Chapter Seventeen

I must’ve been even drunker than I realized. I wake up with make-up smeared all over the pillow and my tights still on. Even more of a surprise is the fact that Alice is in bed beside me. I’m woken up by snoring, hers or mine I cannot rightly say. My head’s filled with rolling boulders and a skunk has taken up residence in my mouth. ‘Uurgh,’ I groan, rousing Alice. She opens one eye and half sits up, before thinking better of it and crashing back down on to the pillows. ‘Never again,’ we chorus.

‘I honestly think Beelzebub invented tequila to lure the weak over to his evil empire,’ I say, swinging out of bed to put the kettle on.

‘You’ve got an excellent grasp of theology,’ says Alice before rushing to the bathroom to vomit extravagantly.

Turns out she vacated her bed for Emily, who appears at the point when we’ve tottered to the sofa to suck up this week’s ‘Gossip Girl’. I try my best to look pleased she’s invaded my living room, but it’s a struggle.

‘Jesus, you look like you’re really feeling it,’ she tells me helpfully. She’s piled on so much bronzer that she’s browner than George Hamilton, and enough mascara to glue her eyelashes to her forehead with a misjudged blink. Doesn’t she know that even the WAGs are rocking the natural look in these straitened times?

‘Yeah, I am,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘Can we get you a coffee? Toast? What do you fancy?’

‘Thanks and everything, but you look like you need to stay where you are. Anyway, think we’re going out.’

I look at Alice’s greenish hue and wait for her to contradict Emily. Instead she hurries to her feet, sits down again, and then struggles to standing. ‘Eggs Benedict at Giraffe!’ she says, causing a stream of bile to flood my windpipe.

‘Are you sure?’ I say, reaching for her hand.

‘Most definitely,’ she says brightly.

How can she possibly be contemplating food after the full-scale chundering she just undertook? She runs upstairs and pulls some jeans on, incomprehensibly keen to get out of the door. Has Emily’s scant appeal not yet worn thin? There’s no way I’m going anywhere, but I find myself encouraging her to invite Jenna, stupidly curious to know what happened.

‘Don’t worry, Lulu,’ says Emily, casting a final look at my hung-over visage. ‘I’m sure you’ll be right as rain by Monday.’

‘Are you in Monday?’

‘Oh yeah, me and Charlie have got a big love scene.’

‘Oh, oh good.’

‘I promise I won’t ask you to help me with my lines this time,’ she says, smirking.

‘Feel free! It’s a privilege.’

‘Let’s go,’ interrupts Alice. ‘I’m starving.’

How can she possibly be hungry? I suppose she has literally emptied her stomach of its entire contents. I potter around on my own trying not to think about anything too hard. Eventually I swallow down the nausea and get back to the drawing board. My dinner with Tarquin is a mere three days away and I need to focus. I can’t allow myself to be distracted by worrying about Charles. Cautiously pleased with my efforts, I try to call Zelda to solicit her opinion, but there’s no answer from her mobile or landline. The anxiety starts to kick in, but I bat it away. She said she was on the road to recovery, and if there’s one thing I know about Zelda it’s that she’s a straight talker.

Alice comes back about three, immediately rushing up to the bathroom for a merry round of dry heaves.

‘Why’d you put yourself through that?’ I ask her incredulously.

‘Um, I like Emily. She’s a good laugh.’

There’s something insincere about her, but I don’t know quite what. ‘You weren’t just finding an excuse to get out of the house and see Richard?’

‘No!’

‘I can’t stand it if we start lying to each other,’ I plead.

‘Me neither,’ she says, a hint of steeliness to her tone. I know I’m a pot and she’s a kettle, but I’m still frustrated by how defensive she’s being. I try to probe more, but all she’ll fess up to is seeing him for a single drink.

‘I know what you think, Lulu, and I don’t wanna talk about it.’

‘But –’

She silences me with a death stare, then softens the blow by bringing me a cup of tea and a HobNob. I know better than to pry any further: I’ll have to wait until she feels ready to confide. I haven’t even had a chance yet to tell her about Jenna and Ali, but when I do she’s appalled.

‘She’s got no right!’

‘I did tell her I wasn’t interested,’ I say, even though I’m secretly glad she feels that way.

‘No matter, you saw him first!’

‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I?’

‘And you snogged him first,’ she grins broadly, ‘which is so brilliant!’

‘He snogged me. It was virtually a snog rape, except for the fact that I totally enjoyed it.’

‘I knew you would!’ says Alice, pleased with herself. ‘That’s why I invited him. You can’t let him slip through your fingers just because Jenna got her filthy mitts on him for five minutes. I love Jenna, but if we ruled out men on that basis, we might as well head straight for the nearest nunnery.’

‘No, if it was meant to be that wouldn’t have happened. He’s clearly the world’s biggest man slapper. I’m not going to think about it any more.’

‘Because you’re thinking about –’

‘No!’

Amazingly, Alice backs away from the inevitable lecture, but instead we’re left with a sticky undercurrent, as we both obsess about what the other is holding back. Maybe we should’ve just stayed hanging out in the womb, sucking our thumbs in companionable silence with no men coming between us. If they really are from Mars, perhaps they should all just take an express rocket right back there.

Charles certainly hasn’t been banished to an alternative planet. He’s back in Oxfordshire, in the location where we first started, which is where I head to first thing Monday. I’m heartened to see crocuses starting to poke through the grass, heralding the arrival of spring. So much has happened since we kicked off in the freezing cold.

With only two weeks to go, I’m either going to lose him forever or something quite the opposite. My first sight of him is every bit as hard as I expected, but I do feel a certain inner poise that I’ve always had to fake up until now. He seems way more rattled than me, fiddling with his phone and stumbling over a simple hello. I know my position is the right one and it allows me to be professionally friendly, rather than a needy mess. I refuse to start reading too much into his behaviour; our future is out of my hands and there’s a certain liberation in that.

Besides, there’s way too much to deal with for me to be locking myself in the caravan, mentally rocking. But not being made of Teflon means that Tarquin’s relayed request that I meet him on-set exactly when Emily and Charles are giving it their romantic all is far from welcome. Make-up and hair are fiddling around with Emily, trying to touch up her lips while she insists on dragging on a fag between takes. Charles looks unhappy and distracted, giving me no more than a brief smile. I head determinedly in Tarquin’s direction, laptop at the ready.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ is his unsettling greeting.

‘Um, hello,’ I reply stiffly. I start taking him through my weekend’s work, but he doesn’t seem all that engaged.

‘Tell me all about it tomorrow night,’ he says. ‘This scene needs to be perfect.’

‘Shall I go?’

‘Nah, I wanna know what you think. Grab some cans and sit over there.’

Oh, brilliant, I’ll be able to hear Charles making sweet, sweet verbal love to Emily in surround sound. I catch him throwing me the odd glance, clearly disturbed by my presence. Maybe he’s regretting the whole sordid business and wishing that he never had to lay eyes on me again. We’re on to episode eight now: with Lady Victoria expired, Sir Percy is beginning to make tentative moves towards Bertha. Which is kind of callous if you ask me, but God knows I’ve got no right to judge.

‘Circumstances forced me to snuff out my heart’s desire, but now, perhaps…’ says Charles with a soulful look. Is Emily actually chewing gum? As it’s his close-up she’s not obligated to do her best work, but nor is it fair to leave him with nothing to play off.

‘I can’t step into Lady Victoria’s place,’ she drawls, knowing full well it’s a cod Victorian ‘cannot’.

‘You would be doing no such thing,’ says Charles, a little unsteady. ‘The place I hold in my heart for you is yours alone.’

There’s a long pause, during which Emily looks off into the middle distance. ‘Then perhaps that place might be, might be… dunno, where is it?’ she giggles, losing the line entirely.

Charles scowls at her, then lets rip. ‘I have had it just about up to here with pretending to be in love with you. If you were the last woman on earth and the survival of the human race depended on us procreating, I still couldn’t do it. You are the most selfish creature I have ever laid eyes on and I cannot wait for the day when this purgatory is over.’

Emily’s eyes widen in shock, before she lays a theatrical hand over her mouth and hightails it to her caravan, sobbing extravagantly. It’s not that she can’t act, just that she likes to choose her moment. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ says Charles, hands aloft, then retreats to his.

‘Do you want me to talk to her?’ I ask Tarquin, but luckily he declines, heading off after her himself. This is definitely the most exciting event since the transparent trousers and the crew immediately erupt into a full-scale post mortem.

‘Moody bugger,’ say a couple, which seems a little unfair. Make-up disagree and immediately give vent to their chronic loathing for Emily, at which point I decide to step out. I can’t face pretending to be dispassionate about Charles and I’ve got more than enough to be getting on with today. Zelda’s got a brilliant anecdote about a fist fight on the set of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’: perhaps I’ll ring her with a newsflash.

What I won’t be doing is seeking out Charles. It takes all my strength not to, but I remind myself that I want the whole picnic, not the odd mouldy sandwich. A little bit of him is worse than none of him at all. I half expect him to text me, but all I get are three messages from Alice, who’s making an endearingly big fuss about cooking my favourite supper (chicken breasts swimming in pesto and mozzarella since you ask – it’s not surprising I’ve got way more of an arse than my twin). I’m such a contradictory fool. It’s good that he’s taking me at my word, and yet I’m also somewhat stung that he’s not reached out to me for comfort.

An hour or so later I hear they’re both back on-set, but I decide to keep well out of the way. Unfortunately it makes me a sitting duck for Suzanne, who comes to ask me who was responsible for the spat. She’s clearly gunning for Tarquin, but I can’t bring myself to exaggerate his part in it. I can see she’s frustrated by my lack of vitriol, so I find myself making ludicrous promises about what I’ll ferret out over the course of our night out.

I see him in the car park on wrap and somehow expect him to psychically appreciate my magnanimous behaviour, but of course he doesn’t. I ask him how he did calming Emily down, expecting an explosion, but he’s oddly restrained.

‘She needed a shoulder, Lulu, a port in the storm. You know how it is.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I say.

‘We all need to feel understood,’ he continues, staring at me. Is he trying to bring me on side before tomorrow’s screening? Who knows what goes on in that bizarrely crested head of his. I bid him goodnight, pretending I’m looking forward to the mollusc medley, and speed down the A40 towards home. I’m really heartened by Alice’s supper-making efforts. It feels like she’s making a space for us to talk: perhaps I’ll even pluck up the courage to tell her what I’ve said to Charles. I pick up an extra nice bottle of wine from an off-licence that’s not run by a furious fuckwit, and swing through the door with a cheery hello.

‘Hi, Lulu,’ tinkles Jenna. No. No, no, no, no. This was not meant to be my Monday night. Alice gives an apologetic smile, a strand of mozzarella hanging off her fringe.

‘Oh, hi, Jenna. Are you staying for supper?’

‘No, I’m just dropping off some books. And I wanted the chance to thank my two favourite twins for an a-m-a-a-zing night.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ I tell her, knowing full well the gory details are just down the track. I don’t want to ask, but I can’t help myself. ‘What was so amazing about it?’

‘Oh, you know,’ she says coyly.

An unjustified wave of fury washes over me. ‘Oh, do clarify,’ I say beadily.

‘A certain Scottish law enforcement officer.’

I can see that, for once, Alice is finding Jenna’s relentless man hunt as wearing as I do.

‘Yeah, that’s why I invited him along – for Lulu,’ she snaps.

Jenna’s bright pink lips make a little moue. ‘And that’s why I checked with Lulu that it was fine. And she made it crystal clear the field was open.’ She turns her large blue eyes to me and I reluctantly signal my assent. It just goes to show how little currency I have that a man who claimed to be truly obsessed could move on so spectacularly in less than an hour. I guess it’s the inverse of the Lynx effect.

‘So did you go back with him then?’ I ask through gritted teeth. Limping home in second place to Jenna was never my ideal.

‘Oh, Lulu, I don’t want to kiss and tell,’ she flutters. ‘Let’s just say that he’s very commanding.’

‘Commanding?’ hisses Alice, slitty-eyed. I love how she fights my corner, even when it’s unwarranted. I wish she’d realize that my hostility towards Richard is born of nothing else. ‘You do realize that Lulu actually –’

I put a hand out, shushing her. If Ali’s finally met someone he likes I’ve got no right to be all dog-in-the-mangerish and destroy it before it’s begun.

‘Yes, ladies, and with that intriguing titbit I shall leave you.’ Jenna’s no fool, she knows she’s best off out of Alice’s airspace. ‘Thanks again.’ She kisses us each and whirls out, right into the arms of Ali for all I know. Why am I so selfish? I should be pleased for her. She’s had nothing but wrong’uns for months, and it’s not like I wanted him. Or, at least, only a tiny bit. Maybe quite a big bit after that snog, but there we are. I bat away Alice’s outrage, reminding her of all those salient facts, and open the wine with gusto. She swamps me with questions about my day, asking all about Emily. Why is she so obsessed? I hope she’s not looking to replace Jenna as second in command. Emily is not remotely worthy, however much she intermittently turns on the charm.

‘So did you talk to her after she stropped off?’ she asks.

‘No, no I didn’t. Honestly, if I chased after her every time she has a tantrum I’d never get any work done at all. Tell me about your day, doing something that’s of actual benefit to society.’

As we talk about the various staffroom politics that Alice negotiates, it occurs to me that our jobs aren’t all that different, it’s just that the volume level’s turned up higher in mine. She admits she’s having dinner with Richard this week and I force myself to smile through.

‘You will press the eject button if he pulls any funny business?’

‘Of course I will. He’s got to prove himself to me. But it’s not like there’s a queue of men lining the street, is there?’

‘No,’ I concede, ‘but if you’re with him they won’t have a reason to.’

She smiles at me, head cocked.

‘You’re wiser than you think.’

I look at her.

‘I just mean you might want to take your own advice.’

She turns back to the stove and I try to quell my annoyance. There’s no denying there’s an element of truth in what she says, but I still wish she wouldn’t set herself up as such a bastion of morality the whole bloody time. I hate how she assumes that she’s the all-seeing eye who knows better than foolish little me that my relationship with Charles is nothing more than a shaming and sordid diversion. Why doesn’t she understand that love isn’t straightforward; that it can grow in hostile, treacherous terrain. It’s hard to defend any aspect of an adulterous relationship, but in sending him away I’ve tried to do something vaguely akin to the right thing. When Zelda described her own experience it felt right, but I know Alice will think I should’ve quashed any possibility of a future. I think about speaking up, but my desire to avoid any more disagreement feels visceral, almost like it’d be life-threatening. Instead I’ll call Zelda tomorrow, using the Tarquin / Suzanne juggernaut as cover. She’ll make me feel better, I know she will.

However much I might want to speak to Zelda, it seems like an impossibility. Neither phone produces a response and her interest in email has always been lacklustre at best. Gareth’s not heard either and we consider driving round to her, but with so much to do, we know she wouldn’t approve. We’ve finally got the majority of the wedding outfits made up and ready to wear, so we pull the team together to analyse what’s left to be done. We get the costume assistants and office runners to try on the frocks, making all the final adjustments and snapping Polaroids.

There’s a real sense of achievement in the air, particularly when I unveil Emily’s wedding dress. It’s not quite finished, but I’m gratified to see the collective excitement about where I’m going with it. I’ve pared down the costs for all the other outfits, throwing my financial clout at what I hope is a show-stopper. It’s a duck egg colour, and made from the heaviest, most luxurious satin. She’ll be gratified by the amount of bosom on display, but I’ve given the neckline a bit more interest by cutting it square. There’s beading around it, and around the cuffs, and a voluminous train, which will be carried by bridesmaids swathed in the finest polyester in the land.

‘I don’t want your head swelling up like a balloon, but you do seem to have worked a little bit of wardrobe magic,’ whispers Gareth.

‘Couldn’t have done it without you or them,’ I tell him.

‘There was definitely a point where I didn’t think you were going to pull it out of the bag. When you got all knickers and neurosis with no discernable focus.’

I try for an enigmatic smile, hoping he’s not going to over-analyse what’s changed. And what has changed? I guess I decided I had to be captain of my own ship, rather than a hapless passenger. A jolt of fear goes through me as I contemplate the fact I may’ve lost Charles in the process, but I push it aside, busying myself with pulling a couple of bottles of Prosecco out of the fridge. ‘To us,’ I say, toasting the team, who really have done an amazing job. After some general jollity, we pile all the frocks into the caravan and I set about repairing my make-up prior to Tarquin’s arrival. It’s not that I want to beautify myself in his honour, just that a five a.m. start has left me a dead ringer for Francis Rossi.

Tarquin turns up wearing a curious fawn-coloured leather jacket, which makes him look like he should be selling knock-off CDs out of the back of a Ford Escort.

‘Your carriage awaits,’ he says, indicating one of the unit drivers in a people carrier.

‘Oh, I’m quite happy to drive,’ I protest, but Tarquin is insistent. We crawl through rush-hour traffic, groping for conversation. Tarquin’s unpredictability makes me nervous at the best of times, but the fact that I’ve got to try and charm the cut out of him makes it way worse.

‘So where do you live?’ I venture, then worry it sounds like I’m hoping to snuggle up there later.

‘Hoxton,’ he replies smugly. Of course he does. Him and all the other ludicrous ‘creatives’ with bird’s nest hair and luminous trainers. He doesn’t reciprocate with a question, but it does at least give him something to riff on. He loves the ‘industrial vibe’, but he feels that it’s been spoiled by the Johnny-come-latelies from the city who’ve moved there in the last few years.

‘Did you grow up round there then?’ I ask innocently.

‘Er, no, I’m actually from Hitchin, but it’s been my patch for donkey’s years.’ Case closed. The restaurant fits in with his industrial vibe perfectly: it’s a mixture of chrome and tiles, with a long zinc bar running down the length of it. Piercing spotlights bounce off the shiny surfaces, casting everything in a dazzling white. The cosy Italian that Ali took me to suddenly springs to mind. Will Jenna be whisked off there on his pillion, with no idea she’s following in my footsteps? An efficient but unfriendly waiter delivers us to the bar and offers us an aperitif while the table’s being prepared.

‘Two gin Martinis,’ says Tarquin, like we’re a married couple from the 1920s.

‘Actually, sorry, can I just have a glass of white wine?’

‘Don’t be such a square,’ says Tarquin in a tone that’s simultaneously flirty and aggressive. ‘You’re a good-time girl and here we are, out having a good time.’

I laugh it off to the bemused waiter and insist on my order, but when the drinks come he’s brought me both.

‘Have a swig,’ says Tarquin. ‘If you don’t like it I’ll do the honours.’

Why is he so controlling? I can’t bear to waste any more time talking about it, so I take the tiniest of sips, while listening to the potted highlights of his career thus far. He mainly seems to have directed pop videos for men with hair as absurd as his own, with the odd Spanish cat food commercial interspersed for variety.

‘It’s fantastic they gave you such a big step up,’ I say once we’re seated and then curse myself for implying that it sounds unwarranted. Luckily his ego doesn’t allow for such suggestions.

‘Damien’s tracked my career right from the off; he’s always been a champion of mine. He’s just been waiting for the right thing. I reckon you might get your big break soon. I’m sure in a year or so you’ll be ready to design something yourself.’

I quell the rage I feel that no one bar Gareth understands that this whole enormous, impossible job has fallen on my shoulders. Considering how much time I’ve spent interpreting Tarquin’s ridiculous suggestions, I can’t believe he hasn’t noticed. I think the tiny sips of neat gin have proved cumulative, as I go into a massive speech about what I’ve put together for the wedding, determined to make him acknowledge my contribution, whatever it takes.

‘Emily’s dress has got this lovely pearly hem and the bridesmaids are going to be in these little purple smocks and…’ Mid-monologue, I catch sight of his glazed-over expression. Oh God, who can blame him? Do I really want to sit across another dinner table being defensive and narky? Surely some of what I originally liked about him was more than just a mirage? Perhaps I need to reprogramme, try relating to him as a human being rather than as an adversary that I’ve got to endure and manipulate.

‘What was it like, growing up in Hitchin?’

He looks a bit startled, and who can blame him? As conversational gambits go, it’s not the best, but he gives it his best shot.

‘Erm, I dunno. Kind of boring. But maybe that’s what got me interested in directing – pretty much the only thing to do was go to the multiplex in Stevenage.’

‘But do you think that growing up always involves swathes of boredom, even if you grow up in Manhattan? You’re always going to have times when you’re not old enough to do what you want to do.’

‘I reckon you’re the kind of girl who watches “Gossip Girl” on a Sunday morning,’ he replies with unexpected perspicacity. ‘You wouldn’t catch Blair Waldorf living it large at the Stevenage multiplex.’

And we’re off. He doesn’t miss any opportunities to remind me of his prodigious talent, but we do succeed in having a proper conversation that’s not about work. Why are we all so wedded to the armour that our careers provide? Perhaps we could all relate to just about anyone if we asked them what they felt rather than what they did. I manage to not only finish my Martini, but also consume half a bottle of wine and narrowly escape after-dinner calvados. It’s all accompanied by the aforementioned oysters, which I try, and fail, to suck elegantly from their shells.

During the slurp-athon, I discover that Tarquin’s the youngest of three brothers, which makes me slightly more sympathetic to his constant need to shout the loudest. His mockney accent seems to lessen in direct relation to the amount he drinks; not all that surprising when one discovers that said brothers are named Caspar and Atticus.

‘So what’s it like growing up a twin? Did you have really girly fights where you pulled each other’s hair and tortured each other’s Barbies?’

How many times have I answered a variation of this question? Still, I give it proper consideration.

‘There was a bit of that, I suppose. I did cut the ears off her Care Bear when she said Fran Bellamy was her best friend.’

‘All power to you.’

‘But no, it’s brilliant. Knowing there’s someone on your team, no matter what.’

‘Really?’

‘What do you mean, really?’

‘Dunno, you just sounded a bit uncertain.’

I pause, suddenly choked. Or maybe it’s just the Martini repeating on me. I try to gather my thoughts through the gin haze.

‘Maybe it’s dangerous, that’s all. Maybe you shouldn’t rely on one person being on your team because – because – what if they’re not?’

I hate myself for answering that question with any trace of ambivalence – it feels so disloyal. I guess my biggest, most indestructible shield has always been my twinhood. These last few weeks I’ve had to step out of it, at least in part, and I’m too frightened to really analyse what that means.

‘It’s great though, it’s completely great. Apart from when someone fancies both of you, like you’re cans of soup on a shelf.’

Here we go. There’s a twin schtick that I can trot out like a well-worn comic routine, complete with a smattering of witty anecdotes and wry observations. I shamelessly employ it now, knowing that I can’t explore what I’m really feeling, even if Tarquin was interested enough to go there. It gets us through to the arrival of the bill, which Tarquin puts on the production.

‘Fun though it’s been, it is a work dinner. I’ve got you well oiled in preparation for the moment of truth.’

So he hasn’t forgotten then. I was considering letting the whole thing slide if he failed to mention it, even though I know in my heart of hearts I’ve got to go through with it. I’m silently dreading having to go to Tarquin Towers, but instead we’re heading back to the unit base to watch it in the edit suite.

‘Anyway, I wanna get my motor,’ he says, mockney manqué in place now we’ve got back into a work context.

‘But you can’t possibly drive, neither of us can.’

‘By the time we’ve watched it and I’ve got through a cafetière of coffee, I’ll be the best driver on the road. I’ll drop you back, prove it to you.’

We’re out on the street now, where Paul, the poor unit driver, has been patiently waiting for us. Where is the engaging, amusing man I just had dinner with? He’s effortlessly flicked the switch back to tosspot director without a word of warning.

‘I’m not going to be getting into your car,’ I snap, Alice flashing up before me. She would be utterly horrified at the thought of me in a car with a man whose stomach’s like a fleshy punchbowl.

‘Suit yourself,’ he snaps back as we climb into the unit car. ‘I’m sure Paul’s quite happy to wait another couple of hours before he gets to bed, aren’t you, Paul?’

‘Of course I’m not going to expect you to do that. I’ll get a cab.’ A cab from Chertsey: brilliant. That should only be two million pounds or so. We’re having one of those awful drunken rows you usually only have in the dying days of a relationship. I can distinctly remember a screaming match with Steve over a detour via a kebab shop, but at least we were having sex – Tarquin and I have got no excuse.

He lights up one of his noxious mini cigars, puffing out of the window ostentatiously.

I want to tell him to put it out, but I’m too drunk and too stubborn to be the first to speak. Instead I bore Paul stiff with enquiries about the relative merits of automatics over manuals until there’s a surly offer of chewing gum from my left. After what feels like an age, we finally arrive. Paul promises he’ll wait for me, despite my protestations, and I scuttle after Tarquin towards the edit suite.

The edit suite’s right at the back of the building we’re based out of and is a surprisingly cosy little haven, dominated by a squidgy-looking sofa. Tarquin’s mood seems to have gone through another seismic shift as he’s sitting on said sofa, patting the seat next to him invitingly. He’s also pouring us each another glass of wine, which I totally fail to refuse despite the fact that I’m seeing triple at least. As I’m way too drunk to be able to give Suzanne a decent analysis, it’s going to be even more critical that I charm a copy out of him.

‘Lights down,’ he says, plunging us into pitch black. I hate the dark. I involuntarily squeal, and then feel Tarquin’s hand reach for my knee. ‘Nothing to fear, much to enjoy,’ he says, before mercifully releasing it. I’m expecting shots of lush green fields, but instead Emily’s over-made-up face fills the screen.

‘What do I want?’ she asks, pouting so much that her delivery’s even worse than normal. ‘Love, of course, pure love! For what else is of value?’

‘That’s not in the script, is it?’ I ask, only to have him shush me.

‘It’s hand-held, intimate,’ he says. ‘I just picked the shots up the other day. Damien’s gonna love it. Cinéma vérité, my friend.’

‘But she doesn’t really emerge as a lead till episode two. Surely you’re giving the game away? It’s all about Percy and Victoria in episode one.’

‘I’m not being funny, Lulu, but do you reckon Coppola’s wardrobe girl gave him hints about storytelling when they were making The Godfather?’ He waggles his finger theatrically. ‘I don’t think so!’

I sit there holding my tongue as the full horror unfolds. Emily’s to-camera piece is followed by the traditional pastoral opening that the script demands, creating a horrible mishmash of styles. Episode one is very much Charles’s story: it takes you back to his loveless childhood in a series of flashbacks, so you understand why he expects so little of life and why Bertha’s joie de vivre opens something up in him that he’s never experienced before. Not now. In Tarquin’s filleted version he’s a grumpy, cantankerous prig who’ll seem utterly ruthless when he begins to make advances towards a vulnerable maid. Particularly now the aforementioned maid has become the star of the show, right from the off. The to-camera pieces punctuate the entire hour, jerking you out of the story and dumping you in a sub-Woody-Allen nightmare. I tentatively try to question them.

‘It’s terribly brave what you’re doing, but I thought you weren’t that sure about Emily?’

‘What’s your point, Lulu? I gather you two are the best of friends. Although maybe she’s not your very best friend…’

What drunken nonsense is he coming up with now? ‘Yeah, no, I like Emily. I’m just wondering whether the to-camera pieces are a bit in your face.’ I wish I could just shut up, but I feel deeply defensive about the way that Charles’s performance has been cut to ribbons.

‘There’s an honesty about her, Lulu, it’s what I’ve always said.’ He’s dragging on another stinky cheroot. ‘Eyes on the screen, this bit’s brilliant!’

It’s not, of course. It’s some tricksy montage of Charles riding and Bertha scrubbing, which gives the whole game away. There’s something vaguely suggestive about it, almost like it’s a dodgy rock video from the mid-eighties (a vibe that’s exacerbated by the way in which Charles’s long, flowing locks blow wildly in the wind, Jon Bon Jovi-esque, as he takes a jump). Suzanne is going to HATE the whole thing. In fact, everyone’s going to hate it, bar that minx Emily who’s somehow managed to manipulate Tarquin into making it the Emily show. Could they be… would they be? It’s too disgusting a thought to contemplate.

I’m both dreading the end (the inevitable post mortem) and longing for the end (need you ask?). Watching it has made my feelings for Charles bubble right up again: I want so much to warn him, but I’m not sure what it would achieve. When it finally finishes I try my very best to get by on meaningless platitudes, but I seem to alight on ones that have been out of use since the Second World War. It’s not surprising that the news it was both ‘spellbinding’ and ‘riveting’ isn’t enough to satisfy the tanker that is Tarquin’s ego.

‘Riveting how? What was it that really grabbed you by the throat?’

I wish something would grab him by the throat. ‘Erm, I loved all those exteriors. Percy riding… riding around.’

How crap a response is that?

‘Aah, so it’s Charles who floated your boat?’

‘No! I just like action. I liked it when you had that shot of the carriage coming off the road. The wheels spinning and that horse bucking…’ I’m so tired. If I wasn’t this tired I wouldn’t be giving a commentary straight out of the Equestrian Times. ‘It was all great, Tarquin. I just wanna watch it again so I can really unpick it, and I know my sister would love it. Do you think I could maybe borrow it?’

‘Do you promise not to show it to anyone else?’

‘Cross my heart,’ I say.

‘Do you swear on your sister’s life?’

I feel sick. ‘What do you mean, swear on –’

He leans in towards me drunkenly. ‘Only joking. Take it, enjoy it.’

I stand up, flooded with relief that I appear to have got away unscathed. ‘Well, it’s been really fun, but I guess we should call it a night.’

‘Hang on, it’s not all about me you know!’

Um, it so is. But for some reason Tarquin’s got it in his head that he wants to see Emily’s wedding dress before we part. We weave our way unsteadily down the corridors, suddenly rendered spooky by the hour and the company. How can I, at my advanced age, still be scared of the dark? There’s no way I’m grabbing Tarquin’s hand, that’s for sure, not even if the biggest rat in Britain comes rumba-ing down the corridor towards me in sparkly shoes. The doors clang shut behind us and I rootle around in my handbag for the key to the caravan. Tarquin bundles in after me, picking things up proprietorially as I seek out the frock.

‘So here it is!’ I tell him, holding it against the length of my body. He looks it up and down, looking me up and down in the process.

‘You’ll be pleased to know that your director approves.’

Oh, so pleased. If only I could devote my entire life to giving you pleasure, not just the next ten days. He steps towards me, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

‘I know it doesn’t feel that great, but on camera it’ll be absolutely fine.’

Tarquin makes no attempt to step away, fondling the neckline in a way that brings him way too close to my cleavage for comfort. I try to yank the dress away which, horrifically, he reads as me removing an unwanted obstacle between us. He keeps his hands right in position, cupping my left boob as he leans in for a snog. I turn my face away and attempt to peel his hand off.

‘No, no. You’re great, Tarquin, but… we just shouldn’t go there.’

As he jerks backward I see a look of pure fury cross his face.

‘What the fuck? What was tonight about exactly?’

‘I thought we were having a work dinner, Tarquin. I’m not –’

‘What, you’re taken?’ he shoots back, bilious.

‘No, yes… it’s complicated.’

‘Too right it’s complicated.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask him, a tide of fear ripping through me.

‘Oh, come off it, Lulu. I know, you know, and guess what? Before you know it a certain someone’s wife is going to know.’

‘Tarquin, please… how did you find out?’

‘Emily.’

‘Emily?!’

‘Yeah. Turns out your beloved, devoted twin sister can’t keep her trap shut.’

Rage and pain compete for space as I attempt to compute what’s happened. His attitude to Emily transformed after she stormed off-set, and this must be the reason. How could Alice do this to me? No wonder she’s been cooking up a storm. And how can I stop Tarquin, now lighting another one of his horrid little cigars, from tearing Charles’s family apart? I can’t bear to be the cause of such devastation. Would he really do that? Is he honestly that vindictive? I’d like to think not, but he’s so unpredictable that I can’t be sure.

‘It’s over, Tarquin, it’s completely over. Why would you want to do that? It won’t do anyone any good.’

‘There’s something really untrustworthy about you, Lulu. I’m not surprised you’ve been sniffing around someone else’s husband. And as for it being over, pull the other one. I’ve seen him looking at you like a sick dog. His wife’s a nice woman, she doesn’t deserve the pair of you making a fool of her.’

I’m crying in earnest now, pleading with him to see sense, but he’s completely intractable. I rip the door open.

‘You are a total bastard,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not doing this out of any concern for her, you don’t care about anyone except yourself. I know what we did was wrong and that’s why I ended it. All you’d be doing is causing more pain.’

He shakes his head at me, casting me a look of total contempt.

‘I hate you!’ I scream at him. ‘I hate you and I hate your stupid episode. You’re a talentless twat and a miserable excuse for a human being.’

I slam out, burning up with the enormity of what’s happened. I can’t believe what I’ve done. The human cost is suddenly so real, so horribly tangible. Is there anything I can do to stop the clock?