Chapter Nineteen

Every morning I wake up eyeball to eyeball with Robert Redford. Zelda’s downstairs film den is dominated by a huge poster for The Way We Were: Robert strides down the beach intensely, arm tightly wrapped around Barbra Streisand’s shoulders. I don’t know if it’s the togetherness that she responded to, or how achingly handsome he is – it’s yet another question that I long to ask her, but will never have the chance to. She slipped away around the time that my and Alice’s argument hit a crescendo, after which I threw myself into a cab and landed on Gareth’s doorstep. He and I got the news around four a.m. and spent the next day in a state of disbelief. We told Michael that we would tell all the work people who needed to know, but every time we tried to get the words out the shock hit us anew. Perhaps it’s a blessing that the strictures of production mean the show must go on, but I’m balancing the nightmarish costume famine with helping Michael and the boys organize the funeral. I was so glad that he took my offer of help at face value, and the easiest thing seemed to be to come and stay with them. It might sound ridiculous and sexist, but they barely seem able to boil an egg between the three of them. Making sure they eat makes me feel vaguely useful, and the boys seem able to share a little bit of what they’re going through with me. The funeral’s tomorrow, and the arrangements seem endless. I’ve promised Michael I’ll read a poem, but the idea fills me with dread. I’d much rather retreat behind organizing ham sandwiches than face the idea of keeping a lid on my emotions in front of over a hundred people. Not on my own.

Alice and I haven’t spoken since that terrible night. I miss her horribly, but something’s hardened in me. The things she said cut so deep that I’m almost frightened to put my trust back in her. I always imagined we’d part because someone too wonderful to walk past would come into one of our lives: I never imagined it would happen like this. She left me a series of messages in the first twenty-four hours, none of which I responded to. They veered between conciliatory and cross, but none of them made me believe she realized how betrayed I felt. I know there are things I said that were cruel and unnecessary, but this whole catastrophic conflict seems like it’s about so much more than the immediate events. All our lives Alice has held on to being eight minutes older, eight minutes wiser – the twin with the answers. And I’ve let her, because it’s made me feel safe. Loving someone I can’t afford to love with such ludicrous, illogical intensity somehow destroyed the whole edifice we’d built for ourselves. If I could’ve stepped back into line, I would’ve, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be the sister she wants now. A life without her is unimaginable, but too much else is collapsing around my ears for me to be able to pick my way through it. Besides, after that first flurry of phone calls she’s been shockingly silent. Perhaps she really has given up on me.

There’s not remotely enough time for me to lie in bed stroking my chin and sagely reflecting. I’ve spent the few days frantically trying to get hold of Tim Le Grande, with no success. My only hope is persuading him to lever open the crates and lend me those costumes, but his agent won’t let me anywhere near him. Apparently he’s taken the break in filming to oil his aging limbs on a beach in Mustique, not to be disturbed under any circumstances. I begged her to at least pass on the news of Zelda’s death, but she wouldn’t even promise that. I’m trying to run up an approximation of what we had before with the tiny sum of money and sliver of time that’s left, but I fear it’s going to look tawdry and cheap. Which might be entirely fitting, considering the dog’s dinner that Tarquin’s created. Suzanne hated the cut as much as I predicted, and used it to insist that he let her into the edit. Right now there’s a titanic battle of wills going on between the two of them and the execs, but with the level of life, love and death that I’m dealing with off camera I’m finding it hard to engage.

The investigations into the fire are still inconclusive; I can’t work out if Tarquin’s continued hush about the affair is down to anxiety about his part in it, or an unexpected shred of common decency. I’m fairly confident Emily will keep her trap shut unless disseminating the information becomes useful to her again. Right now, with her show-stopping gown burnt to cinders, she needs me more than she ever has. There’s a special on orange corduroy in Walthamstow Market right now and I won’t be afraid to use it.

I’ve convinced myself there’s no reason to panic Charles unnecessarily, but I know my decision not to tell him the secret’s out is largely born of cowardice. I can’t bear more conflict, more upset – not now. He sent a lovely text about Zelda, suggesting a cup of tea, and it took every fibre of moral resolve for me to say no. If I see him I’ll fall straight into his arms, and I’ve vowed that I’m going nowhere near that dangerous embrace unless I can have him on defensible terms. I’ve wanted more than anything to see him these last few days, which has just served to remind me that it has to be the whole cake or nothing at all. It’s so awful not to be able to call the man you love because he’s not actually your man. And even if I did make the SOS call, I know it would never be as simple as that SOS call I made to Ali. I was illogically sure that he’d deliver what I needed from him, however pissed off he was, whereas any interaction with Charles won’t just be about my need for comfort and succour. We’ll inevitably get bogged down in the monumental mess that we’ve managed to cook up for ourselves.

Still, the intermittent texts we’ve swapped have provided a welcome punctuation. I’ve got to go to set today and there’s no denying I’m still thinking too hard about my outfit. Infuriated by my superficiality, haunted by Alice’s vitriol, I punish myself with a pair of dreary, beige trousers. They look like cricket whites and make my arse resemble a jelly mould: no one could desire me in these babies. Pleased with my peculiar brand of self-flagellation, I venture upstairs. Michael’s at the kitchen table, hunched over an exercise book.

‘Good morning!’ he says brightly. ‘Sleep well?’ Honestly, his level of stiff upper lip bravado is a sight to behold. Partly I admire it, partly it horrifies me – the English public school system has a lot to answer for. I’m glad I’ve been here to supervise a few swearathons.

‘Yeah, OK,’ I say, pouring myself a cup of the carbolic coffee that he seems to live on right now. ‘Toast? Scrambled egg?’ I ask encouragingly. Looking at his grey pallor, I’m doubtful he’s even gone to bed. ‘I’m going to have something.’

‘Honestly, you’re not a short order cook! I’m fine.’

I glance towards him, catching sight of the page, which is covered in scribbled-out writing. He smiles ruefully, gesturing at the page. ‘Eulogy. It just seems so insulting somehow. How can you possibly boil Zelda down into ten minutes of pithy sound bites? I’d need hours to do her justice, absolutely hours. And it wouldn’t make sense either, because she was so bloody complicated. That was one of the things I loved about her, even though the contradictions could be utterly infuriating. Sorry… sorry.’

‘What are you apologizing for?’ I ask him, relieved that the British reserve is giving way. ‘Everything you said just then sounded incredibly true. Maybe you should just say that, admit you can’t cover it, and then – I don’t know – pick her greatest hits. God, sorry, that was so trite.’

‘It wasn’t, it wasn’t at all. It was jolly good advice. And I will have a slice of toast, since you ask.’

I know he’s humouring me, both with the compliment and the acceptance of toast, but I hope that he will be able to access that honesty about who Zelda really was. A few tears plop into the toaster, but luckily I’m not electrocuted. He and the boys are out this evening having supper with some kindly neighbours and I vow that I’ll use the time to practise my poem. I don’t want to be a sobbing wreck at the front of the church – it seems almost presumptuous to take on the mantle of grief in that way – but I know that if making a slice of toast is this challenging then saying a formal goodbye might totally floor me.

It’s funny: everything at work seems trivial when I’m in the house, but as soon as I’m in the car driving to set, all the bogey men start looming large. The costume situation is a real crisis; this was Zelda’s swan song and I can’t bear for it to be a damp squib. I pull over and give Tim Le Grande’s ghastly agent one more try, but the office is on answering machine. The costumes we’re cobbling together are a pale imitation of what we had. Tarquin’s too cowed and distracted to read the riot act, but I know how lame it will look. I’m honestly not even sure how we’ll get them ready in time considering the wedding shoot is three days hence and the funeral’s tomorrow. I waver for a minute, wishing I could speak to Alice. We’ve always had our bubble – a place that’s entirely ours, beyond the reach of boys or work or even other family – but now it’s popped. I start dialling her, momentarily determined to find a way through, but there’s too much to address. After the funeral, I promise myself. If I can get through the funeral then I can deal with anything.

I’ve got to do a fitting for Emily’s emergency replacement dress today. I begged Gareth to do it, insisting that even Emily couldn’t believe that he would have lecherous intent, but he point blank refused. I’ll just have to maintain an air of icy professionalism and avoid the urge to treat her like a human pin cushion. I go to the wardrobe caravan and steel myself for the long walk to her winnebago. There’s a tentative knock on the metal door and I freeze. There are so many people I don’t want to see – and one person I do. When Charles’s lovely, familiar face appears, I’m so relieved.

‘Hi,’ I say, choked.

‘Hey,’ he says, stepping towards me. I barrel into his arms, giving way to the sobs that threaten to engulf me every minute of the day. ‘Angel, I’m so sorry,’ he mutters into my hair. ‘You must feel dreadful.’ We stand there for what feels like an age. I don’t speak, just try to absorb security and comfort from his presence. As he’s not a rock and I’m not a limpet, he eventually pulls away.

‘We’ve got to talk, this is ridiculous,’ he says.

‘It’s too dangerous, Charles. Nothing’s changed, and unless it does… Besides, it’s not about us right now.’

He puts a finger to my lips, stifling the end of my sentence. ‘I’m going to come and find you this evening. I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘But –’

‘Just hear me out, Lulu.’ He moves back towards me and, fearing a kiss, I go for another hug. Then he’s gone, leaving me desperate to know what he meant. Has something happened? Could Bea have found out, or even worse been told – surely if she had I’d know about it? After a couple more minutes of pointless internal speculation I force myself to stop. My stupid, painful affair does not deserve attention right now: the only thing that matters is Zelda. I think about texting him and telling him not to pursue me tonight, but the craving hasn’t yet abated.

Emily is the most subdued I’ve ever seen her. I try not to give the merest hint of the devastation she’s caused, pinning an unflattering swathe of beige taffeta around her with barely a word.

‘Sorry about Zelda,’ she says prosaically.

‘Thank you,’ I reply coldly, stepping away to survey the effect. It doesn’t look that much better than my trousers: it’s like I’ve unexpectedly been appointed president of the Beige Marketing Board.

‘But – but – that bluey colour was so lovely on me,’ she sniffles.

Of course it’s pleasurable to prick her vanity, but I’m almost as gutted as she is. I was so proud of what we’d created and now it’s literally gone up in a puff of smoke.

‘We can’t always have what we want though, can we?’ I tell her like a harsh Victorian governess. ‘The seamstresses need to get to work immediately to give us any chance of being ready, so you need to step out of it.’

‘Lulu!’ she says, bottom lip wobbling like a toddler. ‘I’m not some bit part, I’m the… the star!’

I look at her, face immobile. ‘You’re a star. A twenty-four carat star. That’s why I know you’ll shine, whatever we put you in.’

And with that I sweep out, leaving her to get changed alone. I hope I haven’t pushed her too far. The last thing I need is her attempting some ludicrous blackmail with forty-eight hours to go. Why won’t Tim Le Grande get his shiny, brown arse off the beach and ring me? I take the wretched dress back to the unit base, where Gareth is supervising operations. He gives me a brief, stressed hug infused with smoke and sleeplessness. I hold the dress up contemptuously and he wrinkles his nose. ‘Let’s get the girls on the case,’ he says reluctantly. We spend the rest of the afternoon vacillating between funeral arrangements and fantasy wedding arrangements, only needing a christening to complete the births, marriages and deaths triumvirate. Gareth’s been amazingly practical, helping with all the boring details like parking and catering, which Michael is too grief-stricken to engage with. I leave earlyish, wondering whether Charles really will tip up tonight. The horror of an affair is that there’s no way of knowing the answers to either the big questions or the little ones. He may well appear, large as life and twice as natural, but equally any number of domestic travails could sweep him away from me; just as he may choose to put an end to his marriage or decide to sail forth into a long and unhappy old age. I’m suddenly infuriated by my own powerlessness – I can’t remain his stooge very much longer. Even so, when my phone rings I swerve to the kerb and snatch it up.

‘Lulu?’

‘Jenna?!’

‘Oh, thank God you picked up.’

Don’t tell me: she’s been dumped by a dustman after having sex in the back of his dumpster. Or Ali’s seen the error of his ways and exited stage left. Either way, I am so not in the mood.

‘What’s up?’ I ask unenthusiastically.

‘I wasn’t calling to talk about me, Lulu. You’ve got to talk to Alice! The two of you… this is terrible.’

‘Look, Jenna,’ I snap, ‘you don’t understand how complicated it is. What she did –’ I’m about to say ‘unforgivable’ but I stop myself. Surely nothing is unforgivable when you started as one entity? Even if she killed someone I’d have to forgive her. Hell, if she killed Emily I’d applaud her. ‘It’s not been right for a while,’ I continue. ‘We’ve been growing apart for ages, she’s been so bloody judgemental! I’m not proud of what I did, but –’

‘She just worries about you, Lulu, that’s why she invited… invited Ali.’

She at least has the good grace to sound sheepish.

‘I’ve barely heard from her since the row. A couple of messages and then pretty much nothing. I’ve been organizing a funeral, Jenna! It’s tomorrow.’ I can hear a shrill hysteria in my voice, which makes me realize how abandoned I feel. I’ve done this once before, but at least we were together. How can she let me go through it alone? Does she really not understand how much Zelda meant to me?

‘That’s how she feels, Lulu.’

‘How’s that?’

‘She wrote you that whole letter and you didn’t even text her!’

‘What letter?’

‘She wrote you a whole letter about everything, she put it through the letter box.’

‘No, she didn’t, I would’ve got it.’ Oh no. She thinks I’m staying in Gareth’s mansion block in Warwick Avenue. I’m sure he doesn’t check the stacked-up communal post from one week to the next; he hates bills nearly as much as I hate rats.

‘I didn’t get it, Jenna, I didn’t get it.’

‘Well, that’s good! Really, it’s good – at least you didn’t get it and ignore it. Now you just need to speak to each other.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, suffused with a wave of gratitude. I know it’s nowhere near as simple as that, but I’m mighty relieved that Alice has tried to make contact in a significant way. And a letter means more to us than most. We set up a dead letter box in our tree house sometime after Mum died, somehow thinking that she’d be able to swoop down in the night and find out what we’d been up to. We’d leave each other missives too, things we didn’t want to say out loud. Confessions to clothes borrowed and lost, allegiances with classmates we’d designated sworn enemies. Perhaps she’s finally grasped how visceral the connection between then and now is for me.

I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but maybe I’ve been unfair on Jenna. ‘How are you? Really?’ I grit my teeth and ask the million-dollar question. ‘How’s it going with Ali?’

‘Oh, Lulu, that’s the other reason I’m calling. I feel so bad about all of that.’

‘Don’t,’ I say, although I’m gratified that she does. Is it just wounded pride that he chose her over me? Was it that our kiss wasn’t as hot from where he was standing, or could he sense that my mind was elsewhere? ‘I told you he was fair game and he chose you.’

‘The thing is, now I’ve met Doug, I feel duty bound to come clean.’

‘Doug? Who’s Doug?’

‘Funnily enough, he’s an undertaker. I met him in Greggs on the Holloway Road. Do you get those moments when only a pasty will do?’

‘Um, not really.’ I turn the engine off, sensing this one could run and run.

‘Oh, I do, that’s why I was in Greggs. Doug was on his break, and he’d just popped in to buy a round of cheese and onion for the rest of the boys. He’s so sweet like that, really considerate.’ Jenna’s always mistress of the detail, even though the man in question becomes an irrelevancy within a matter of days. ‘And there was a woman with like, sextuplets, ahead of us, real brats, and it’s taking an age, so I roll my eyes at him and he winks and before you know it he’s asked me out!’

‘Right,’ I say, wondering where this is going. Hopefully not a quickie in a crematorium. The very thought of a crematorium makes my stomach turn over. I look at my watch and think about reducing Jenna to a low hum on speaker phone while I zip back to Zelda’s, but I’m too curious to know what happened with Ali. The monologue continues for what feels like an age, romping through a candlelit meal at TGI Friday, a trip to the vet to get his pit bull castrated and a weekend in a caravan in Anglesey. Eventually I can’t bear it any more.

‘Jenna, look, I’m sorry but I’ve really got to get on. Is the upshot that you dumped Ali for Doug?’

‘No, I didn’t, Lulu, no.’

She seems remarkably chipper for a woman dumped by about the hundredth man in as many days. I feel peculiarly vindicated: he is a shit, snogging me and leaving with someone else moments later. I clearly had a lucky escape. But when I say that to Jenna, she immediately goes on the defensive.

‘Oh, he’s not, he’s not!’ counters Jenna. ‘He’s the perfect gentleman. I’m afraid I was a tiny bit economical with the truth.’

‘Economical how?’

‘Lulu, don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I feel like you think I’m a little bit of a loser.’

‘N-o-o-o! No, of course I don’t think that,’ I say, feeling horrible for my transparent meanness.

‘Mmm, if you say so. Well, it does rather get me down. The way you just assumed he wouldn’t go for me.’

‘I didn’t,’ I say lamely.

‘Well, if you did, you were quite right.’

‘But you went home with him!’

‘He took me home, which was rather different.’

‘How so?’

‘I got rather too stuck into the tequila, if I’m honest. I’m not proud of this, but when I did the last shot I ended up vomiting into my pina colada glass.’

Oh my God. That could be the world’s most disgusting image.

‘It could happen to anyone.’

‘I was mortified, Lulu, mortified. I was clearly in no state to be out on the town, so Ali very sweetly offered to take me home. He just made me a cup of coffee and left. Oh, apart from the bit where he asked me how best to play it with you.’

I’m struggling to compute all the new information coming my way.

‘Well, whatever you told him he’s ignored you. Haven’t heard a peep.’

‘Mmm. That’s roughly what I told him – play it cool, hang back. I’m not proud of myself. You said you didn’t want him and I rather did.’

I fight down a wave of unwarranted irritation. It’s my just deserts for being so relentlessly dismissive of Jenna all this time, despite the fact that she blatantly cares deeply about my sis. I’m a little bit excited that Ali felt the heat between us, but I swiftly bat the feeling away. He doesn’t deserve to compete with Charles for my affections, not when he’s already been chewed up and spat out by one love triangle.

Charles: bloody hell, I’ve got to get off the phone. I promise Jenna that Alice and I will talk and screech off at a pace that would give Ali due cause to have me banned. I’m grateful for the adrenaline if I’m honest: right now it’s the only thing that counteracts the sadness that suffuses my every waking moment. Will it be easier or harder once the funeral’s over? At least we’ve still got a fuck-off celebration of Zelda’s magnificence to come, whereas afterwards we’ll just be left slowly adjusting to a world without her in it.

Charles texts while I’m en route, leaving me only enough time to race in and sweep some mascara around my puffy little eyes before he lands on the doorstep. I’ve had no space to wonder what it is he’s come to say: is there anything significant to report, or is it simply concern for my current situation? He’s taken aback by my far from glamorous outfit but swiftly recovers, producing a bottle of champagne from behind his back with a flourish. It’s about the last thing I feel like drinking, although maybe I’m being churlish. ‘Thanks,’ I say, body-swerving a kiss. All I want is a hug, and – my God – do I crave it. He eventually peels me off him for the second time of the day and follows me to the kitchen. What would Zelda think if she could see us now?

He opens the bottle theatrically as I hand him glasses. He pours it and chinks: ‘To us!’ I smile weakly back at him, suddenly as unsure of myself as I’ve ever been. What are we doing here exactly?

‘How are you, darling?’ he asks, cocking his head to one side with a sympathetic smile.

‘I just feel so… so empty, I suppose. It’s such a cliché, but I can’t believe that I’ll never see her again. And I know that this feeling will last so, so long. It never really goes entirely, it just dies down and then jumps up and savages you when you least expect it.’

‘You can’t know that, Lulu. You might start feeling better far sooner than you think.’

‘But I do know. I don’t know why everyone thinks it’s incomparable with losing Mum. It’s not!’ Hot tears flood down my face and before I know it he’s gathered me back up in his arms.

‘I didn’t know you’d lost your mum, how terrible. How old were you?’

I pull back, shocked.

‘I told you, the night we first slept together. I told you then. When you told me all about Bea and how Max struggles so much.’ I literally remember every scrap he confided, everything. How could he forget?

‘Did you? Sorry, sweetheart, memory like a sieve,’ he says, giving his head a comedy slap.

I can’t face being annoyed with him; instead I stay where I am, subtly leaking snot on to his expensive cashmere jumper. How disgusting am I? I’m probably only three evolutionary steps away from vomiting into a glass. He draws me closer in, kissing my face. Is this OK – it’s not my lips after all? Although when it becomes my lips I don’t stop him, just gratefully accept the distraction. However, when he pushes a questing hand down the front of my top I jerk backwards.

‘Please don’t do that! We’ve agreed… and even if we hadn’t agreed, I just couldn’t do that, not tonight.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he says, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. ‘Something rather drastic.’

‘What is it?’ I ask, stomach churning but not in a good way – it’s more dread than excitement. I’m too wrung out for any more fireworks.

‘Lulu, I’ve made a decision. I’m leaving.’

I jerk backward, shocked.

‘Leaving?’

‘I have to. How can I stay with a woman I barely speak to when the woman I want to be with is in such terrible pain?’

Be careful what you wish for. It’s not violins and songbirds striking up in my heart, it’s more vultures and air-raid sirens. Where have they come from? I try to gather up my thoughts, find some kind of coherence.

‘Charles, are you sure? Are you sure that’s what you want? The children – I know how much you love your children. You realize what it would mean?’

A flicker of something crosses his face: is it panic?

‘I can’t carry on living a lie. I need to be true to myself, true to you.’

Maybe it’s paranoia, but his ardour suddenly feels faintly scripted. What will it be like when the champagne corks have stopped popping and the beige trousers seem like the height of glamour? Or when he’s crippled by guilt and maintenance?

‘Have you started the conversation? Does Bea know?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Charles, are you sure about this? What you’re throwing away? You haven’t… you haven’t even told me you love me…’

‘I have, I do. Why are you doubting me?’

‘You haven’t. You said you were very, very fond of me. You know how much you mean to me, but I don’t want to be responsible for you doing something you’ll regret. If you’re really going to do this you’ll need some space to think about it. For the dust to settle.’

‘Why do you keep questioning me like this?’ he demands angrily.

‘I’m not,’ I say, ‘I just want you to be sure. Do you even know me well enough to know what you’re buying in to?’

‘Of course I know you,’ he snaps.

I reach out a hand towards him, trying to placate him. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I feel like I know every scrap of you in one sense, every single last bit. But there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t know what A levels you got, or who your best friend is or –’ he’s looking distinctly unimpressed, but I blunder on – ‘if you like Marmite. And you know my best bits, but how are you going to feel when you find out how neurotic I am? Or how judgemental I can be? I just don’t want you to be disappointed, not if you’ve sacrificed so much for me.’

I look at him, silently imploring him to understand that I’m trying to ground us, give it a chance to be real, rather than belittling what he’s saying. Could infatuation turn to something more solid, something that could sustain over a lifetime? Or would my imperfections ultimately render me as much of a disappointment as Bea seems to be?

‘This isn’t some kind of adolescent pash. Jesus, Lulu, you’re all I think about! Bea’s got many sterling qualities, but she’s half the woman you are. She’s so domineering, so controlling. She treats me like some kind of wayward son half the time.’ I remember her gliding around that cocktail party, checking on people’s drinks and making introductions. She wanted it to be perfect and I suspect she wanted it to be perfect for his benefit. It wasn’t like she was going to see any of us again. I’m straining to demonize her, to make his version of her authentic, but somehow I can’t.

‘Maybe she just worries about you?’ I say. ‘Maybe when she’s being controlling it’s because she cares and – and it comes out wrong.’ A sob comes up as I think of Alice. I can’t bear to not speak to her. Why haven’t I prioritized making it OK over everything else?

‘Why are you doing this?’ he shouts.

‘Because one of us needs to be a grown-up!’ I shout back. ‘One of us needs to make sure you’re not going to ruin three people’s lives for a passing infatuation.’ I calm down a bit, reach for his hand. ‘If you love me as much as you say you do…’ I pause. ‘Charles, look me in the eye and tell me that you love me.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Tell me you love me. Because if you love me like you need to then you’ll still love me in a month or two, or in a year. Which is exactly why you need to take some time out.’

‘I do! I do love you.’

‘Then say it. Say “I love you”.’

‘I love you,’ he declares, but there’s something florid and hollow in his delivery. Who in their right mind would love an actor? I turn away, choked. There’s something not right, something above and beyond all the obvious things that are wrong.

‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ he shouts, striking the counter. ‘Patronizing me, treating me like this is some kind of mid-life crisis. I’ve laid myself on the line and you’ve thrown it back in my face.’

Oh no: that’s exactly what it suddenly feels like. A man whose whole identity is built on being handsome, suddenly forced to face his own mortality by greying temples and the beginnings of middle-aged spread. A final fling before he submits himself to a career playing distinguished dads in insurance ads. That’s too harsh. I know it’s more than that – I was there for God’s sake – but I’m not sure that it’s muscular enough to withstand the grief and pain and anger that will ambush it as soon as we take the next step. Even if I could withstand it, something tells me he’s not strong enough.

‘Charles –’

‘No!’ he says, jabbing his finger at me. ‘I was ready to give up everything for you, everything. I don’t know why I bothered. Maybe you’re not the woman I thought you were.’

And with that he slams out of the house, refusing to answer any of the frantic calls I make to him afterwards. Was I wrong? Should I have reacted with unbridled joy instead of an unexpected rush of caution? In the moment it wasn’t a choice, it was a response that came from somewhere above and beyond the fevered romance of the last few weeks. I want so much to call Alice, but I can’t unburden myself with all of this when we’ve got so much to sort out. Instead I lie in bed reciting my poem over and over, eventually succeeding in staying dry-eyed for a full three lines. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as alone as I do tonight. Let’s hope tomorrow really is another day…