Chapter Twenty-one

‘Action!’ shouts Tarquin, his horrid nasal twang ringing out across the church. Here comes Emily, flumping up the aisle, pouting. It’s not a pout of pleasure, more the petulant sneer of a bratty 5-year-old denied an éclair. That’s my fault, I’m afraid. The costumes threw up the most divine wedding dress, rendered all the more divine by the lace panel I stitched in across the plunging neckline. Those puppies she’s so proud of are well and truly locked in their kennel. She looked set for a tantrum when she tried it on, but I quietly alluded to the many jobs we might work on together in the future. I’m pretty sure that’ll keep her from coming up with any marriage-murdering revelations.

Charles turns to look down the aisle, casting a convincing smile of joy in her direction. God, he’s a good actor. How much of what we shared was down to his thespian talent? I do truly believe we fell for one another, but also that it was ultimately a house built on sand. I was so drawn in by it all, but his faux nobility about staying with a wife he’s no longer in love with seems fatally flawed to me now. Love needs tending to in order to remain a gift that keeps on giving: if he really has lost that loving feeling, never to be returned, he surely needs to offer her the chance to find it with someone else? I haven’t said any of this – not now it’s none of my business – and even if I wanted to, he’s making a real song and dance about cutting me dead at any available opportunity. There was a time I longed for him to leave, but now he hasn’t risked it all for me I can’t help but feel I’ve had a lucky escape. Complicated turns out to be over-rated, just like Alice said.

Alice has coped admirably with the Herculean task of not saying ‘I told you so’, even though she did. The fact that Richard shouted at an old lady who was using all her coppers to pay for a bottle of sherry so viciously that she cried may’ve kept her smugness in check. I’m happy to say that she emerged from her hiding place in the stock room and finally gave him his marching orders. Now she’s concentrating all her romantic energies on willing me and Ali to get together. She’s longing to meddle, but I’ve forbidden her from so much as breathing in his direction. He’s made his decision and I’ve got to respect it. At least in part…

‘Cut!’ shouts Tarquin. He turns round, surveying the troops. ‘That’s a wrap, people.’ A cheer goes up, and the hugging and back-slapping begins. Tarquin hangs back, sullen and muted. It’s no great surprise considering that his masterful cut has been torn to shreds by the powers that be. Knowing Damien was eating out of his hand, Suzanne called in a favour from one of her network of old school contacts. When the commissioners saw it they were horrified and immediately insisted it was put back together the way it was intended. It’s certainly not a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, but at least it makes sense. When we had a cast and crew screening, people were pleasantly surprised how watchable it was, but Tarquin was definitely gritting his teeth. I’m sure he’s furious with me, but with the fag ends discovered but not attributed he can’t afford to do any more than scowl.

How to win friends and influence people. At least I’ve still got Gareth on my side – and our brilliant team, of course. I distribute presents to them all, mini sewing kits with the name of the job stitched on the leather case (they’ll probably bury them once it transmits). It feels so weird to be the bestower of wrap gifts – it was always Zelda’s job, and boy they could be eccentric. I remember the time she gave me a bottle of Drambuie, the world’s most disgusting alcohol, which I swear she’d been given by Rex Harrison in the mid 1970s. Job done, I make to slip away, despite their protestations that I have to come to the wrap party. People to see, places to go. Well, at least one person.

I say a brief, terse goodbye to Tarquin and give Emily an insincere hug before looking around for Charles. Whatever I might’ve said, the idea of walking away and potentially never seeing him again still feels utterly wrong. We shared such a lot, however fruitless it ultimately proved. He’s amongst a gang of actors, glass in hand. I say a general goodbye, then turn to him.

‘Bye, Charles, see you around.’

‘Oh, Lulu, are you off?’ he says, friendly but general. ‘What a shame you’re not coming to the wrap party.’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ I say, trying to communicate that, despite the superficiality of the exchange, it did all mean something.

‘Well, it’s been an utter pleasure to work with you and I hope we see each other again.’

I expect all the other actors to be following the exchange like a tennis match, but a) they’re actors so they’re totally self-obsessed and b) Charles is rather a good actor, so it all sounds terribly bland. Maybe it’s just that it didn’t really matter to him, but I don’t believe that’s true.

I give him a last, brief smile and head off to the car park. Of course I still have feelings, but I know I’ve made the right call by walking on by. If I’d hung in there I could’ve stayed a mistress till God knows when; in my heart of hearts I know he never would’ve left. Even so, my stomach clenches horribly as I drive away from the car park.

I dump the car at home, stopping to pull on a pair of (reasonably flattering) jeans and touch up my day-worn make-up. I’d rather something sexier, but the sun’s going down and I know I’ll freeze. I wait impatiently for the Tube, looking at my watch obsessively. Will this work? I get out at Chalk Farm and look up and down the road, missing Ali coming through the barriers. He’s wearing a cagoule affair, worryingly reminiscent of an anorak, but he still looks beyond cute.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, twinkly, but with a disappointing kiss on the cheek.

‘You’re not, I was early. Which never happens.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’ I hug him and kiss him on the stubbly cheek for far longer than is strictly necessary. But then, none of this is strictly necessary. ‘It’s one of my most irritating characteristics.’

‘Babe, I’m sorry but I’ve only got an hour – my flat’s half in boxes, half not and the van’s coming at seven a.m. You should’ve come for a cup of tea. Done some proper work for once in your life.’ He says this with a grin that makes it entirely forgivable.

‘Come on then,’ I say, swallowing down how gutted I feel. I head towards the bridge opposite. ‘We’ve got a lot to pack in.’

‘Pack in, very funny. Where are we going?’

‘Don’t be so impatient!’ I reach for his hand then realize I’m not allowed to and try to subtly swing it back. He spots the subterfuge and grabs it, a warm glow spreading through me at the contact. I lead him down past all the lovely little shops in Regent’s Park Road and up Primrose Hill, exaggerating the steepness so I can clutch his hand a little tighter. We get to the top and survey the amazing panorama.

‘Wow,’ he says, ‘I’ve never been here before.’

‘I’ve never been to Arthur’s Seat,’ I reply. ‘Or at least I’ve only been to a mock-up in the Czech Republic. Does that count?’

‘No, Lulu, definitely doesn’t count.’

‘Will you take me?’

‘Take you generally, or take you to Arthur’s Seat?’

‘God, you’re puerile!’

He brushes some hair away that’s blowing into my face.

‘We’ve been through this, Alice stroke Lulu. It’s too far, there’s too much tying us both to where we live.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it, Ali, really hard, and I want you to hear me out.’

‘Here she goes!’

I turn my face to him, put a finger to his lips.

‘Don’t mock me! You’re right: when I was Alice stroke Lulu it never would’ve worked. But I’m not any more, not after everything that’s happened. I’m Lulu: I might even be Louise on occasion. I love my sister so much, but we can’t live like we’re one entity any more. We’ve got to be braver than that.’ I look at him, wondering if he cares enough to want to hear this. He’s just looking at me, serious-faced, so I tumble on. ‘I’ve always picked these men where I’ve known in my heart of hearts there’s no future, because it’s been safer. But I need to grow up, strike out. So there is a future if you want it.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he says. ‘Tell me about that future.’

I pause, nervous. I am so not playing hard to get.

‘Well… I’ve saved some money up on this job and I ended up with a whole big bonus that Zelda had set up…’ I swallow down the lump in my throat, ‘because I’d pretty much designed it. So I thought I could take three months off. Perhaps I could come and knit socks and fry haggis while you’re at work.’

‘Glad you don’t think I’m a hick or anything,’ he says, grinning.

‘No, I’ve got an offer for a film in the summer. A friend of Zelda’s who she talked me up to those last few months. I can do prep for it anywhere. And I’d like to do it wherever means I’ll be close to you.’

‘What, so despite the fact you wouldn’t even return a simple text two months ago, you’re now willing to move to the back end of beyond?’ He gives a sheepish smile. ‘And by the way, I’ve been exaggerating. I’m actually going to Glasgow.’

‘Why did you do that?!’

‘Because it made me laugh. Outer Hebrides? I’d be arresting rabbits for dealing lettuce. Partly cos I wanted to see how much you cared, and – I have to say – you’re doing quite a convincing job.’

‘You bastard, I can’t believe you did that!’

‘I was just stringing you along, Lulu. Any fool can see how much you and Alice care about each other and I don’t want to make you unhappy. And I know you’re playing it down, but this other guy’s obviously turned your head something spectacular. I’m not going to be sloppy seconds.’

‘He did, I’m not going to lie to you. But it wasn’t real. Well, it was a bit real, but not real enough for me to believe it could ever work.’

Ali looks at me doubtfully and I grab his hand.

‘Look, here’s my suggestion. There’s this new game show called “City Idol” in which I prove to you that London’s delightful while you prove that Glasgow’s the bee’s knees. Whatever happens, I’ll go where you go for the next three months. Then I’m going to Czechoslovakia to recreate the Crimean War and you can concentrate on charming hoodies into submission, after which we can review the situation. Maybe in a year or so you’ll feel better about down here, or I’ll get given sole charge of “Take the High Road” and feel as Scottish as anything. I don’t much care, I just know I don’t want you to slip through my fingers.’

I look at him, willing him to agree, and he answers me with another spectacular kiss. I’m wrapped up against the cold, utterly safe. I give myself a brief internal reality check – now I’m not Alice stroke Lulu, I mustn’t suddenly become Lulu stroke Ali. This is the first time in my life I’ve stood on my own two feet and it feels good.

I point out all the landmarks you can see from the Hill, paying special attention to London Zoo. Then we wander down, hour long since passed, and hole up in a nearby pub on the proviso that I help him pack until every item’s accounted for, although I’m thinking of way more interesting ways to spend his last night in town. I’ve got to make up for lost time, particularly now Alice and I have booked to go to Boston next week.

Two glasses of wine in, Ali insists we have to return to the job in hand, so I take his and follow him out. As we’re walking back down Regent’s Park Road – possibly my favourite street in London – my phone beeps. It’s sure to be Alice, desperate for an update. I discreetly slip it out of my pocket, not wanting to break the moment. It’s not Alice, it’s Charles.

is all it says. I stare at it a second too long, wondering if I should reply and what that reply should say. Then I push the phone deep into the recesses of my bag, slip my arms around Ali and kiss him like my life depends on it.