Chapter Twenty

Michael offers for me to come in the family car, but I decide that Gareth and I need to ride out this particular storm together. I kiss the boys goodbye and get on the back of Gareth’s moped, hoping it doesn’t look disrespectful to turn up perched on the pillion. He’s rightly pointed out it’s the nippiest way to get through the stinky London traffic, and God knows it’s congested today. The last thing I want to do is prove Zelda right about my punctuality on this particularly momentous day.

Do I think she’s up there, keeping a beady eye on proceedings? I’m not sure. My views on the afterlife veer around wildly depending how much I crave comfort. I certainly don’t think there’s a kindly man with a greying beard doling out grace and favour from a pillowy cloud, but equally I can’t bear to think that those we love simply crumble to dust in the ground. Alice is much more materialist about it all nowadays. No dead letter boxes for her, just deadness. ‘What does it matter, if you can’t speak to someone?’ she’d say. ‘There’s no point them being there then, and by the way they’re not.’ Sometimes I love her certitude about things, sometimes I hate it – maybe it’s time I simply accepted it. As soon as I get back from the funeral, I’ll call her. The very moment I step through the front door.

The church is in the outskirts of Barnes, down by the river. Gareth and I sit in the second pew, near enough for me to be able to step up easily when the time comes. I look at the order of service, finding I’m roughly in the middle. Funerals are not unlike weddings in an awful, macabre way. In both cases you sit in a church waiting for the person who’s the point of it all to show up. I try to compose myself, smiling briefly at Suzanne when she comes in, accompanied by another grizzled producer who endlessly sparred with Zelda. Would she be pleased to see them? She’d certainly be gratified by the sheer volume of bums on seats. People pour in endlessly: acting legends, directorial greats and a healthy smattering of spiky-haired teenagers, here to support the boys in their hour of need. An atmosphere builds, a sense of expectation, and I swallow down the tears already threatening to engulf me. How am I going to get through this?

When the coffin comes in, borne by Michael and Zelda’s brothers, I give way to the sobs. I can’t believe she’s in that box. We sing ‘Jerusalem’ (Zelda was an old leftie at heart) then listen to the vicar’s opening address. Soon it’s time for Michael’s eulogy: I catch his eye and smile nervously, hoping that he’s found words that satisfy his need to do her justice. How could I ever have judged his reserve so harshly? It’s that lack of extravagance that makes his words so profound. It feels utterly truthful, utterly real. You sense how deeply he knew her and saw her in every observation. He talks about how intrigued he was by her when he first met her, drawn in by her intelligence and passion for what she did. He touches briefly on how hard it was for them to be together, but how they both knew it was a given that they’d find a way through. I sense how different that is from the stuttering start that Charles and I have had, however colourful the declarations. He talks honestly about how hard she found motherhood first off, how she feared she’d never find a way to feel like herself once she had to fight to do the work she loved, but how she grew to treasure her relationship with her sons above everything. He even slips in a couple of jokes, revealing that he knew the Peter O’Toole story better than anyone (and didn’t believe it either). Finally he tells us that she will always be a part of him, be a part of the boys, but that it’s a tiny consolation for the deep sense of loss they feel at not having her alongside them. He captures her so brilliantly, so viscerally – it’s like he scoops up everyone’s grief and sculpts her with it. The air is thick with emotion by the time he sits down and I’m left dreading my moment at the pulpit more than ever. I want so much to do her proud, which is making me more incapable than I’d be if it barely mattered. I’m shaking like a leaf, hardly able to get through the next hymn. Oh, pull yourself together, Lulu, this is so not about you!

Hymn over, I get to my feet. And sit straight down again. I feel faint with terror. What happens if I stand up there and dissolve into a blubbering wreck? What kind of message does that send to the boys, when I’ve been trying so hard to set myself up as someone they can depend on? I suddenly realize I’ve only been to one funeral since Mum’s, which was for Dad’s imperious, distant mother. We were resolutely unmoved, perhaps because it seemed so insignificant by comparison. Why am I here without Alice? It’s so ridiculous, I honestly feel like I’m having a panic attack. I accept an arm squeeze from Gareth then force myself to make the long walk up to the lectern. I’d imagined I’d share all of this with Charles last night, get him to give me some handy hints for overcoming stage fright, when instead I simply managed to alienate and insult him and doom myself to a mere four hours’ sleep in the process. I must look like the Bride of Frankenstein standing up here in three inches of foundation, white as a sheet. I get the poetry book out and place it on the lectern, swallowing down the nauseous panic. I make a faltering start, way too quiet to be heard all the way to the back.

My voice is wobbling all over the place. What possessed me to pick the poem that Dad read at Mum’s funeral? It’s the most beautiful evocation of loss that I know, but past and present are concertinaing up in a way that’s making me worry I’m going to lose my grip. I grasp the lectern and force myself onward. Zelda would not be impressed.

I’m rushing now, wanting so much to have performed my task. But I don’t want to race through, I want people to have time to absorb the sentiment. To appreciate that it echoes what Michael said about Zelda living on in the time we all shared with her.

It’s this line that finally floors me. The idea of forgetting – that in order to get on with living we have to forget, at least part of the time – seems so acutely painful. I feel so overwhelmed that I suddenly lose my way entirely. I stand there, frozen, looking out at all those faces, unable to continue. I’m furious with myself, screaming internally that I’ve got to focus, but outwardly paralysed. And that’s when I hear the tap, tap, tap of Alice’s ridiculously high black boots coming round the side of the front pews. Normally I call them her hooker boots, but that seems faintly sacrilegious under the circs. She’s pink and perspiring, looking every bit as panicked as me. She crosses to the lectern, holds my hand as I find the gumption to get to the end.

I manage to read the last section as I intended to read the whole: slowly, thoughtfully and with the right degree of emotion. I walk back, still holding Alice’s hand, monumentally relieved that I’ve done what I promised.

The funeral is as good a celebration of Zelda as one could hope for. There are a couple more readings, another hymn and then a rousing chorus of ‘Let It Be’ which Michael has picked to break up the pomp and circumstance. Alice joins in all of it with gusto, even though she only met Zelda once or twice. I’ve got a million questions to ask about her arrival, but mostly I’m just happy she’s here. All the knotty problems that seemed so critical to sort out feel like an irrelevancy. Or is it just that I know we can face them down now they’re out in the open?

‘How’d you get here?’ I ask, as soon as people begin to file out. Alice grins. ‘Police escort.’ It’s then that I notice Ali standing with Jenna in the entrance vestibule. He does wear that uniform very well: who knew epaulettes could be so sexy? Well, I guess anyone who’s watched An Officer And A Gentleman as many times as me. Richard Gere was way more appealing when he knew acting was his specialist subject rather than world peace. Maybe there should be some kind of revolving door where the Dalai Lama starts starring in shoot-’em-up action films and Nelson Mandela tries his hand at romantic comedy.

‘Hello,’ I say, unable to think of anything more useful. Now it’s all over I’ve gone back to my useless, washed-out state, although setting eyes on Ali is more cheering than I could ever have predicted.

‘Lulu!’ shrieks Jenna, hugging me like we’ve been estranged for decades. I give her a proper hug back nevertheless, monumentally grateful that she’s short-circuited the agonizing and brought Alice straight back to me. Alice is still clinging on to me like it’s the first day of school, which suits me just fine.

‘Can we meet you at the car?’ she asks Ali and Jenna, and we cross to a pew at the back of the church. We hug for a bit, both teary, then break apart.

‘I didn’t mean any of it, Lulu, really I didn’t,’ she says.

‘But some of it was true!’ I say. ‘What you said about Charles – you weren’t completely right, but I have been kidding myself.’

‘Is it over? Please tell me it’s properly over?’

‘Yeah – yeah, this time it really is.’ I’m about to recount what happened, but the air goes out of me. ‘I’ll tell you later, but – apart from all the things which were obviously wrong – I guess knowing about the A levels and the Marmite’s more important than I realized.’

‘Yeah and you HATE Marmite. Imagine if he liked it.’

‘But I love you, even though you like beetroot.’

‘Mum liked beetroot,’ she says unexpectedly. ‘She made soup out of it that summer you kept playing with that awful Sarah girl from down the road. You spat it out in the cheese plant and she sent you up to our room.’

It suddenly all comes flooding back to me, a whole memory that I’d deep frozen.

‘That’s right!’

Alice smiles. ‘I remember loads of things, loads and loads of things we haven’t talked about. Some of them are really boring, but I’ll tell you all of them.’

‘I’d love that,’ I say, squeezing her hand.

‘It’s not like I don’t think about her,’ she continues. ‘I guess it’s that sometimes I don’t feel like ripping the plaster off all over again. Not when it’s always seemed so painful for you.’

And suddenly I see that she’s been protecting me as much as she’s been dismissing me. I can’t entirely blame her when most of my life I’ve relied on her to hold my hand. Sometimes it must’ve felt like a crushing responsibility.

‘You don’t have to look after me any more,’ I say, looking at her squarely. ‘I think those eight minutes are up.’

‘I like looking after you! I just want you to come home,’ she adds imploringly. ‘I spotted Mr Simkins feeding a sugar lump to a police horse on Friday and I couldn’t bear that you weren’t there for it.’

‘Of course I’m coming home. But…’ I pause, forming a thought that’s only just come to me. ‘But soon perhaps we might need to think about living apart.’

Alice looks shocked. I squeeze her hand again and continue.

‘Not because I love you any less, but because I need to learn to be me without you. And you need to be you without me. We’ll still be the twins, we just won’t be the twins twenty-four seven.’

As I say it, I realize how wrong we’ve been to spend our lives waiting for a man to wrest us apart. No wonder it’s hard for either of us to commit when the inevitable cost is so high: we need to take charge of our own destinies. But when I see how stricken she looks, I feel awful for having said it. She looks up the aisle, tears in her eyes, then turns back to me.

‘You’re right, I know you are. I just don’t always know who the me without you is.’

For the first time ever I feel like the grown-up.

‘That’s why we’ve got to do it. I know it’s going to be really hard, but there’ll be benefits.’ Alice casts me a doubtful look. ‘We’ll probably make more effort to go out and do stuff instead of just slobbing around in our trackie bottoms looking like trailer trash.’

‘Where though?’

‘Let’s face it: I love police horses, but Wisteria Lane’s not really us. We can go back to Hackney and share with some weirdo artists who live next door to each other. Or you can shack up with Jenna…’

Alice finally cracks a smile.

‘I’m not taking the piss, she loves you to bits. And thank God she sorted us out. I’ve been so stupid and stubborn.’

‘Before we do anything, we’ve got to go to Boston,’ counters Alice. ‘You need to sort it out with Dad, you really do.’

‘You’re on,’ I say, gratified to find that my fear’s melted away now I no longer feel like a needy kid, wanting her depleted family to conform to the script. If I approach him from a less tentative place, surely he’ll respond? And if he doesn’t, it won’t kill me. After these last few weeks I feel like I could cope with pretty much anything.

We share another silent hug, then head out to Ali’s squad car – parked at an outrageous angle in a residents’ bay – for the drive to the wake. I don’t know quite where to sit, but as I appear to be conjoined with Alice the back seems like the logical place. Doug or no Doug, Jenna can’t help but flirt with Ali. I swear she gets us lost on purpose to give her more eyelash-batting time.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she simpers. ‘They do say women have no spatial awareness and I’m afraid I’m living, breathing proof.’

I’m peering beadily between the seats, trying to suss out if he’s charmed. Hard to tell, but I need to find out exactly how they all ended up here, which at least throws her off course.

‘I couldn’t get hold of Alice last night, her phone was off, and then Doug got back early from the morgue and it was too good an opportunity to miss. So I rushed to find her in first break –’

Alice cuts in. ‘When I knew you hadn’t got the letter… I couldn’t leave you to get through it on your own.’

‘How did you get the address?’

‘I rang you first, but your phone was off, so I got Emily to find it out. I told her it was the least she could do. But then the traffic was beyond shit and we had to get to the arse end of nowhere. No offence to Barnes.’

‘Which is when the cavalry arrived!’ adds Jenna excitedly.

Ali’s been very quiet through all of this, focused on unravelling Jenna’s terrible misdirections. He looks into the rear-view mirror and I smile gratefully, even though I’m not sure what section of my face he can see.

‘This might be the moment you finally get me sacked,’ he says. ‘Not that it matters so much now.’

What does that mean? Because he suspects I’m feeling it too, so it’ll have been worth it? And I am I think, now that I know he’s not a total dick-swinging Neanderthal who goes round clubbing multiple women and bearing them off to his bed. Oh God, that’s sounding worryingly appealing: there’s definitely feeling there, dampened as it is by the chaos that reigns elsewhere.

The wake’s in a room at an upmarket rowing club further down the river. It’s woody and traditional, with spectacular views over the Thames. It’s absolutely packed, which at least affords me the opportunity to body-swerve Suzanne and all the other work drones I can’t face speaking to. Michael’s mobbed, but he fights his way through the herd towards me.

‘You did a magnificent job. She’d have been so impressed.’

‘No, she wouldn’t. I totally muffed up the middle bit. She would’ve loved your eulogy though, it was so –’ I pause, searching for something that doesn’t sound like it’s been copied out of a Hallmark card – ‘exactly right.’

‘Do you think so?’ he asks, uncharacteristically vulnerable. ‘You don’t think she’d have preferred something a little more reverential and adoring?’

‘It was adoring!’ I tell him. ‘It felt way more adoring because you knew all her flaws and you worshipped her anyway!’

I’m suddenly choked, catapulted back to that day at the zoo where she laid out her version of love. I’m thinking about recounting it to Michael, but I can see he’s got to keep going with the glad-handing. I look around as he moves off, suddenly isolated. There’s Gareth, trapped with Suzanne in the corner. Bloody hell, I want to stay here all day hugging Alice, comforting the boys and flirting with Ali while getting mildly, comfortingly tipsy on Baileys. But what I actually need to do is get straight back on the case, making the most of the last forty-eight hours before we shoot the wedding. The best thing I can do for the family is ensure that ‘Last Carriage’ provides some kind of swan song, rather than suggesting Zelda had lost her magic touch in those final months.

As I’m steeling myself to go over there, I’m saved by Ali appearing at my elbow. I smile gratefully at him, touched beyond measure that he answered Jenna’s call and got them through London in double-quick time (God knows there’s many a man who’s pressed cancel when her name’s sprung up). I can’t leave, not just yet.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say. ‘You had no reason to do this for me, no reason at all. All I ever seem to do is apologize, but I just want to say I’m sorry if I’ve seemed flighty or dismissive or…’ I put a tentative hand out, wanting to touch him, but his body language doesn’t invite me in.

‘Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m figuring you won’t need a siren to get through the school run so I’m thinking to make a move.’

‘Don’t go!’ I say, shrill and pathetic, suddenly desperate to keep him alongside me at all costs. There’s something so present about him, so solid – it’s nothing like Charles’s quavery unpredictability. I know now that it’s not just about us being in an affair, it’s about him. I’m sure wherever Charles is, whoever he’s with, he wants to be somewhere else, whereas Ali feels rooted.

‘I’m afraid I’m gonna have to. In fact, this might be it for our peculiar little encounters.’ He says it with a kind smile, but the words chill me. Is it too late for me to pull myself together and make the right choice?

‘Have you met someone?’ I ask him baldly, then curse my lack of subtlety.

‘In a way.’

There’s a pause, during which my heart slips towards my shiny black shoes and takes up residence.

‘Not like that,’ he says, cheeky grin back in place. ‘I’ve met my old detective superintendent, she was down in London a few weeks ago. They’ve offered me a massive promotion if I go back there and I thought why not? It’s a bit remote, right up in the Hebrides, but I figure I could do with a change of scene.’

‘But you said you liked making a difference! That you didn’t want to tempt tabbies down trees or – or something.’

‘Glad to see you were concentrating there, Alice. Oh no, sorry, it’s Lulu.’

I look at him, downcast and crushed.

‘I’m teasing, I’m teasing!’ he says, briefly touching my arm. My heart jumps: is he not going after all? ‘No, I’m starting to think you were right about London. I reckon I’ve made eff all difference to anything down here.’

‘That’s not true!’ I say, remembering my stupid, patronizing pontificating over dinner. ‘I bet you’ve made a difference to loads of people.’

‘How do you work that out?’ he laughs.

‘Because you actually care about stuff. You believe that you can make a difference, so you will. And I bet you don’t treat criminals like they’re total scum, I bet you treat them like people. Which is right and good, particularly when it’s kids.’

What I want to say is that I know we could be really special to each other, if only he’d give us the chance. But of course if I said it I’d sound like Jenna, only way worse, so instead I’m telling him all the reasons why he’s so admirable. Bar his incredibly sexy, muscular arms and fabulous kissing technique, of course. I’ll save that for another day.

‘I’m flattered, really I am.’ Has he read my mind? ‘But I’ve already made my decision. No more Tube, no more Mayor, no more running out of money a week after pay day. It’s not like you’ve got any evidence anyway – you’d get thrown out of court, no question.’

‘I have got evidence. You didn’t treat me like a criminal. You could’ve booked me.’

‘I wanted to bed you.’

‘You could’ve done that too.’

‘I seem to remember I tried.’

‘Not hard enough.’

He leans forward, pulls my hair back from my face. ‘Oh, I tried,’ he mutters into my ear.

Why was I such a fool? If I didn’t have to do Zelda’s bidding, even from beyond the grave, there’s nothing I’d like more than a lost afternoon with him. I know it sounds inappropriate under the circs, but it would relieve the pressure better than anything else I can think of. I stare up at him, trying to communicate it all, and he holds my gaze. He laughs, looks away. ‘What a shocking waste,’ he says in a tone that tells me that a holiday romance just isn’t his style. He’s probably right: I can strongly sense that after a single encounter I’d be seriously smitten.

He envelops me in the kind of hug that seems to take in every bit of me. ‘I’ll call you before I leave,’ he whispers. ‘I’m packing this weekend – if there’s time perhaps we can have a coffee.’ He smells of man: not aftershave, not shower gel – MAN. I bet Tarquin smells of eau de ego. The thought of being cast back into the hell of primped, preened media monsters is too awful to contemplate. I force myself to disentangle and, just as I do, I spot the most magnificent sight. It’s Tim Le Grande, tanned and trim, holding out his glass imperiously for a top-up.

‘Oh my God, stop!’ I say. ‘That man is literally holding my entire career in the palm of his hand.’

‘He doesn’t look like he could hold a twig in the palm of his hand,’ says Ali, taking in his long, willowy frame.

‘He might look a bit wussy, but he’s the most powerful British costume designer there is. He’s got Oscars coming out of his arse. If he’d lend me the frocks he’s got it would make everything all right. Well, not everything, but at least I’d have solved the work disaster.’

‘Go and ask him then!’ he says, giving me a gentle push in Tim’s direction. I falter, gripped by fear.

‘I can’t. I can’t just ask him.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘Because he’s Tim Le Grande! He’s already ignored, like, twenty phone calls. I’m sure he thinks television’s the opium of the masses. He probably thinks it’s way less glamorous than that – glue-sniffing maybe.’ I know I’m babbling, but I can’t stop. ‘I’m just going to humiliate myself. I can’t face it.’

‘Do you actually think he’s better than you?’

‘Of course he’s better than me, he’s a living legend! I’m only just past the stage of taking up trousers and sewing on buttons.’

‘Not from what you’ve told me you’re not. You’ve run this whole job single-handed. He might be more experienced than you, but it doesn’t mean he’s better. You might have Oscars coming out of your shapely little arse this time next year.’

I stare at him, rooted to the spot.

‘You’ve done way scarier things than this, Alice stroke Lulu.’

‘Don’t call me that! Like what?’

‘Stared down a rat. Ducked a speeding fine on pure charm. Helped get this whole family through the worst thing they could possibly imagine.’

I grin at him, loving the sense that he’s noticed stuff about me, totted it up. I wish we could have the chance to find out about each other properly. He makes a ‘what are you waiting for’ face. I stand there dumbly a few seconds longer then steel myself for the long walk across the room. I lock eyes with Alice en route, who’s clearly beyond excited about me and Ali’s extended tête-à-tête. If only she knew he’d booked a one-way ticket to the Outer Hebrides.

Tim’s deep in conversation with some grizzled old croc, so old that I can only assume they collaborated on Gone With The Wind. I wait for an age, feeling more and more foolish as I languish, unacknowledged. I stare accusingly at Ali, who gestures that I’ve got to tough it out. Eventually Tim turns, statesman-like, and looks me up and down.

‘And what’s your connection?’ he asks, no hint of warmth in his tone.

‘I’m Lulu. Lulu Godwin, Zelda’s right-hand woman.’ I swallow down a lump in my throat. ‘I don’t know if you got any of my messages?’

‘I’ve been abroad.’

‘Yes… I know. I really didn’t want to bother you, but the situation’s kind of desperate. Zelda always spoke so highly of you – not that she needed to, I mean, your reputation precedes you.’ Why must I waffle? I take a glancing look around, gratified to find Alice and Ali looking straight at me. I try to drink in their support and use it to fake a poise and confidence that I’m not feeling.

‘I see. And what was it that Zelda said about me?’

‘That you had a lemon up your arse’ is what springs to mind, but luckily my verbal diarrhoea doesn’t stretch that far. Besides, I can see a faint smile coming: he can’t help but be tickled by the memory of Zelda.

‘How much she learnt from you. How meticulous you are, how thorough your research always was. And I learnt so much from her, so I guess in a funny way your expertise got passed down to me.’

Too much? He looks at me, gimlet-eyed, weighing me up.

‘So you’re all about the research, are you? And what is it you’re pouring your research skills into right now?’

‘It’s non-stop Victoriana.’ He’s silent, waiting for me to dig myself a hole. ‘I’m trying my best to make it authentic, or at least I was before all the costumes got burnt. Although the reality of Victorian costume was a bit too brutal. The women were so tightly laced in that their internal organs were squashed like bugs. They literally couldn’t eat until they’d closeted themselves away and loosened their clothing.’

Am I boring him or impressing him? It’s hard to tell. The stony silence persists, so I rattle on.

‘I loved what you did on that Schiaparelli piece. I know Zelda did too.’ The film was about Elsa Schiaparelli, a contemporary of Chanel’s who never got the recognition she deserved. ‘You really got across how important those designs were, the fact she was as seminal an artist as Dalí or Picasso.’

Finally there’s a smile.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I can’t bear the dismissal of design; it gets subjugated and trivialized in a way that’s simply unacceptable. And the same goes for our business too. The camera team get taken infinitely more seriously than the costume team, even though we have just as much to contribute to the look.’

And I’m in. We talk about our favourite designers, our favourite films, our favourite artists. Most of all we talk about Zelda. Hearing her described as a fledgling wardrobe girl is incredibly moving: it’s a Zelda that even Michael didn’t know, a girl who veered between awkwardness and brashness, all in an attempt to cover up her lack of certainty in herself.

‘I knew she had enormous talent long before she did,’ says Tim, lost in the memory. ‘She’d carry around this box, filled with incredibly tangential scraps of inspiration – bark, sweet wrappers. I could sense that her eye was utterly unique.’

Eventually I pluck up the courage to ask the million-dollar question.

‘I know that it’s probably the kind of production you utterly despise, but I desperately want to make it the best it can be. It’s the last thing with Zelda’s name on it and I can’t bear for it to be less than brilliant.’

‘Lulu, of course I want to do anything I can to help.’ Oh, thank God, thank God. ‘But unfortunately the crates are packed up and ready to go. They’re in an aircraft hangar at Heathrow as far as I know.’ He holds his palms up in a gesture of helplessness as my last sliver of hope disappears. I’m rooted to the spot, frantically scrabbling around for options. As I’m trying to fix a bright smile back on my face, Ali magically appears beside me.

‘Hello, I’m Alistair,’ he says, extending a hand. ‘I’m here with Lulu. She’s been very keen to speak to you.’

Tim instantly perks up at the sight of a man as handsome as Ali appearing in his peripheral vision.

‘Delighted to meet you,’ says Tim, uncharacteristically jolly, as I spill out the costume drama. Ali stands there, taking it in, then gives that cheeky smile of his.

‘How do you fancy one last Bonnie and Clyde escapade before I do my moonlight flit?’

Before I know it, he’s persuading Tim to let him use his warrant card to get the costumes released.

‘I’ll FedEx them the minute we’ve wrapped!’ I plead. ‘I promise they’ll be at Burbank before you know it.’

‘It’s a huge insurance risk,’ he counters. ‘And it doesn’t sound like you’ve got the best track record in that department.’

‘For Zelda?’ I beg.

‘With a police guard?’ adds Ali.

‘Timing is everything,’ says Tim. ‘They’re being flown out on the four-thirty. I doubt you’ll make it, but feel free to give it your best shot.’

And with that we’re out of the door. I kiss Alice, mutter a garbled explanation to Michael and leap into the passenger side of the panda car.

‘Siren?’ asks Ali.

‘Obviously!’

I can’t believe he ever had the nerve to question my speed. He goes about 120 mph the whole way and I can tell from his expression that he’s loving every minute of it. We park in a special blues and twos bay right outside Terminal Five and slam out of the car like the Dukes of Hazzard. This is way more fun than Doctors and Nurses. Or maybe not…

‘So do I come with you?’

‘Too right you do. You’re my right-hand woman.’

‘Could you get sacked for this?’

‘After today I reckon I might be asking “Do you want fries with that?” for the rest of my working life.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Ach, it’s OK. My boss in Scotland’s got a bit of a soft spot for me. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

I’m stabbed by a sharp pang of jealousy. I bet she’s some kind of bleached blonde, chain-smoking harridan with a Jane Tennison complex. I really don’t want him to go. By now Ali’s striding up to some kind of security office, where uniformed men holding guns imagine they’re holding their penises. Gone is the wry jokiness, replaced by a seriousness that elevates him way above Emily in the acting stakes. His summing-up is a masterful piece of improvisation. ‘I wish I could explain the background, but unfortunately I’m bound by the Official Secrets Act.’

‘I understand the problem, but I’m afraid it really does require a warrant,’ says the most officious-looking dick-swinger.

‘I appreciate your point,’ says Ali smoothly. ‘That said, in matters of national security you can’t be too careful.’

National security? Since when has a crinoline qualified? The men cast us beady glances and go out back for a huddle. We wait for absolutely hours, with Ali insisting that I can’t badger them about the imminence of take-off. They finally emerge, grim-faced, and I await the no.

‘They’re being X-rayed. As long as there are no foreign bodies, they should be returned to you within the next hour.’

Oh God. When the X-ray machine picks out a load of whaleboned corsets, surely we’ll be busted? Luckily Ali’s allusion to issues too thorny for mere mortals to understand has done the trick and the boxes come back to us without a murmur of complaint. There are far too many for us to carry, so we perch on top of them while I wait for one of the unit drivers to come out and collect them. It’s turned into a gloriously sunny afternoon and, although the circumstances are beyond bizarre, I can’t help but enjoy the warmth on my face. And the company, of course.

‘Thank you,’ I say, heartfelt, turning to kiss Ali on the cheek.

‘You don’t need to thank me. London was pretty boring till you tipped up. Now I might even miss it.’

He takes my hand as he says this and I allow myself a glimmer of hope.

‘Well, don’t go! I’ll make it fun and romantic and anything else you want it to be. I’ve been such a twat, Ali. There was this other guy and –’

‘Jesus, you really can talk, can’t you?’

‘I just need to explain…’

‘You don’t. Jenna told me all about your ding-dong with the married guy.’

Fucking Jenna, I’m going to kill her.

‘She can hardly talk, she’s banging an undertaker! I was so stupid, Ali, ignoring what was under my nose. I mean, if I hadn’t screwed it up you’d be becoming the kind of person I could wear beige safari slacks in front of and still feel sexy.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I just wish I hadn’t snuffed it out before it even started. Why do I start falling for yet another man I can’t have? It’s ridiculous.’

‘Are you falling for me?’

‘I am literally turning into Jenna. This is me, zipping up my mouth.’ I make a zipping up motion and turn to look towards the baggage trolleys. ‘I’d do long distance if you would. I’m sure I’ve got a kilt left over from a few jobs ago. Some pale imitation of Braveheart we shot in Bratislava. Borscht gets pretty inedible after six weeks, I can tell you.’

Ali laughs.

‘Lulu, turn round.’

‘No.’

‘I mean it, turn round.’

‘No!’

‘Fine, I’ll tell your back how I feel. You are completely fantastic and I have fancied you rotten since that first night. But you obviously didn’t feel the same way until you knew I was leaving, and I can’t help but think that’s what’s doing it for you. And even if it wasn’t, you love your twin more than anything, so where would that leave us, considering it turns out I hate London more than you hate rats? There’s no future in it, babe. And I can’t go falling head over heels for a woman I can’t have. Might be your specialist subject, but it sure isn’t mine.’

I turned round about when he said ‘head over heels’, my face crumpling up with how lovely he is. He puts his arm around me and I hunker down, slipping my fingers through the gaps in his shirt.

‘Don’t go,’ I mutter into him.

‘I have to,’ he says, kissing the top of my head.

It’s right then that Paul the driver arrives, looking somewhat shocked to find me teary and bereft, firmly entwined with an officer of the law. Ali immediately comes over all practical, directing him to the special parking spot and helping heave the boxes into the back. The wake’s long since over, so he offers to drop me back at home, limiting himself to puttering along at a mere 90 mph. He only uses the siren once, when some temporary traffic lights really get his goat. Honestly, it’s like a road trip with Toad of Toad Hall.

He pulls up and I take a quiet moment to enjoy being back here. The light’s on, curtain’s open, and I think I can make out Carrie and Miranda whining away even from here. It feels so good to be home. I click my seatbelt off and look at him imploringly. He grabs my face and kisses me like he means it.

‘I’ll see you before I go, I promise. I’m leaving Sunday.’

I reach for him this time, kissing him like he’s my only source of oxygen.

‘You’ll replace me in a heartbeat,’ he says infuriatingly once we’ve broken apart. He points discreetly at Mr Simkins, pruning his roses a few gardens away. ‘Surely he’s widowed? Quite a catch in this neck of the woods I’d imagine.’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘I know it’s not,’ he says quietly, tone deadly serious. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

I climb out of the car, forcing myself not to slam the door in frustration. Who knew he was the prize? Not me, not quick enough. I am SUCH a fool.