Chapter Fifteen

Even if I wanted to, there’s no point lying.

‘How’d you guess?’

‘How stupid do you think I am? It’s obvious there’s been something up for ages. And tonight it was s-o-o-o blatant.’

‘Was it?’

‘Oh, Lulu. The way he kissed me and Emily hello and body-swerved you, the whole way you look at each other. And that sign was the last straw.’

‘The sign?’

‘Yes, the sign,’ snaps back Alice. ‘How would you’ve known there was another loo upstairs when it was out of bounds? You’ve shagged him, haven’t you?’

‘Scuse me, ladies,’ pipes up the cab driver, amusement rippling through his tone, ‘don’t want to interrupt, but is this cottage up on the left or back towards Bracksome?’

What must he think of me? And how the hell am I supposed to know where we are when there are no STREET SIGNS?

‘I’m not quite sure – do you have a GPS?’ I ask him, even though the answer’s patently obvious.

‘Nope, just nouse. How’s about I drive you back to the party and we give it another try?’

‘No!’ we shout in unison.

‘I’ll – I’ll direct you,’ I volunteer and then proceed to get us hopelessly lost. At least my pathetic attempt at directions negates the need for any more chat about Charles. By the time we finally arrive back, I’m wondering if I can get away with sneaking off to bed. My head’s thumping and my heart’s in freefall, but Alice won’t have it. She makes a pot of coffee and gets into bed beside me.

‘Has he been in here?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

‘Lulu, why would you do this to yourself?’ she asks, less sharp. ‘All it can do is make you unhappy.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ I say, a sob rising in my throat. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen, but it was – it was unstoppable…’

‘I would have bloody stopped it if you’d bothered to tell me. What a wanker.’

Her tone tells me loud and clear how hurt she is that I didn’t confide, but I can’t engage with that right now.

‘He’s not a wanker, Alice, and I’ve stopped it myself now.’

‘He is a wanker, he has to be a wanker to do this to Bea. And to you.’

‘It’s not as straightforward as you think it is.’

‘Yes it is. Stop defending him, he’s behaved appallingly. You’re not still hung up on him, are you?’

I don’t answer her, simply turning my face towards the wall.

‘You are then.’

‘I’m not hung up on him, Alice,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘I love him.’

‘You don’t love him, you’re infatuated with him. It’s completely different.’

‘Don’t patronize me! I know what love feels like, OK?’

‘You don’t know him! How can you possibly love him when you don’t even know him?’

‘I might not know all the petty details about his life, but I do know him. I know him in a realer way, not just the boring details. I can’t explain it, Alice, but there’s just this connection between us. It sounds so bloody sordid because it’s an affair, but the essence of it isn’t sordid. And before you carry on lecturing me, I promise you can’t make me feel any worse about it than I’ve made myself feel.’

‘Of course you have, because this isn’t you. You’re way too good for this. You’re – you’re my sister.’

And I realize that she’s going through a much-magnified version of the shock I experienced when I discovered that she loves beetroot, even though I think it’s the devil’s vegetable. Or that she has a strange, unwarranted crush on Martin Shaw, even though he’s about 105. There’s a nonsensical part of me that believes that because she’s my twin, because we were once one entity, she’ll feel just the same as me about almost anything. When we disagree on something significant I feel like the ground has shifted, like I’m utterly alone. Where is that comforting reflection that tells me I’m OK in the world?

‘Alice, I know how wrong it is, how illogical, and that is exactly why I’ve ended it. You don’t have to worry about it any more. The job’s nearly finished, the affair’s over, life’s back to normal.’

‘Do you absolutely promise? Do you swear on Pablo’s grave?’

Pablo was the lop-eared rabbit that Dad got us a few months after Mum had died. We became obsessed with him, saving all our pocket money to get him elaborate accessories for his hutch and carving up carrots into alluring shapes. Swearing on his life became the biggest guarantee of truth and, after his death, invoking his grave took on the same solemnity. It’s something we’ve long since left behind and tells me at a stroke how disturbed and frightened Alice actually is.

‘I swear on his ears and whiskers,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Do you want to sleep in here tonight?’

‘No, you snore and you kick.’

‘Yeah, and you talk and dribble,’ I shoot back.

Alice gives me a hug and then swings out of bed. She gives me a long look when she reaches the door, weighing it all up. ‘Night, fat face,’ she says, finally leaving. I can’t bear to lie here going over it: whatever Alice needs to believe, it’s not so easy to reduce and dismiss. Rather than getting caught in a mental rat-run, I need to focus my energies on quarantining my feelings until they’re no longer infectious. Bad analogy. I go to sleep and dream in Victoriana: dilapidated hospitals filled with handsome consumptives, women in crinolines that rip to shreds when they brush past their beds. I wake up hung-over and badly rested, forcing myself to push round the Hoover even though it sounds to my sore head like a herd of elephants. I let Alice sleep in till eleven, feeling like it’s the least I can do. She finally emerges, yawning.

‘Morning, little one,’ she says. ‘Shall I do toasties?’

I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s chosen normality over a continued state of emergency. ‘Mmm, let’s try one with peanut butter and banana.’

‘That’s disgusting! You can’t put sweet things in a toastie. Cheese and tomato is my final offer.’

‘It’s your only offer.’

‘Same difference.’

We bicker on companionably as we pack and clean, setting off for London around midday. As I’m squashing my case into the Peugeot’s tiny boot, I take a moment to look back at the house, thinking how little I knew of what was to come when I first laid eyes on it. These seven days feel more like seven months, so packed were they with emotional highs and lows.

We steer well clear of the elephant in the car till we’re about halfway home.

‘We need to just get out there more,’ says Alice. ‘Try out different stomping grounds.’

‘I don’t know if I’m ready…’

‘No arguments, you need to MAKE yourself ready. You can’t start pining for him, Lulu. You’ll realize how bloody unreal it all was as soon as you get a proper boyfriend again.’

‘What, like Richard?’ I snap before I can help myself.

‘At least he’s not…’ Alice stops herself, but can’t hold back. ‘What did he tell you about his marriage? How’d he justify what he’s doing?’

‘That he loves her, but that it’s not… right. Please don’t ask me for gory details, not when you’re friends with her.’

‘Yeah, and I’m twins with you.’

There’s a loaded silence, which I eventually break.

‘I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t want you to worry.’

‘Whatever,’ says Alice tersely. ‘What has he actually said to you? Cos it doesn’t sound anything like what Bea describes.’

‘You’ve known her for what, four days?’

‘It’s long enough to get a pretty clear sense she’s happy. She talks about him all the time. I know it’s hard to hear, but you need to trust me on this.’ She continues more gently. ‘He’s spinning you a line – surely you must see that?’

I stare out at the road, raking over the clues from last night like Hercule Poirot. The most overwhelming sense I got was of a woman in control. Charles’s easy charm was muted and suppressed: was that just the awkwardness of the situation, or does Bea have his balls in a bag? Anyway, trying to work out if he’s played me for a fool is more about my ego than anything else. The relationship’s over – there’s no point having a full-scale row with the person I love most in the world about where the truth lies.

‘And why wouldn’t he?’ she continues. ‘You’re incredible and you deserve someone who’s actually worthy of you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. I know she means it, but right now it’s not touching the sides.

‘And when you meet him, you’ll know this wasn’t love. It can’t be –’

‘Alice,’ I snap through gritted teeth, and then swallow down the rage that’s threatening to erupt. I’m suddenly struck by the realization that she’s never been in love, not like this. We’ve thought we’ve had it, but I know now that none of my past relationships have had this sense of connection, of mutual adoration. I don’t believe for a second she’s got it with Richard, and without ever having experienced it, how could she begin to understand? I’m thinking about trying to explain some of this, when my phone beeps. Grateful for the distraction, I scrabble around my handbag and pull it out: it’s Ali!

It makes me giggle, which means I have to read it out to Alice, with predictable results.

‘For God’s sake, give him another whirl,’ she pleads. ‘What have you got to lose?’

‘He hasn’t even asked me out!’

‘He’s clearly still interested or else he wouldn’t be bothering to text. He’s a gem, Lulu, a total gem.’

‘I know he is and that’s why… that’s why I can’t go near it unless I’m sure I mean it.’ I think of how gutted he looked when he described his perfidious ex, then check my heart’s temperature. Yes, Charles fever is still virulent and until that changes I’m damaged goods. I try to explain all of that to Alice, but she’s not impressed.

‘A man like that’s not gonna hang around. Please don’t let him slip through your fingers.’

‘Even if he wanted to go on a date with me, I just think we’re too different. He’s very… very straight.’

‘What does that mean?’

I think about it, struggling to articulate what it is that worried me.

‘Everything’s so, so bloody simple in his world.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe everything doesn’t need to be as complicated as it is in yours.’

I stare out of the window, watching the cars zip by in the other lane. Infuriating though Alice’s sense of certitude is, there’s so much I’m grateful for. I’m so glad not to be driving with this hangover, so glad that she’s alongside me with her bagful of opinions about what will make me happy.

‘I’ll think about it, Alice, I promise. And if I say we’ll go out on some stupid bar crawl down Upper Street next weekend and make come-hither eyes at estate agents, will you get off my back?’

‘Yes,’ agrees Alice.

I send Ali a text in reply.

Friendly, but not dishonestly flirtatious. Part of me wants to flirt, at least a little bit, and a few quips about the most-wanted list flit through my mind, but I can’t bear to risk causing hurt. Not when I’ve potentially caused so much hurt already. I turn my attentions back to Alice.

‘I do know what you’re saying, and straight back at you as far as Richard goes. As soon as you meet a man whose pointy slippers don’t curl up at the ends when he’s in a rage you’ll know what a lucky escape you’ve had.’

She laughs in a way that sounds reassuringly genuine and I say a silent prayer he’s history. One thing’s for certain, it’s gotta be onward and upward for the Godwin twins and, horrible though it’s been, I’m glad to have got my secret off my chest. Let’s hope Alice won’t bear a grudge about how long I kept it hidden there.

Perhaps if I knew a little more history myself, I’d have the perfect solution to the wedding crisis. When Tuesday arrives I’m beyond grateful that I’m going to be able to call on Zelda’s Yoda power to find a way through. But what I’m really excited about is the chance to finally see her: in the ten years I’ve known her, we’ve never gone this long. She throws opens the door, wearing the emerald green velvet turban, and gives me a theatrical kiss on each cheek.

‘Darling girl, there’s just time for a cup of coffee before we leave.’

‘Where for? The V&A? British Library?’

‘No, somewhere far, far colder. The zoo.’

As I gingerly sip on insanely strong coffee, Zelda explains her logic. She insists that sometimes you have to be inspired by something tangential, think about designing from a different angle. After all, she says, ‘Who designs coats better than leopards?’ I try to get to the bottom of her health situation, but she’s typically dismissive.

‘I’m on the home straight now, there’s nothing for you to fret about. It’s naughty of me to stay in the background, but I wanted you to see that you could jolly well cope, which you clearly can. Where are they today anyway?’

Thank God she’s all right. She looks pinker and plumper (not that I’d risk saying that out loud), and she’s dipping a chocolate croissant into her tar-like coffee with huge relish. I know I need to dig deeper, but for now I just want to enjoy having her back with me. Anyway, she seems so chipper and positive that the last thing I want to do is rain on her parade.

‘They’re just doing studio stuff today. Gareth’s got it under control.’

‘And you don’t mind a day away?’

That’s the understatement of the century. It’s unbearably painful to stay away from Charles, but I know it’s my only hope. He, meanwhile, is desperate to talk, and is plaguing me with texts imploring me to at least give him the chance to apologize for Friday. I’ve sent him a single text back telling him I need some space, but it hasn’t stemmed the tide, and of course part of me is mightily relieved that it hasn’t. It’s so schizophrenic this state of mind; it’s almost as though my twin is an evil one that lives within me, tempting me towards the dark side. I’m clinging on doggedly to the certitude that no good can come of it and hoping that my feelings will eventually abate.

Fortunately, Tarquin kept me stranded in his caravan for much of yesterday, wanging on about his tedious ‘vision’, so it was reasonably easy to keep out of Charles’s airspace. Less fortunately, I’ve agreed to have dinner with him to give him a chance to expand on his genius in a more convivial environment. I did at least elicit a promise that he’d show me episode one, leaving me praying that Suzanne honours her agreement to cough up more cash in exchange.

Zelda insists I drive, even though she won’t ordinarily risk so much as five minutes with me behind the wheel. The zoo is almost deserted, what with it being term time in the depths of winter, and I can’t help wondering why we’re bucking the trend, but Zelda strides off towards the elephants with huge purpose.

‘So are you thinking the wedding dress should be in a sort of thick, muddy hide?’ I ask her. ‘I reckon Emily would really like that.’

‘Don’t be facetious, Lulu! Just stop talking and consider them properly.’

I do as she asks, zeroing in on a mother with an unbearably cute and playful calf. She stands looking out over the park as her little one frolics in the background, splashing around in the puddles and chomping down roughage. Every now and then she turns round and clocks him, eventually lumbering over to hoover water up her trunk and wash him down. If it wasn’t so cold I could watch them all day.

‘They’re lovely together, aren’t they?’

‘They are,’ agrees Zelda. ‘There’s something intensely wise about elephants. I think that’s why they live to such a ripe old age.’

It’s lucky Zelda’s not a zoologist, but I kind of know what she means. That elephant looks like it knows more about life than any four-legged creature could possibly be expected to.

‘I remember I was doing some ghastly safari romance out in Kenya. It was after Out of Africa,’ she continues, ‘when everyone thought that the mere sight of a cheetah equalled box-office gold. The second lead was like a Greek god, but so stupid he’d probably have eaten his own shit. Anyway, he was desperate to get into my knickers, and I have to admit I was sorely tempted.’

‘Was this before you met Michael?’

‘Oh no! It was a chronic case of the seven-year itch.’

Zelda unfaithful? I always assumed their marriage was as solid as a rock, kept permanently novel and exciting by the long separations.

‘The lust got so out of hand that I asked one of the drivers to take me out on safari on our day off, in a vain attempt to keep my virtue intact. We ended up a few feet from a family of elephants and I found I was totally transfixed. I stared and stared at the mother till she started to seem like some kind of deity. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt like she could see into my soul. I knew then that I mustn’t risk it – that even if Michael never found out, I’d always know.’ She smiles wryly. ‘I saw the Greek god about ten years later and he was the size of a bloody elephant, a great big alcoholic bloater. Don’t let those misogynists fool you it’s only women who age badly.’

‘Was it really hard for you not to act on it?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, pure torture. I’d lie in bed wishing he’d swing through the window and make the decision for me.’

‘Were things very bad between you and Michael?’

‘No, not bad. Just ordinary. We get spoiled in this business, Lulu, or at least we used to, before those philistines turned it into a form of benign slavery.’ I pray she’s not off on her favourite tirade, but luckily she gets back to the point. ‘I travelled the world being flattered and cosseted, paid to do what I loved most. I think I started to want the spotlight to burn as brightly when I got home.’

‘But was that wrong? Is it wrong to want your husband to make you feel special?’

‘Lulu, the most special thing someone can do is to be aware of all the things about you that aren’t particularly admirable and love you nevertheless. One doesn’t want to come home and feel like one’s still collecting bouquets.’

‘So ordinary’s good?’

‘Sometimes,’ says Zelda, winding her outlandish green turban around her head in a majestic fashion. ‘Ordinary’ is not a word I could ever associate with her, whatever she says. ‘Come along, Lulu, the giraffes are calling.’

The giraffes are much more lively, wandering up to the fence inquisitively and craning their long necks towards us. A couple of babies gambol about in the background, playing some kind of giraffe version of kiss chase.

‘They’re way less interested in the calves than those elephants,’ I say.

‘Oh, they’ve all got it right,’ replies Zelda. ‘They work out exactly how much nurture is necessary and then give them the space to make their own mistakes.’

‘So you think it’s good that the mummy giraffe isn’t ferrying them off to Suzuki violin and French immersion?’

‘A very good thing. We’re not necessarily the wisest mammals just because we’re down to two feet.’

Zelda notices that I’m currently stomping my two feet in a vain attempt to keep warm, and suggests we take shelter in the reptile house. I don’t expect to be much interested, but they’re surprisingly beautiful. Their scaly skin is broken up by vivid colours and their sudden movements constantly catch me by surprise. We get lost in there for the best part of an hour and then realize it’s long past lunchtime. Zelda wrinkles her nose dismissively at the thought of eating in the canteen, so we take off on a whistle-stop tour of the rest of the enclosures so that we can forage elsewhere for food. When we get to the polar bears I temporarily forget how hungry I am. There are just two of them ranging around the enclosure, occasionally acknowledging one another when they pass.

‘Do you think they’re friends?’ I ask Zelda.

‘Now you’re being sentimental,’ she replies, somewhat hypocritically considering she’s been canonizing the elephants. ‘They might’ve been put in there to mate.’

‘Or maybe they’re siblings,’ I opine. ‘Me and Alice used to wonder if any of Noah’s animals were twins instead of husband and wife.’

‘And why was that?’

‘Because the animals who got on the ark were the only ones who were going to be safe from the flood. So we thought that all the twins were either going to drown or get separated, which would’ve been almost as bad.’

‘And did you think the zebras had actual marriage certificates? Signed with a single hoof print, I suppose?’

‘Of course!’

‘That’s exactly why I never let the boys anywhere near Sunday school,’ says Zelda, linking her arm through mine. ‘It’s ridiculous nonsense.’

We walk back through the park to the car, skirting the side of a beautiful lake. Zelda gestures to a pair of swans gliding across the surface.

‘I’m sure they’re not twins. Swans mate for life, you know, just like elephants.’

‘Do you think they ever get tempted?’

‘Who knows, but they’re a jolly good role model for you. What’s going on with that unpredictable love life of yours now that ludicrous Steve character’s ancient history?’

‘Oh, you know…’

We’re approaching the car now and I’m playing for time.

‘No, I don’t know, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking!’

‘Very little.’ Which is kind of true, as of last week.

‘Hmm, is that the God’s honest truth?’

‘I thought you said that God was ridiculous nonsense?’

Zelda stares at me beadily, waiting for me to elaborate.

‘I’ll try and think of something when we’ve sat down for lunch. What do you fancy?’

‘I think we’ve rather missed the boat, lunch-wise,’ says Zelda and I deflate a little. I’m so enjoying being around her, and I haven’t even had time to ask her all the work questions I’ve got. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she continues. ‘Drive straight through the park and down Portland Place, and then I’ll tell you where next.’

The ‘where next’ is a chichi hotel, right in the centre of Mayfair. Zelda leads the way across the elegant marble lobby, making a beeline for the maître d’.

‘Zelda Marchmont?’

‘Ah, Ms Marchmont. Right this way.’

Soon we’re perched on dainty velvet chairs, poised and ready to consume our own bodyweight in champagne and scones.

‘This is amazing! Why…?’

Zelda’s not mean, but nor is she one for extravagant gestures. And, boy, is this extravagant.

‘Because I wanted to say thank you to you via the medium of finger sandwiches. Seriously, Lulu, I know this job has been far from easy. You’ve had very little support from me and yet you’ve pulled it out of the bag.’

‘Thanks, Zelda, that’s really –’

She holds up an imperious hand to stop me in mid-flow.

‘I also wanted to tell you, and you know I’m not one for sentimental guff, that you’ve been far and away the best assistant I’ve had over the last thirty or so years. Not the most punctual, not always the most confident, but the most talented and the most enjoyable to work with. Now don’t start blubbing or waffling, just have your tea and know that it’s true.’

But I can’t help myself: tears are coursing down my cheeks unbidden. I wipe my face with the starchy linen napkin and try to compose myself. Zelda watches me keenly.

‘Lulu darling, what’s he done to you?’

‘What’s who done to me?’

‘Whatever rotten louse is causing the tsunami! It’s not that ghastly little tyke Tarquin, is it?’

‘Of course not!’ I say, before realizing I’ve given the game away. Oh well, the secret’s already loose: one more recipient makes little difference. ‘It’s – it’s Charles Adamson and I promise you he’s not a louse, whatever it looks like.’

Zelda beckons for the champagne, waving away my protestations about the car, and commences questioning me. This time confiding feels like a relief: with Alice, much as I was glad to blast away the deceit, I was way too consumed by her reaction. I tell Zelda every last scrap and for once she doesn’t interrupt.

‘That’s a scrape and a half,’ she says when I’ve finally run out of steam. ‘Do you love him? Oh, don’t bother replying, it’s patently obvious.’

‘I know, and it’s a disaster and no good will come of it.’

‘Michael was married when I met him,’ says Zelda unexpectedly.

‘What?! Who to?’

‘This sweet little blonde bobbin of an actress. He was desperately unhappy; used to drive home and park outside trying to think of an excuse to turn round.’

‘So, what, you had an affair and he left?’

‘We had the very beginnings of an affair and then I walked away, told him it was his choice. I didn’t want him to leave for me, but if it came to a sticky end I was open to a discussion.’

‘How did you manage to be so cool about it?’

‘Trust me, Lulu, I didn’t feel cool. I had to have an obscene amount of obscene sex with a Neanderthal spark to distract myself. Eventually he came back.’

‘Did you know he would?’

‘Not at all, but I couldn’t take him on any other terms. I didn’t want to be a bad charm, a constant reminder of how much he’d hurt her.’

‘But there weren’t any children,’ I counter. ‘Kids change everything. How can you ever build a happy relationship on the graveyard of all that pain?’

‘Of course it’s painful, but not all marriages endure. Do bear in mind that it’s not actually the nineteenth century. To limply hang around when you don’t love your spouse is a very peculiar version of kindness.’

I take a minute to consider what she’s saying. Is there a wildly unlikely turn of events where Charles and I could have a future without being deemed moral bankrupts? The last thing I want to do is rob his children of their father, but perhaps I might be a catalyst rather than a cause, for a parting that was inevitable. I tentatively posit this theory to Zelda, who waves a dismissive hand.

‘Lulu, I don’t want to kid you that you’re going to live happily ever after with this man – it’s the longest of long shots. All I’m saying is that love isn’t as straightforward as people try to pretend. It’s raw and it’s messy and it can be hideously destructive. But it is a life force, and it’s high time you found someone you feel passionate about rather than some kind of pen pal you can treat as an adjunct to that sister of yours.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I snap, hating the implied criticism of our twinishness.

‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she says with an infuriating smirk. ‘So how about we turn our attentions to business?’

It’s kind of a relief to change gear, to clamber out of the emotional maelstrom of the last few days. I give forth with my second monologue of the afternoon, laying out all my Polaroids and drawings to show her what I’ve been up to. I give her a lightning snapshot of all the madness and power play too.

‘What’s happened to me, Zelda? I’ve slept with a married man and used everything I’ve got to manipulate Tarquin and Suzanne.’

‘And?’

‘Since when did I become such a bitch?’

‘The pope’s a shit.’

‘Sorry?!’

‘Theory of Michael’s: whoever’s at the top of any tree has inevitably buried some bodies to get there. God knows, I’ve pulled some dirty tricks in my time. All you’ve done is learnt that power requires moral compromises… and the sex we’ve already covered.’

Is she right? How utterly dismal if she is. I often wonder if top politicians started out full of youthful promise and idealism before getting corrupted by the murky realities they’re exposed to. Or those premier league footballers having fist fights and spit roasts all over the place: was it all about the beautiful game before the prizes got too sordid and tempting? Mum was always such a stickler for right and wrong. The fridge door was dominated by a huge chart, split in two, on which we earned stars or crosses depending on our crimes and misdemeanours. Good behaviour was rewarded, bad behaviour was punished, and the universe seemed like a safe and benevolent place to be. That is until we discovered, in the cruellest possible way, that our mum was fallible. A spit roast might be pushing it, but I don’t want to accidentally morph into a person who no longer knows what the rules are.

Zelda’s highly complimentary of my ball gowns, which is a fat lot of use now they’ve got about one minute of screen time. When I tell her how much money’s left in the budget for the wedding, she actually guffaws.

‘I’m sorry, Lulu, it’s not funny at all. It’s just you’ve made the classic error of consistently delivering. Now they think you’re a miracle worker, of course.’

‘What about if you talked to Timothy Le Grande? I was hoping I could do a deal with Angels on a job lot of frocks till I found out he’d swiped them all.’

Zelda’s lost in a coughing fit, but when she recovers she shoots me down in flames.

‘He doesn’t believe anyone else in the business remotely measures up and he’d have nil respect for the kind of low-rent nonsense we’re engaged with. I can’t face demeaning myself for no purpose.’

So that’s that. I wait, poised, expecting Zelda to come up with an alternative plan. Surely she can have her all too familiar budget battle with Suzanne? It happens once every production, in far less straitened circumstances than this, and Zelda always emerges from the ring triumphant. But when I suggest it she shoots me down again, insisting that I’ve got the solution myself if I trust myself.

‘This isn’t a game, Zelda! Just tell me what I should do. I’ve tried so bloody hard on this job, it’s not that much to ask.’

I hate the whiny tone I can hear coming through, but I’m beyond frustrated. I know she knows what the answer is: why won’t she tell me? She just sits there, dabbing a scone with blobs of cream and jam as though it’s a canvas. As she finally raises it to her lips, an idea suddenly strikes me.

‘How about if we didn’t compromise on the costumes, and we just shot fewer people?’

‘Expand.’

‘If I could get Tarquin to believe the problem’s genuine, but that he can get the look he wants anyway, perhaps he’ll work with me. We could use way fewer extras, which would save a fortune. We throw our firepower at some of the key cast then shoot the others more in the background, with the odd close-up and quick pan across so we don’t need anything too elaborate. I reckon I could take about three thousand out like that.’

‘Brilliant!’

‘So why didn’t you just suggest it an hour ago?’

‘Because I hadn’t thought of it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. You’re no slouch, Lulu, if only you’d realize. Now I’ve ordered the bill: I hope you’ve sobered up sufficiently to drive me home.’

Zelda’s sage-like silence wears off on the way home. She gives me various brilliant tips for how I can dress the extras cheaply and what colours and fabrics will look the most expensive on camera. I assume she’ll have had quite enough of me, but she invites me in, taking me down to her and Michael’s pseudo cinema, a projector that they have rigged up in the basement. ‘I thought you could do with some non-furry inspiration,’ she says, digging out a stack of DVDs. And what inspiration! We watch wedding after wedding: ‘Pride and Prejudice’, all four weddings from Four Weddings, The Graduate and, my absolute favourite, The Philadelphia Story. By the time that’s finished, I’m awash.

‘Why aren’t real men like Cary Grant?’ I ask her, wiping my eyes.

‘Do you know anything about Cary Grant?’ she says.

‘Don’t burst my bubble. Let’s have the next one.’

We’ve hit the trashier end of the market now. Their library covers all bases, so we romp through Runaway Bride, 27 Dresses… Eventually I start to feel like I’ve eaten way too much cake, maybe because I’ve eaten way too much cake. It’s also an overdose of sugar-coated sentiment. Partly I’m nauseated, partly I’m heartsick. I want to want this. Hell, I do want this – I just wish I had the right to want it with the person I’m pining for.

Zelda starts getting twitchy around seven and I sense it’s time for me to drag myself away. Unusually, Michael and the kids are all due home, and the last thing I want to do is intrude. I give her a huge hug on the doorstep.

‘Thank you so much for today. It’s been amazing.’

‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’ she says, smiling in a dimply way that tells me she means it.

‘Promise me you’re not going to go back into hibernation. Sorry, Zelda, that sounds really selfish, but now you’re feeling better…’

‘I won’t, Lulu darling, I won’t.’

‘And I’m sorry I didn’t ask you more. It’s not because I don’t care, but you know that, don’t you?’

‘Enough! Today wasn’t about cancer and all the better for it. Now run to your car, it’s freezing.’

I do her bidding, as per, stopping to wave as I get in. Today’s been one of the happiest times I’ve had in ages, and yet I find the ridiculous tears are rising up through me yet again. I’m swollen up with emotion, all kinds of versions of love – real and imaginary – swirling around inside me. Driving through Oval, I force myself to grip up, remembering how close I came to a drink-driving rap back in January. Well, quite close, if Ali hadn’t been the nicest policeman you could possibly be stopped by. And quite possibly the cutest.

I pull up outside our squat little house about eight, noticing that all the lights are off. Of course, Alice is on counselling duty with Jenna, who’s suffered yet another brutal break-up – let’s hope the pub doesn’t run out of wine before she’s finished. I slam the door of the car, slightly spooked by a car that’s parked at the end of the path with a light on. I hurry towards the door, digging my keys out of my bag as I go.

‘Lulu.’

Oh my God: it’s Charles.