Chapter Twelve

‘How much would I have to pay you to eat that pickled egg?’ asks Gareth.

We’re in a skanky café deep in the Midlands, trying to find something edible to snack on en route to Ripon.

‘Million pounds. Look how grey it is. God knows how farty the yolk would taste.’

‘Seriously, Lulu, how much?’

‘Um, fifty quid.’

‘Oh, come on, you’d do it for forty. That’s twenty whole copies of Grazia with enough change for a Toblerone.’

‘I’m not a prostitute!’

‘I’m not asking you to have sex for money.’

‘It’s basically the same thing. You’re still asking me to sell my body. It’s just it’s my taste buds instead of my fanny.’

This is the kind of inane discussion that can keep Gareth and I amused for hours. After years spent holed up in the wardrobe caravan or tearing up the motorway, we’ve learnt just how low we need to go to pass the time. We compromise on two bags of crisps and some digestives – if Julia saw what dietary carnage this job wreaked she’d have me extradited – and head back to the car.

I should be dreading this trip: the director and the producer think I’m a moron, I’m desperately over-budget, I’ve snogged the (very) married leading man and the female star’s a ten-carat diva. In practice there’s a part of me that’s filled with a destructive excitement. I’m glad to escape the gloopy familial soup that’s been causing me so much stress and illogically thrilled to be exiled with Charles. I know I can’t have him, but I still love being around him and a trip away makes it unavoidable. My sensible side won out in London, keeping me safely locked away in the production office, but now we’re out on the wild prairies my inner hedonist is demanding an audience. And with Alice and I uncharacteristically alienated, it feels like there’s no one around to keep her in check.

But perhaps I’m taking it all too much to heart. Alice has got love goggles on and cannot bear to engage with anything that contrasts with her blissed-out view of humanity. If only Richard was remotely worthy, but the more I observe, the more convinced I am that he’s not. She seems to spend her whole time hanging around in full make-up, waiting for him to finish work. I wish she’d demand more of him, but instead she seems to run around doing his bidding like some kind of 1950s throwback, to the point where she even delivered him a hot dinner on Sunday night. Let’s hope she’ll eventually wake up to the fact that he’s Mr Right Now, not Mr Right. It’s definitely not the moment to broach it; we’ve been scratchy and irritable since the row we had after the dinner, bickering about tiny domestic details like who’s first in the shower.

There’s no doubt that the other end of the country is the best place for me as there’s absolutely nothing to keep me in London. I sent Ali the longest, most apologetic text I could muster, receiving a terse ‘Don’t worry about it x’ in response. The single x suggests he perhaps doesn’t think I’m the devil incarnate, although he totally ignored my suggestion that I take him out and make it up to him. Perhaps it’s best he did; it’s an ambiguous suggestion and ambiguity is all I can offer right now.

It’s gone eleven by the time Gareth and I reach Ripon. We’re staying twenty miles outside, deep in the wilds of Yorkshire, which tests our navigation skills to the max. It all feels a bit like ‘Scooby Doo’ as I steer my little Peugeot down deep, dark country roads, praying that we don’t break down and get eaten by wolves. Despite my myriad crimes, my head of department status has afforded me a whole cottage of my own, tucked away down a windy lane. I’m thrilled when I finally get there, after dropping Gareth off at his guest house. It’s absolutely tiny, but the log fire and Aga combo immediately make it feel like home. I collapse into my comfy bed, craving my measly five hours of sleep. But for some reason sleep is elusive. The aloneness feels unnerving, unfamiliar; what would happen if a wolf came in through the cat flap? Every time I start to drop off I begin to imagine noises from downstairs, and end up snatching a couple of hours with the light on.

The call time is five a.m. and I arrive on-set bleary-eyed and desperate for coffee. We’re shooting exteriors today, right at the top of a hill. Emily’s meant to fall to her knees and weep, utterly pole-axed by the fact she can’t be with Charles. I mean, Sir Percy. Right now I’m feeling for the make-up girls, who’ll be pleading with her not to coat her eyelashes in thick mascara. Period accuracy is not her strong suit.

The view from here is amazing, but the driving wind is making it incredibly difficult to set up Tarquin’s first shot. He’s stomping around in a matt black anorak, casting dark looks at the camera team and swearing to himself in Italian. In Italian? Has he dropped the Guy Ritchie moniker in favour of Fellini? I smile tentatively at him and he gestures me over.

‘We might need weather cover,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping your team are prepped and ready with costumes if we have to shoot the arrival part of the ball scene.’

‘Scene seventy-four?’ I say, shocked. I’m sure that the schedule dictates that we’ll shoot a simple conversation between Percy and his mother, Lady Agatha, if the weather’s bad. My team are still stitching polyester ball gowns like they’re going out of fashion (which they are, incidentally).

‘Fuck the schedule. All the cast are up here anyway so I can go off piste. I have to trust my mood, Lulu, and what I’ve been working on is emotional flagellation. I don’t want any repressed, quivering, posh-boy rubbish from Charles.’ He’s waving his arms around again, lost in his own genius. ‘I want an explosion of pent-up pain!’

Maybe he’s in pain. I’m certainly in pain listening to him. Much as I’ve been avoiding her, the person I now need on side is Suzanne. There’s no way I can deliver on scene 74 and my beleaguered reputation can’t stand any more on-set humiliation. She’s in Emily’s winnebago, intermittently freezing her tits off by ducking outside for a drag on her inevitable fag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a cigarette hanging off her hand. I wonder if she rigs a huge one up over her bed at night to suckle on like an enormous nipple.

I swear I’m psychic: a momentary chat in a cloud of smoke establishes that she’s having the exact argument that I predicted about mascara. It doesn’t look like she’s going to win it any time soon. Maybe this is my chance to prove my worth.

‘Hi, Emily!’ I trill. ‘God, I might get my eyelashes dyed. Yours look amazing!’

‘Do you think?’ she says, smiling prettily.

‘Oh yeah, they’re great. You must not even need mascara or anything.’ She looks momentarily suspicious at this incredibly prescient comment, but I steamroller on. ‘Is that you?’ Her mirror’s peppered with pictures of a cute blonde toddler in retro clothes.

‘Yeah, I was at my mum’s at the weekend and she had them all out. Just thought it’d be nice, you know…’

How vain do you have to be to display pictures of your infant self around your place of work? Even if I wanted to I’d struggle as there’s no way of knowing who’s who in most of me and Alice’s archive.

‘They’re really lovely!’ I say, disgusted by my hypocrisy but gratified to spot Suzanne’s smile of approval. ‘Do you mind if I grab our esteemed producer for a minute?’ Emily nods her assent and I lead Suzanne over the brow of the hill and out of Tarquin’s sight. I outline the problem to her, trying not to convey how much work is left to do on the costumes for the ball. Suzanne looks increasingly worried, shaking her head and treating herself to an extra big drag on her fag.

‘I’m seriously worried. He can’t shift the schedule on a whim like that, it’s so undisciplined. And his rushes…’

The daily footage is what all the executive producers will be poring over. They took a risk employing Tarquin and they’ll need to know they’re getting sufficient bang for their buck.

‘Are they disappointing?’ I ask her leadingly. Suzanne looks at me appraisingly, weighing up whether to confide in me. The fact that she’s known me since I was in short trousers wins out.

‘It’s hard to know before they’re properly edited, but I’m not sure he understands what a TV audience want.’

Star Wars in crinolines surely?

‘What are the execs thinking? Do they agree with you?’

‘They’re not here to see him on the floor and I don’t want them thinking it’s going badly unless it’s strictly necessary. I’ve already had to lie through my teeth in order to explain away your genius stunt by the seaside. If I hit them with the potential sacking of a director after a massive insurance claim, there’s no knowing what will happen.’

I look down, knowing there’s no point spewing out more meaningless apologies. Will I ever come back from my disastrous mistake? Besides, her woes run way deeper than that. If she tries to point out Tarquin’s inadequacies to the execs she’ll be asking them to admit they made a mistake hiring him. The far easier option will be blaming her for managing the shoot badly.

‘He likes you, Lulu, despite that whole carry-on.’

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ The last thing I want is her thinking my loyalties lie elsewhere. She’s only letting me hang on in there because she thinks Zelda’s coming back: if her leave of absence is going to spiral out of control, Suzanne’s patronage will be critical.

‘No, he’s got a definite soft spot for you – that’s why you’re the first person he’s told what he’s planning. Can you keep tabs on him for me? Be my eyes and ears?’

‘I don’t know if I could –’

She cuts across me, hard-faced. ‘I’m asking for your help here. You could say you owe me one under the circumstances.’

‘You’re asking me to spy –’

‘No, I’m not,’ she snaps. ‘I’m sharing my worries and asking you to help. I need to know what he’s up to. This budget’s tight enough without him springing any more surprises on me.’

Suddenly I see a way this could work for me, even if it does require me to sell my soul.

‘And therein lies the problem. It’s taking all my time just to find ways round it. I don’t know where I’d find space to work on Tarquin.’

I pause meaningfully, knowing Suzanne’s canny enough to pick up the implication. There’s a short Mexican standoff before she offers me an extra £3k. Thank God for that: Charles would’ve been in Bermuda shorts by episode six without this emergency top-up. And it’s not just me I’m batting for – I can’t bear for Zelda’s reputation to suffer. Still, I know full well that Suzanne will be expecting her pound of flesh in return. I hope I’m not going to live to regret this.

She puffs off to speak to the other heads of department, who are all going ape shit about Tarquin’s schedule change. Luckily the weather displays a minimal improvement, so we revert to the original plan – Charles taking his uptight intended for a romantic walk while pining for Emily. I haven’t seen him since the mysterious Polish ‘sorry’ and my nerves are off the scale. Will he be blandly friendly or quietly brooding? If he knew how much pointless mental energy I spent anticipating our meetings, I’d be so ashamed.

I endure the anxiety for fifteen minutes or so and then feel suddenly angered by my own pathos. Why do I spend my entire life flumping around, waiting for idiot men to set the emotional agenda? I’m going to head for his trailer and try on my power-bitch knickers for size: it’s a way better policy than waiting for an unpredictable and public meeting on-set. I stride over and rap on the door.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he calls. There’s a pause and then he pulls the door open. ‘Sorry, I was on the phone,’ he says, then takes in it’s me. ‘Lulu!’ he says, a wide grin splitting his face in two. ‘Er, I mean, Lulu,’ now self-consciously muted, ‘come in.’

And that’s it, all I need to know contained in a single greeting. I’m instantly gratified, then horribly aware how inappropriate it is for me to be in his trailer when all I want to do is kiss him.

‘Um, tea? Coffee?’ he says, flustered. ‘Drambuie?’

‘I only drink absinthe before lunch.’

‘An excellent choice.’

I perch on a chair, suddenly revisited by that feeling of intimacy, of knowing, that engulfed me in the pub. Being in an unfamiliar environment has brought it flooding back, even though all the complicating factors still exist. He hands me a cup of tea, leaning down to give it to me and looking at me with his full attention.

‘What’s been happening to you, Lulu? I’ve hardly seen you.’

‘Oh, you know, not much. Sewing, mending, other forms of domestic servitude.’

He laughs, holding my gaze. ‘I mean what’s really been happening with you? Lulu the Brave, not Lulu the one-woman pincushion.’

I look back at him, weighing up whether to be flippant or honest.

‘Um, I’ve just been trying to get on with it. Get over it. Oh God, get over what? Sorry, I sound like a loony.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he says softly, as there’s a sharp rap on the door. I find myself jumping up like a scalded cat, stowing myself behind the door. The first assistant director mercifully stays outside, shouting through that Charles is needed immediately. I straighten up, feeling like even more of a mentalist.

‘You can come out now,’ he says, casting me an affectionate grin. ‘Look, we’ve clearly got to talk about this. Can I prevail on you to drive me home if I promise not to drag you in by your hair?’

What’s he asking for here? Surely what we said in the pub covered all bases? We’re desperately attracted, but we can’t be together. I know I should walk away, but somehow my power knickers have lost their elastic. Instead I promise to meet him on wrap and leave his winnebago high as a kite. But every gust of anticipation is followed by a cloud of doom as I remember how hopeless it all is. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all right for me to play make believe for one single day. I can do penance tomorrow after the inevitable crash.

Luckily I’ve got too much to do to obsess (although I make a pretty good attempt). I’ve got £3k to play with and I need to work out how to get the most out of it before Suzanne tries to snatch it back. I go and grab Gareth, pinning him down in the wardrobe caravan for a brainstorming session.

‘Why’s the old trout relented anyway?’ he asks. ‘She’s known we’ve been up shit creek for weeks. Could it be she’s finally got over trouser-gate?’

‘Yeah, I think she has,’ I say, knowing full well Suzanne’s holding it over me like an axe. Figuring it’s safer for Gareth that he’s not implicated in the counter-surveillance, I get back to the job in hand. ‘But what we need to decide is how to squeeze the most value add out of it.’

I pause for a second, wondering if I should just call Zelda, but something stops me.

‘Well, the money shot is the ball,’ says Gareth, somehow managing to wheel the conversation back round to sperm.

‘I know, but if we blow it all there we’ll have bugger all for Lady Victoria’s funeral. Not to mention the fact that we’ve got two weddings to prep.’

Sir Percy eventually cleaves to his parents’ wishes, entering into a loveless union with Lady Victoria, but when she conveniently dies in childbirth three episodes later, he elopes with Bertha and hangs the consequences. ‘Last Carriage’ is nothing if not predictable.

‘Yes, darling,’ continues Gareth, ‘but if they’ve eloped she could be wearing virtually a pinny.’ I look at him, my expression conveying what histrionics we’d have to endure if Emily’s big moment took place in a mob cap. ‘I see your point,’ he concedes.

The two of us spend the rest of the afternoon sketching, working out how to pull off two weddings on a budget like we’re on a low-rent reality show. Gareth suggests he goes back down to London to get properly stuck into Lady Victoria’s dress, but I can’t bear to sanction it.

‘Lulu, you’d be fine. It’s all under control up here.’

He’s probably right: we’re the most senior members of the team and it makes sense to spread our resources. But I feel like I’m swimming with sharks as it is, let alone if I cut my Guy Friday adrift. He’s exasperated, but I can see he’s touched, and he suggests we continue our planning into the evening over a pub dinner.

‘Um, I can’t,’ I say awkwardly, groping for a reasonable explanation.

‘Oh, I see,’ says Gareth, raising an eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share? Sparks with the sparks? Hide the sausage with the caterers?’

‘No,’ I say emphatically. ‘I just want an early night.’

‘You’ve got to eat!’ says Gareth reasonably. Jesus, I must seem so antisocial.

‘I know, but I wanna talk to Alice and I’ve got to wash my hair.’

How lame an excuse is that? Gareth puts a hand up. ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘you must do what you need to do.’ I don’t blame him for being spiky with me; I’d feel the same in reverse. I really need to work on my alibi skills. Or rather I DON’T, as this ridiculous situation is obviously going to stop after this evening. I promise myself I’ll make it up to Gareth as soon as I’m out of the wanton woods, and turn my attention to my no make-up make-up look.

The weather takes a turn for the worse over the course of the afternoon and, although we just about stick to the schedule, we drop a couple of shots and wrap early. I faff around in the caravan till Gareth’s gone, then text Charles to tell him the coast is clear. He appears in an instant, tugging away at the mutton chop sideburns that the hair team have plastered to his face.

‘I ran out on Kerry when she was in the middle of ungluing them. She must think I’ve got some weird facial hair fetish,’ he says, twinkling at me.

‘That’s nothing!’ I counter, telling him all about the lame excuse I fed Gareth. Oh God, we’re talking like lovers when almost nothing’s occurred. Maybe we’re just picking up the nineteenth-century vibe and making it our own.

‘Are you sure you want me to drive you home?’ I ask him. ‘I’m pretty shit on a straight road in blazing sunshine, let alone in this.’ I gesture to the window, which is being repeatedly bashed by branches as the wind works its way up into something close to a hurricane.

‘We’ll survive, Lulu, I’m convinced of it,’ he says, holding the door of the caravan open for me chivalrously.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

We fight our way to the car and set off into the blustery night. It appears tough but do-able until we discover that all lanes look the same in the dark. I can just about work out the route to my cottage, because I drove myself here this morning, but Charles is stumped as to where his is as he was transported half asleep. The production office has provided local maps, but I’ve stupidly left mine on the kitchen table so we decide to take a detour via the cottage. I park up, suddenly self-conscious, hoping I haven’t left any underwear scattered around the place. Considering this relationship started with me handing him my knickers, it’s the last thing I need.

I push open the door and he follows me in, his large frame seeming to fill the doll’s-house proportions of the dinky kitchen. The Aga’s giving off a comforting warmth and there’s a bottle of wine on the side. We take in the howling gale, then look at each other a little too long.

‘One for the road?’ he says, and I feel my insides turn to mulch as I smile an assent. I uncork the bottle, turning away so he can’t see me blushing. We’ve agreed it can’t go any further and I know it mustn’t. I’ve got to remain dignified and accepting, not love-struck and needy.

I pass him a glass and we retire to the sofa, chinking cheers. Then there’s a loaded pause which gradually starts to feel unbearable. I don’t want him to think I’m sitting here pathetically waiting for a miracle so I jump right into it.

‘How are you finding your costumes?’ I gabble. ‘Is there anything you’d particularly like me to change, other than obviously not leaving you naked in front of the whole crew again. I mean –’

‘Lulu,’ he says, putting his hand on my arm. ‘You don’t need to do this. It’s me who needs to be apologizing to you.’

Here we go: the world’s most drawn-out dumping. Why did I agree to this?

‘It would’ve been completely irresponsible of me to kiss you under any circumstances, but particularly when I knew how I felt about you.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask him, feeling my voice quavering.

‘Knowing it would never just be a snog. Knowing that the minute it happened all the feelings I had for you would get totally out of hand. I should’ve just kept it to myself.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ I tell him, struck yet again by how impossible I find it to be anything but honest with him.

‘Darling, I’m so happy you say that, but now look where we are.’

‘Where are we?’ I say, before he silences me with a kiss. I get lost in it, consumed and swept up by the passion of it all. He pushes me backwards, rolls more on top of me, then pulls away.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m like a schoolboy when I’m around you. I’m meant to be talking to you, not trying to rip your clothes off. That’s why I’ve been trying so desperately hard to keep myself to myself.’

‘I thought you’d gone off me,’ I mutter. He gives a wry smile.

‘I’m afraid that’s a medical impossibility.’

‘I’m glad,’ I say, wanting so much to pull him back down towards me. I wish, I wish… Christ, what’s happened to me? What kind of bitch lies beneath the father of someone else’s children, feeling gratified by their erection?

‘Let me rearrange myself,’ he says, straightening his humped-up jeans, ‘and then let me try and explain to you why I’m seemingly behaving like such a grade-one shit.’

I try to pull myself together, sitting back up and retreating to my end of the sofa. He grabs my hand, looks at me imploringly.

‘I don’t even know if you want to hear this, but I feel like I should try and provide some context.’ I nod, unable to speak. ‘Bea taught me at drama school – she’s a few years older than me – and I don’t know what it was she thought she saw in me, but she seemed to instantly decide that we were destined. She was incredibly striking and impressive, and I just got carried along by it for a while.’ He pauses, cocking his head. ‘I must sound like a total girl when I describe it.’ He laughs. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken,’ I counter.

‘So, anyway, we’re a year or so in and suddenly she’s pregnant. And I’ve been having doubts, feeling like it’s more that I admire her than I’m in love with her, but the last thing I want to do is pressure her into an abortion and I can’t just up and leave. And then Maxie turns up and, though it was chaos at first, being a dad made sense of a lot of things that seemed pointless before.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘I suppose that once you have children, they become the point. They have to really, if you’re going to be any kind of parent.’

And a selfish part of me thinks that whatever happens between us, they’ll always come first: they have to. There’ll always be someone who needs him more than me. This isn’t about you, I tell myself sternly, and focus on what he’s telling me.

‘So I suppose we got swept along by having a common purpose and because I was away so much working we could ignore the fact that we didn’t have much to say to each other. And we didn’t want Max to be on his own, so then Theo came along and there we are, a fully-formed family.’

He looks at me, pain writ large, trying to gauge my reaction. I’m struggling to contain it all, totally unsure what the rules are. All I know is that my feelings for him are so strong that his unhappiness twists up inside me like a rag. Part of me wants the conclusion to be that he can’t live a lie, but I can’t bear to be the agent of his family’s destruction. He carries on.

‘I mean, the wedding said it all. I knew Bea wanted it, and it seemed ridiculous to have two children together and not be married. She just arranged the whole thing, I had three days off from “Casualty”, slipped into my husband role, went straight back. On the day it felt like I was a guest, like I was watching myself get married from the sidelines.’ He gives a sad smile. ‘It was probably the greatest performance of my career.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, trying to break the almost unbearable intensity, ‘I’m not having that. Your Sir Percy is a towering performance.’

‘It’s all down to the director, darling. And, anyway, you clearly haven’t seen my classic Sugar Puffs advertisement from 2003. The way I hold the spoon over the bowl, just hovering…’

We’re laughing, then kissing, then pulling away.

‘Oh Christ, Lulu, I’m such a fool. I should never have married someone I didn’t feel like this about, whatever the circumstances.’

‘But if you’re this unhappy…’ I trail off, unable to bear the sound of myself asking why he hasn’t left. Who is this heartless home-wrecker I’ve metamorphosed into?

‘Because I can’t bear what it would do to the children and I can’t bear not waking up in the same house as them.’

‘Couldn’t you go for joint custody? Live nearby and see them every week?’

‘It’s more complicated than that. Maxie…’ He’s struggling to speak.

‘Darling?’ I say gently. He continues.

‘He’s been diagnosed as being gifted, which turns out to be something of a poisoned chalice. He’s completely brilliant at maths, but he struggles so much with social situations and I’m one of the few constants in his life. The world feels like such a big, scary place to him. Perhaps that’s why he finds something with rules and parameters so rewarding. If I just upped and left…’

He looks away and I encircle his wrist, squeezing it. ‘That’s really hard,’ I say, stroking the hairs on the back of his arm. My heart’s going out to him, while simultaneously a tiny part of me wonders if this is the first time he’s been in a situation like this. I hate myself for thinking it, but how can I not?

‘And it’s not just the kids,’ he continues. ‘Bea’s given up so much to do this properly. She’s such a wife, you know?’ I try to look like I get it, though I’m not sure I do entirely. ‘Kids and a husband and a white picket fence were all she ever wanted. I’m not sure I can bear taking it away from her, not at this stage.’

An image of her looking like the Wicked Witch of the West, all long, straggly hair and yellowed teeth, flits across my mind. How old is she? My Internet stalking has established he’s almost forty so I’m guessing she’s forty-three or so.

‘Christ, this is so wrong of me,’ he says, ‘off-loading like this. You don’t need to get dragged into my car crash of a life.’ He swivels away, shoulders shaking, and I move across the sofa instinctively to hug him from behind.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, stroking his hair. My compassion feels whole-hearted now, no room left for niggling doubts about his sincerity. We stay like that for a while before he twists back round and pushes me down, kissing me deeply.

‘I don’t think you’ve got any idea how amazing you are… Jesus, Lulu, why does our timing have to be so terrible?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. Tears spring to my eyes with the hopelessness of it all. We lie, entwined, communicating via the warmth of our bodies and the strength of our heartbeats. Despite the layers of clothing it almost feels like we’re one person.

‘I should go,’ he says eventually. ‘Stop boring you to tears and let you get on with your evening.’ Then we start kissing again, gradually becoming more impassioned.

‘You really should go,’ I tell him and then return to the job in hand. I reach for my wine glass, suddenly aware that there’s now a mere thimbleful in the bottom of the bottle. ‘Bollocks, there’s no way I can drive you anywhere, even if we could navigate.’

‘Disaster!’ he says, grinning naughtily. ‘I’m joking, Lulu. I won’t take advantage of your weakened defences, but I will avail myself of your excellent sofa if that’s OK. I don’t think these country types go in for cabs.’

‘Of course,’ I say, as he pushes me down again, rolling over on top of me, legs at a right angle.

‘What I wouldn’t do for a flat surface,’ he says.

‘Oh no,’ I say, ‘not a chance,’ but find myself submitting when he drags me down on to the floor.

To my great chagrin, I think it’s me who starts the process of tunnelling under clothes, undoing a couple of his shirt buttons and touching his chest. He slips a hand inside my sweater, but it goes no further. Instead we carry on with the virginal teenage frotting, muttering things to one another at intervals. When his phone rings it’s a horrible shock, not least because I’ve got no signal so assumed we were safe. ‘Hang on,’ he says, going into the bathroom to answer it. I pull my jumper down, cold and exposed, a dull ache spreading through me as I crash land. I can hear the modulation of his voice, but not the words. Ten minutes later he comes back in and perches on the sofa awkwardly.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says sheepishly.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say in a small voice, lost without a rule book yet again.

‘Oh God, how weird is this?’ he says. ‘This just feels so utterly normal, in the most lovely way, like we’ve started some incredible relationship that’s meant to be, and then I keep remembering what a nightmare it all is. That I’m breaking off from kissing you to say goodnight to my children.’

‘We can’t carry on,’ I tell him, determined to be the one to say it. If it’s me being strong then perhaps I can stand it.

‘I know, I know. But perhaps we could have a little bit more of each other before we have to harden ourselves?’

‘What, like a holiday romance?’ I ask.

‘Yes, a special offer. For one week only… Oh bugger, that’s probably a terrible idea. One evening with you is catastrophic enough for my mental well-being.’

He grabs me again, rolling me back down on to the rug. As he’s kissing me, his hands slip up into my bra. I think about stopping him, insisting we halt operations at first base, but I’ve lost the will. Logic seems fuzzy and indistinct now; there’s just him and me and the crush of our bodies. We continue to kiss for ages until it starts to get cold and the floor gets unbearably hard. I don’t know who suggests moving to the bed, but they should be court-martialled and shot. Once we’ve reached it, we’re on an unstoppable trajectory. His hand slips under my skirt, then peels it off. I lie there in my underwear, self-conscious, knowing I should resist. He looks at me searchingly, tracking my body with his eyes.

‘You are utterly beguiling, do you know that?’

And with that, I’m lost. His clothes come off too and then he’s on top of me, both of us now naked. I hate the expression, but when he slips inside me it feels like making love in the purest sense. How can this possibly be wrong? We’re kissing throughout, murmuring intimacies to one another. It’s the best sex of my life, despite the fact that it’s far from perfect technically (if you get my drift). The intensity of it, the feeling behind it: this is surely how it’s meant to be (ideally minus one of the participants being married). We lie there afterwards telling each other how amazing it was and how much we both wish things were different. I don’t say it, but there’s no way I can deny to myself that I’m falling in love with him.

‘How can you possibly be single?’ he asks. ‘How come you haven’t got every red-blooded man within the radius of the M25 howling at your door?’

I think momentarily of Ali, whose howl has been well and truly hushed by my stupid behaviour.

‘Sometimes there’s a dull bark, but I don’t think you’ve got any idea how hard it is to find someone you really want to be with.’

‘What about your twin, is she with anyone? I can’t believe there’s another person out there as gorgeous as you to contend with.’

I start out just telling him about vile Richard, but the fact that he’s so easy to talk to means it expands into a snapshot of the whole of my life. I describe the dodgy family dinner; how when we lost our mum we somehow seemed to lose our dad too.

‘Poor baby,’ he says, stroking my hair. ‘That must’ve been so hard for you when you were still so young.’

I’m choked up, so relieved to be heard and acknowledged after Alice’s recent refusal to listen. It seems like, in this bed on this night, there is nothing I could say that would be unacceptable: it feels almost womb-like in its safety. Just for now I’m going to pretend that the morning doesn’t exist.

Unfortunately, much like Cher, I’m unable to turn back time. We must’ve drifted off to sleep around three thirty a.m. and now, after a generous two hours’ sleep, it’s time to get ready for work. I look down at a comatose Charles. My mouth feels fungal and my head’s throbbing, but my most overriding symptom is visceral, corrosive guilt. How could I have done that? What terrible karma will be visited on me if I’m ever lucky enough to marry someone myself?

‘Hi,’ he says sleepily, pulling me down towards him. I subtly turn my face away, the fungal factor and the self-hatred playing an equal part. ‘Oh, sweetheart, are you feeling awful?’ he says, and I feel the melting sensation beginning.

‘Look, it happened,’ I say, looking down at him. ‘It’s bad, but it’s happened. Right now we just have to concentrate on getting into work without anyone busting us.’

‘OK,’ he says, squeezing my hand and jumping out of bed. He lopes towards the bathroom naked, arse perfect, shoulders broad. Oh God, I want him so badly. I wish that the straight and narrow was more appealing than this. I go downstairs to brew some coffee, trying my hardest to get a grip on the internal turmoil.

‘What do you want to do, Lulu?’ he says once we’re in the car. ‘I know we probably have to stop, but the idea that this is the end is almost unbearable to me.’

I’ve already warned him about my driving: he should know better. A good song on the radio’s enough to make me miss a turning, let alone a decision that will throw my whole life upside down. I don’t know what to wish for. I want him more than anything, but I know that the human cost is too high. But, then, perhaps it would be better for his kids to escape living in an atmosphere of silent resentment? Have a happy dad who’s not there every day, rather than a miserable shell of a man? I viciously chastise myself for straying down this particular path; it’s not for me to judge what’s best for anyone and there’s no way I can fool myself it’s born out of anything but self-interest. But I can’t walk away just yet. Soon, just not yet.

‘If we actually did treat it like a holiday romance, time-limited to when we go back down South…’ I say. Perhaps it’s all about self-discipline. I’ll award myself a brief period in which my heart can run amok like a hyperactive toddler, then banish it to the naughty step when time’s up.

‘Oh God, yes,’ he says. ‘If I can’t be with you, I’ve at least got to be allowed to make love to you again. As many times as is humanly possible before we’re thrown back into the wilderness.’

‘It’s a six-day reprieve,’ I tell him. ‘I’d suggest shaking on it, but I think I’d crash.’

He puts his hand on my thigh and rests it there till we’re nearly at the unit base. Then I tell him he’s got to lie down on the back seat so I can secretly drop him off in the car park. Surely I can handle it now we’ve got a plan?

I get to the wardrobe caravan to find Gareth harrumphing around, clearly still peeved about me blanking him last night.

‘You’re late. Did you suffer some near-death electrocution disaster while drying your hair?’

‘No…’ I say, laughing, hoping I can jolly him out of his bait.

‘Well, you clearly didn’t speak to Alice, as she was reduced to ringing me.’

‘Erm, no,’ I say, flustered, ‘my signal was completely non-existent so –’

‘She’s desperate to speak to you, wouldn’t tell me why. I suggest you carve some time out of your busy schedule to get back to her. Meanwhile, I’ve made an executive decision to go back to London.’

‘Gareth, don’t do that! I need you here, I really do.’

‘You think you do, but you don’t. You need me to get this wedding dress cut and stitched for Lady Victoria. The design’s lovely, Lulu, but that’s all it is.’

I can feel myself going into full panic mode at the idea of dealing with the whole operation sans Gareth. He’s so brilliant at chivvying the team, making sure they’re pulling their weight. I plead and beg, even attempt to pull rank, but he’s not for turning.

‘Needs must. Besides, I want to go round to Zelda’s and flush out what’s going on. We can’t keep this facade in play indefinitely.’

My heart sinks a little further. Zelda’s silence is starting to feel ominous, but, rather like when one’s waiting for a call from a man who’s never going to ring, it’s possible to project only good things into the void. I’m determinedly telling myself that no news is good news, even though it’s patently rubbish. Decision made, Gareth makes to leave.

‘Buck up, it’s not so bad. You look unfathomably exhausted for a girl who’s had a quiet night in. And call that sister of yours. I’m off to admire Charles Adamson in his pants.’

I emit a strange ‘heh heh heh’ noise, which turns out to be my new patented version of a laugh, and unsuccessfully attempt to call Alice, who’s clearly still dead to the world. I send her a vacuous text instead, telling her how lovely the cottage is, and resolve to call her later. Then I reluctantly head off in search of Tarquin, all set to kick off my charm offensive. Or should that be offensive charm, considering its misplaced motives?

He’s eating an egg roll by the catering bus, yolk avalanching down his stubbly chin. ‘Morning, Treacle,’ he says, opening his mouth wide enough to reveal its half-masticated load.

‘Hi, Tarquin,’ I say, trying to keep the revulsion off my face. What did I ever like about this man? ‘How’s day two in the Dales?’

‘Fabulous!’ he replies, enthusiastically wiping his eggy paws on his denim knees. I swear he’s bipolar; his moods bounce from high to low like a demented space-hopper. ‘Obviously we dropped a scene yesterday, but it’s not like we needed it! I want to pare this story down, pick out the bare bones of the character journeys. Now I’ve Damien on hand, I think we can really move beyond the obvious, make the audience question everything they thought they wanted.’

Damien’s the new editor, another youngish pretender with pointy shoes and hair like a cockatoo. I’m not quite sure what happened to the middle-aged woman who was editing up till now, but I know that Tarquin threw a shit fit when Suzanne tried to follow her with another one of her old faithfuls.

‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a friend.’

‘We all need friends, don’t we, Lulu?’ He’s smirking at me now, making me totally paranoid that he knows. ‘Anyway, he’s more than a friend, he’s a collaborator. Someone who understands where the ship’s headed. Talking of which, I’m heading to set. I’d like you close by today so we can keep tossing ideas for the ball around.’

Oh no, Charles is in virtually every scene today: set’s the last place I should be. I’m convinced there’s a gigantic sign floating above my head proclaiming ‘Jezebel’ in neon capital letters. But there’s no arguing with Tarquin, and at least I earn a sly smile of approval from Suzanne when she sees me arriving with him. I’m teeth-grindingly nervous about Charles coming on-set and channel my anxiety into a hyperactive sales pitch for my look for the ball.

‘I want the skirts to feel like inverted tulips, vivid and floral, so that Percy’s dark suit can cut a swathe right through when he chases Bertha out of the ballroom.’

Tarquin is almost frothing at the mouth. ‘This is what I want from you, Lulu: you taking your inspiration from me and doing exactly what I ask.’

Hang on, when did he impart any of this to me? I certainly don’t remember Darth Vader deciding to throw off that woefully unflattering black helmet in favour of a pretty floral frock. ‘Well, your passion’s very inspiring,’ I tell him, making him puff up with self-importance. I’m saved the need for any more meaningless flattery by the head of the camera team calling him over to discuss the first shot. Oh God, the first shot. Sir Percy standing at the dining-room table trying to admit to Lady Victoria that he could never love her. Positions decided, Charles and Felicity are called from their winnebagos. I give him a half smile then look away, hoping he understands that I’m here against my will. Right now I feel he understands everything about me, like he’s got an ‘access all areas’ pass to my body and soul. He looks at me a little too long and I judder inside.

Poor Felicity. She’s a much better actress than Emily, with a face that you immediately recognize but can’t quite place. She works consistently, but doesn’t have the kind of brash public profile that makes Emily bankable. As far as ‘Last Carriage’ goes, she’s Emily’s stooge, there to look pained and noble before she conveniently croaks and leaves the path clear for the relationship that the audience has been rooting for. This scene, in which she’s wetness personified, is a case in point. Tarquin shoots her close-up first.

‘Percy, I long to be a worthy confidante, a trusted fellow traveller on the long journey that we shall be undertaking as husband and wife.’

‘You shall be, my dear. You have many fine qualities.’

‘But do you hold me in your bosom, think of me with passion as well as high regard?’

I’m watching through the monitor and as the camera is on Felicity I can only really see her performance. Take after endless take ensues, but when I attempt to slip away Tarquin glares at me so beadily that I think better of it. He’s finally satisfied and there’s a brief break while they reset the camera angles for Charles’s turn in the spotlight. He disappears immediately and I assume he’s retreated to his caravan, but instead find he’s reappeared at my side with a steaming cup of coffee.

‘Far too much milk, no sugar?’ he says, leaving me thrilled he’s remembered my preferences and terrified our intimacy is obvious to the assembled throng. Luckily everyone’s too busy or too self-involved to pay any attention.

‘Thank you very much,’ I say stiffly, slurping a gulp nervously.

‘It’s very –’

Damn, it’s about 106 degrees – I swear I’ve burnt the roof of my mouth clean off. God is so smiting me down for my moral bankruptcy. I force myself to neck it nevertheless, as spitting coffee all over one’s lover is far from advisable. Lover, lover, lover… I wish I had the strength to walk away. I will, of course, as soon as we’re back on home turf. Charles is beyond solicitous, rushing off to get me a cooling glass of water and causing a minor panic in the process when he can’t be found for his close-up. I’m too paranoid to admit I know exactly where he is and have to look away when Tarquin snarls at him.

‘Can we get on with it?’ he demands as an apologetic Charles hurries to find his mark. Here we go again, another hour of hearing the same clichéd exchange repeated countless times. Felicity starts up with her opening gambit. I drift off a bit then find myself focused on Charles. Is he as tired and emotional as me? How hard must it be to do something that requires such intense concentration after the night we had?

‘You shall be, my dear,’ he says again, looking grey with exhaustion. ‘You have many fine qualities.’

‘But do you hold me in your bosom, think of me with passion as well as high regard?’

‘Cut!’ shouts Tarquin. ‘I want muscle from this, I want to know you’re hurt. You’re both too polite! Do it again.’

I feel immediately affronted on Charles’s behalf. It’s not like he’s got the material at his disposal to build a towering performance. They go through the same dialogue again.

‘… high regard?’ says Felicity.

Charles waits a beat then comes back in with his line.

‘I believe our union will serve us both well, but –’

‘It will! It will!’ says Felicity. Lady Victoria has been in love with Sir Percy since childhood and longs to believe that their relationship will be all she’s hoped for.

‘And yet, if you demand total honesty from your betrothed…’

Lady Victoria is meant to pull back at this point, frightened of what she’s set in motion.

‘I know that you love me,’ continues Charles, ‘that your loyalty is unflinching…’ And I swear he looks straight at me in the long pause that follows, grasping the corner of the dining table.

‘I wish for us to know the truth of one another, for you to be cherished in the manner you deserve. Perhaps the cost is too high for us to carry deep-held secrets into our marriage. If true love eludes us, should we not consider that we might find it best elsewhere?’

He looks over again, his emotion ratcheting up a gear. His voice rises, his face creases up in visible agony. Tarquin stares intently, obviously aware of the power of his performance. And me, I start to well up.

‘Our conversation has satisfied me, Percy, and now I must return to my mother.’

‘But, Victoria –’

‘There is no more to be said on the matter. I shall see you at the ball.’

The scene’s over. Tarquin shouts ‘cut’ and I attempt to stifle my ridiculous overreaction. We’re making a Victorian potboiler, for God’s sake: I might as well be weeping over ‘Home and Away’! That said, I know I need a moment alone. I rush off-set, ignoring Tarquin, and head for the caravan, praying it’ll be empty. But God’s on a roll now and has ensured that Gareth’s in there having a noisy conversation with the costumiers. I’d like to turn tail, but the driving Yorkshire rain’s started up again so I’m trapped. He hangs up and peers round.

‘What’s up now?’ he asks, all superior.

‘Nothing,’ I say sullenly.

‘Jesus, Lulu, are you having the longest period in human history? I’ve never known you this moody.’

‘Oh, bugger off,’ I say, suddenly furious with him for abandoning me. ‘At least I’m not leaving you in the lurch and swanning off back to London.’

‘I’m hardly swanning off. I’m taking a difficult managerial decision which, frankly, you should have the guts to make yourself.’

‘Guts? Are you saying I’m a coward?’

‘No, but I am saying that you need to grip up and start being the boss. I don’t know what’s got into you recently, and you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t trust me enough to confide.’

‘Maybe I could start being the boss if you actually respected my decisions rather than blatantly defying me.’

‘Defying you!’ splutters Gareth. ‘I’ll see you in town, by which time I sincerely hope you’ll have got over yourself.’

And with that he stalks off, leaving me shaking with rage. Why’s he being so disloyal? I wish I could just disappear off in a two-man love boat with Charles. I feel like he’s the only person on the entire planet who understands me right now, but his approval could easily cost me my soul.

The afternoon’s scenes are far more functional, so I’m saved from any more unwarranted emotion. Besides, however enraged I am, Gareth’s insults have brought me up short: I’m determined not to cast myself in the role of love-struck loser. I glue myself to Tarquin’s side, flattering and cajoling him into agreeing to all my plans for the weddings (mainly because I’ve convinced him they’re his plans). Gareth gone, I call the rest of the team together and brief them, sending Briony off to Bradford to find fabric and putting Patrick, Gareth’s super-keen lieutenant, in charge of Charles. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant.

‘Is there a problem?’ I ask him.

‘I dunno, Lulu, I just…’ He trails off.

‘What?’

‘I don’t think he likes me much. I think he prefers you.’

I swallow a blush (the reason that sounds impossible is because it is).

‘Patrick, you’re great – why wouldn’t he like you?’

‘He’s just a bit… aloof. It’s fine, I just thought you’d wanna know in case you wanted to cover him.’

‘Cover him? Cover him. No, no I don’t. You’ll be fine. He’s a lovely guy when you get to know him. I-I think. That’s what Gareth says anyway.’

See? Cool professionalism 24/7. It’s my brand. I give my new laugh another try then hurriedly back out, running straight into Suzanne.

‘My favourite crew member, just who I was hoping to find.’

‘How can I help?’

‘You seem to be getting on famously with a certain person.’

Oh no, does she have X-ray vision?

‘Do I?’

‘He’s eating out of your hand.’ Oh God, oh God. ‘What’s he been sharing? Any more surprises he’s planning on springing?’

My relief means that I start to babble. ‘Oh, he’s fine, Suzanne, quite happy. Seems totally smitten with the new editor. Singing his praises.’

‘I knew it!’ snaps Suzanne, colour springing to her cheeks. ‘He’s some jumped-up wannabe who’s inflated his CV. Tarquin vetoed everyone else and managed to persuade Jeremy to keep taking these stupid risks.’

Jeremy’s the executive producer at the production company, a good ten years younger than Suzanne, and I’m sensing he’s not a fan. She’s a safe pair of hands, not a visionary, a fact that Tarquin’s clearly manipulating in his favour.

‘Have you seen a cut?’ I ask her. There would normally be a rough version of episode one available by this stage of the shoot.

‘Avril’s version was in pretty good shape, but when she walked off and Damien came in, Tarquin insisted on more time. I’ve been asking every day but he’s stalling me. I don’t want him to show it to Jeremy first and get him signed up to something totally bloody ill-conceived. That’s the problem with having a bunch of toddlers in charge of the television industry… it takes experience.’ She pauses. ‘Sorry, Lulu, but you know what I mean.’

I give her a stiff smile. ‘Well, look, I’ll keep talking to him, see what I can establish.’

‘I’m not sure that’s enough,’ says Suzanne, a steely glint in her eye. ‘I think we may need to move the campaign on to Stage Two.’

‘Stage Two?’

‘I need you to find out if there’s a cut and try to get a look at it.’

‘I can’t see how –’

‘We’re off on location, long winter evenings. Take him for a drink, pump him for information.’

‘That’s not really my style, Suzanne,’ I say pleadingly.

‘For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to transform yourself into Mata Hari. My reputation’s on the line here. If I deliver some total turkey to the TV company, we’ll all be damned. Forewarned is forearmed.’

‘But if you want me to actually see it… There’s no way I’m going back with him.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Lulu. I’m not suggesting you prostitute yourself. He might just hand it over: God knows he likes a chance to share his enormous talent.’

It’s not his enormous talent I’m worried about. First the pickled eggs, now this. Could I really be emitting some high-pitched sound, audible only to TV types: ‘I am a harlot with no scruples, I am a harlot with no scruples.’ I’m as non-committal as I can be with Suzanne, then retreat to the caravan to contemplate my all-round moral bankruptcy. It’s quiet and empty, Gareth’s bag and laptop gone. I know what I’m doing is wrong, what I would say to Alice if she were in this situation, and yet my pull to Charles is so strong that I can’t slam on the brakes. The sense of aloneness feels like a boulder in the pit of my stomach. I need to call Alice anyway; perhaps I should just tell her everything and hope that she understands? I’m weighing it up, all too aware how appalled she’ll be, only to be saved by the shrill shriek of my phone: Charles.

‘Hi, darling,’ he says, all warm and affectionate.

‘Hi,’ I squeak.

‘Where can I find you, gorgeous girl? We’ve wrapped.’

And within an hour I’m back on the train, or at least back in my Peugeot, having waited the requisite amount of time to set off for his cottage (the last thing I need is his driver spotting me tootling up the path).

‘Well, hello,’ he says when I arrive, thrusting a glass of wine into my hand. As soon as I’ve taken a sip he grabs it off me, dumping it on the hall table so that he can push me against the wall and kiss me ferociously. I’ve never had this kind of chemistry with anyone before. It’s like there’s no stopping us; we rip each other’s clothes off and do it right there and then on the hall carpet. It’s only afterwards, as the adrenaline wears off and the cold kicks in, that the hopelessness of it starts to creep back. Feeling me shiver, Charles uncurls himself from me and hands me my jumper.

‘Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t know what came over me. You just have this effect on me.’

I reach for my discarded knickers, feeling self-conscious and slutty. Charles looks at me, stroking my bare arm.

‘I’m so, so sorry it’s like this. It shouldn’t be, Lulu, it really shouldn’t. We should be a proper couple, having walks and weekends away and meeting each other’s parents.’

I suddenly get a mental picture of Dad looking Charles up and down while Julia tries to find an excuse to inspect his stools. Much as I’d love to have a normal relationship with him, I think I could live without that. I smile at him.

‘That’s why we can’t do this for any length of time. We’ve got to be strict about it being a holiday romance or else we’re in no end of trouble.’

He looks stricken, turns away.

‘Charles…’

‘I need to talk to you about all that, but let me make you some supper first. I got Gary to stop off at the Co-op, so who knows what culinary masterpiece I might conjure up?’

The selection of food is quite bizarre. There’s own-brand Cava, Wensleydale with cranberries and steamed treacle pudding in a can. I inspect them all, laughing.

‘Talk me through it.’

‘Believe it or not, they were the most glamorous foodstuffs I could lay my hands on. But you’re right, they don’t add up to much of a meal.’

Luckily the production team have left him some basics and I make a tomatoey olivey sauce that we pour over penne. The Cava has to be drunk out of water glasses, but overall the effect isn’t too bad. Tomorrow’s a night shoot, which means that the call time is not until two, even later for Charles, so there’s a glorious sense that school’s out. We talk non-stop over supper, laughing about the ghastliness of Tarquin and Emily and swapping stories about growing up in London. I think about telling him what Suzanne’s asked me to do, but I’m worried he’ll think I’m mercenary and manipulative. In some senses it’s no different from the beginning of any relationship, that titanic struggle to display only your most sterling qualities until you sense you’re loved enough to reveal the spots of mould.

As I reach over the table to top up our glasses, he grabs my hand.

‘You’ve got no idea what a relief this is. I feel like I’ve stumbled across an oasis in the desert.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’d just forgotten.’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘What it feels like to sit opposite an incredible woman and drink up her company. Me and Bea, there’s just these long silences. We barely look at each other some days. It’s so bloody functional.’

I smile sympathetically, not knowing what to say. ‘Choose me’ springs to mind, but for all the reasons previously stated I’ve vowed not to stray any further down the path of Satanic selfishness.

‘I’m glad,’ I say. ‘Not that it’s so grim, but that you’re having a lovely time with me.’

‘I am, Lulu, I really am. I’m suddenly aware how numb I’ve been, stamping down how lonely it is.’

I’m flooded with compassion: loneliness is my most hated feeling in the whole wide world. How strange it is that I’ve been salving his isolation while he’s been engendering it for me. But not now, not when I’m with him – when we’re together I feel a sense of utter connection. I must, must, must call Alice. But how can I, knowing the level of dishonesty that’s required?

Supper over, Charles insists on clearing everything up. I’m perched on the sideboard by the sink, ripe to be plucked by his wet, soapy hands. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me to him, kissing my face and neck. It takes me back to our last encounter and I momentarily pull away.

‘Wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me…’

He pauses, looks at me, then returns to the kissing.

‘Later, Lulu. I’m afraid I’ve got a one-track mind.’

‘Hang on,’ I say, going outside to grab my bag which I discarded in the hall in the flurry of passion. Anxiety about Alice has been nagging away at me throughout the evening. Bugger, I’ve got a missed call from eight o’clock. It’s eleven thirty now and I don’t want to risk waking her up. Convincing myself it’s consideration not cowardice that’s stopping me, I throw myself back into Charles’s soapy embrace and allow him to lead me upstairs. His bedroom’s large and comfortable, very different from the low-beamed cosiness of my cottage. He throws me down and lands on top of me, pinning my arms back. It’s sexy sex, intense and visceral, but there’s a bit of me that can’t let go. Is it guilt or self-preservation? I’m not sure.

That said, I sleep the sleep of the just: nine whole hours, do not pass go. I wake up at ten to the sound of him making coffee, my mood sliding from pleasure to pain within ten seconds of full consciousness. Being with him is like being given a huge, shiny Christmas present and then finding there’s nothing inside. Or worse, a Barbie cooker with no batteries in the mid-eighties when 24-hour shops didn’t exist – Alice and I cried till Boxing Day over that particular Grecian tragedy. Alice: I’m going to call her right now. We’ve never been out of contact for this long; it’s total and utter madness. I rootle round in my bag, which I brought upstairs with me. The signal’s absolutely terrible, but standing on a stool in the corner of the room elicits a single bar. It flashes up I’ve got two messages, but knowing they’re most probably from her I ignore them and make the call. I can’t bear to hear her justified hurt; I’d rather steamroll her with apologies and explanations. When she picks up, I can barely hear her.

‘Alice? Sorry, the line’s terrible.’

‘I know, there’s loads of tunnels.’

‘Tunnels? There aren’t any tunnels, just hills. Listen, I’m so sorry I’ve been so crap…’

My voice starts to crack with the relief of hearing hers. How could I let a man alienate me from my beloved sister?

‘Don’t worry, sis, forget it. I’m only an hour away now.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Gareth said you were off today? I’ve left you loads of messages. I’ve just…’ And with that she gives way to sobbing. Charles has appeared in the doorway, signalling frantically that I should get off the phone, but I bat him away. He doesn’t get to take priority over my sister.

‘Alice? What do you mean? What’s happened?’

‘Haven’t you listened to anything? Richard dumped me, he dumped me, Lulu! I couldn’t stand rattling around for the whole of half term feeling like the world’s biggest loser. I can cook and read when you’re at work and we can cosy up in the evenings.’

Charles is getting increasingly agitated and I turn away, irritated by him for the first time.

‘Of course,’ I say, high-pitched and panicky. ‘But where are you?’

‘I don’t know, not far. Where are we?’ she asks someone in the background. ‘Lulu, you won’t believe who I’ve –’

And with that she disappears, swallowed up by a tunnel.

‘Lulu, you’ve got to get going,’ says Charles, jittery with stress.

‘Too right I have,’ I tell him. ‘My sister’s about an hour away, I think…’

Charles looks positively grey. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid it’s not just your sister. Bea and the kids are on their way too.’

‘What?!’ I’m too horrified to move, even though I know that donning my knickers should be the priority.

‘She vaguely threatened to come on Monday, but I didn’t think she’d bother. I was trying to tell you last night.’

‘Trying? Trying?! You could have tried a lot harder than that.’

He reaches towards me ineffectually.

‘I know, I know I should’ve. But I wasn’t sure it would come to pass. And last night was so bloody gorgeous, so relaxed and intimate. I couldn’t bear to break the spell, Lulu. You were there too, angel: you must understand.’

And I sort of do. I can’t help but be grateful for the bubble of perfection we experienced even if the fall is as hard as this. That said, I’m still furious with him.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t warn me! How do you think I feel, scrabbling around for my knickers when your wife’s on the doorstep?’

‘You’re right, of course you’re right. I’m just so bloody addicted to you that all logic goes out of the window.’

He’s giving me a look of such pleading affection that I find myself reaching my arms around him, pressing myself against his chest for a brief moment. Is this the last time I’ll feel him against me? Then I race round the room, gathering my things together and giving my teeth a brief brush.

‘I really think they might be on the train together,’ I shout from the bathroom.

‘I can’t bear chasing you out, but I think there’s less than an hour,’ he shouts back. ‘She texted saying they’d reached York.’

Terrified, I tear through the house looking for any traces of my presence, but Charles has already undertaken a Mafioso-like clean-up operation. I realize what a stupid game I’ve been playing with myself, pretending that Bea’s some kind of hologram that doesn’t exist in three dimensions. Disgustingly selfish though it is, I can’t bear the idea that these living, breathing individuals who have so much more claim over him than I do will be making this house their own in less than an hour. Less than an hour? I’ve got to get out. He grips me on the doorstep.

‘We’ll talk about this at work.’

‘Oh God, Charles, what is there to talk about?’ I’m so angry with myself, so angry with him. ‘We made the rules, we’ve got to stick to them.’

‘Lulu…’

I force myself to keep walking, even though part of me wants to prostrate myself, tell him I love him, beg him to be with me. I’m starting to hate myself for what I could become. I get in the car and hurtle down the country road far too fast. I let myself back into my cottage, taking in the debris of Tuesday morning: two coffee cups, two plates of half-eaten toast. I’ve just about got them cleared away when a cab pulls up. Alice is in the front, and Charles’s entire family is squashed in the back. I hover on the doorstep, stricken. Alice jumps out, leaning into the back seat to kiss Bea. I look away, unable to process the horror of it all. The cab pulls off and Alice runs over to me, throwing herself into my arms. Suddenly it’s all that matters: my sister needs me and that’s what counts. It’s a rare thing for Alice to lean on me; it’s normally the other way round.

‘Hey,’ I say, rubbing her back. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. He is SUCH a dick.’

‘Him and the rest of mankind,’ she says, through a mix of a sob and a laugh.

I smile back, trying to believe it’s gospel. If I can take on board the overwhelming evidence and convict Charles as charged, I might have a hope of getting my life back on track. But something tells me it’s not going to be that simple.