what will Zelda think of me when she finds out what scant care I’ve taken of her legendary reputation? When there’s a tap on the window, I jump out of my skin. I wouldn’t put it past Tarquin to light a match and leave me to die, a human fireball. ‘She asked for it,’ he’d tell the police self-righteously. ‘She was flagrantly compromising my brilliance.’ I hesitantly look up, only to see Charles peering in at me. I wind down the window.

‘I will never, ever forgive myself for what I just did to you. If they don’t sack me, I promise I’ll resign, although…’ And with that I dissolve into a new storm of tears, thinking about how stuffed Zelda will be if I come off this job.

‘Hey, can I get a word in edgeways?’ says Charles kindly. ‘In fact, can I get in?’

I flick the lock and try to get myself under control. If he ever did harbour any impossible and pointless desires, they’ll be well and truly quashed by the sight of my snotty, red face. Madame Bovary must’ve been very good at keeping a stiff upper lip: full-scale waterworks are a cast-iron antidote to adultery. Or maybe not. Charles is stroking my hair now, making shushing noises. I still can’t bring myself to look up, partly because the sensation is so hypnotic.

‘Lulu, we all make mistakes. Me turning down We Will Rock You for example. I’d have no mortgage and a house in the Maldives if I’d had the foresight to realize it would run and run.’

I twist my head to the left and look at him.

‘Did you really turn it down? You don’t look much like Freddie Mercury.’

‘No, but I knew the thought of me in tight leather trousers would bring you back to the land of the living.’

He’s right. I laugh despite myself.

‘I am really sorry though, Charles. I know I’m sounding like a broken record, but I don’t know how to convey to you…’

And again the tears are coming. Today was truly terrible, but these sobs dig much deeper, right into the bottomless void that’s been left by Zelda’s absence. It’s bad enough to think that she’ll be furious, but even worse to think she might not be that bothered. That there might be bigger shadows looming that will make Charles’s transparent trousers pale into insignificance.

I find myself telling him all this between sobs, letting him hold my hand, and ultimately leaning into his chest in a soggy, spent heap. He’s stroking my hair, I’m looking up… and then we’re kissing. I’ll never know who started it, but once it’s begun there’s no stopping it. He’s leaning over, trying to get more of a grip on me, I’m pulling at his hair, kissing him ferociously – and then I remember what this means and force myself to pull away.

‘Christ, Lulu, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… Oh bugger, why do you have to be so damn lovely?’

He’s looking at me with such soulful intensity, with a depth of feeling that I return in spades. But I know that the second I articulate it, life as I know it will be over.

‘I think you probably should go,’ I hear myself saying, when what I really want to say is I think you should stay for ever and ever. Oh God: what if the love of my life just happens to be the love of someone else’s life too?

‘You’re right, I should,’ he agrees, sending a sensation of cold blackness right through me. Why doesn’t he come up with some magical solution that will make this the joyous thing that it should be, rather than the sordid little workplace fumble that it looks like?

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, wondering whether we kiss goodbye on the cheek like nothing’s happened. But Charles leans in and kisses me very lightly on the lips.

‘Goodbye, Lulu,’ he says, holding my gaze before he steps out into the night.

‘Goodbye’ could mean so many things – but right now none of them sound good.