I’m holed up in the make‐up caravan with Doreen, desperately trying to dissuade her from applying frosted peachy eye‐shadow to Hilda’s lids. I’ve already been mortified by Hilda’s description of how much Harry bullied them into those awful poses, insisting it was the look I’d specified. How could I have been so doggedly trusting? God knows I’m paying for it now.
Tom gives a hesitant knock on the door. ‘Is everyone decent?’ He’s taken us out to a country pile where he’s remodelled a rose garden. We’re going to photograph Hilda and Arthur in the centre of it, with the house acting as a backdrop. Meanwhile I’m hoping the lawyers will prove we own the rights to Becky and Lucas’s contribution. I’m not letting them off the hook without a fight. ‘Any news?’ says Tom, knowing I’m on tenter‐hooks waiting for the verdict. ‘No, nothing,’ I tell him despondently.
‘Bugger!’ he says, with a sympathetic grin. ‘Horst’s here, he’s looking for you.’
Ruby’s roped him into helping out on the shoot: the photography budget’s long since been squandered on Harry’s extended moment of madness. ‘I’ll be out in a sec,’ I tell Tom, ‘I’m still making calls on the panel.’ If I can’t find a replacement soon I’m going to be reduced to going back to Dr Fox, cap in hand. I can’t rustle up anyone remotely cool in the time available, and the kind of low‐rent talent that Casual Chic normally attracts won’t be blowing away the fashion elite any time soon. Let’s hope none of the surviving panel members find out that Harry’s dropped out prior to Monday. There’s no avoiding the fact that he was my unique selling point.
I pick my way through the mud towards Horst.
‘Anna! You appear to be in the bloom of health despite your many troubles.’ I fling my arms round him, intensely comforted by his lanky German presence.
‘Tell me about your rehearsals. You’re on any day now, aren’t you?’
Horst goes one better, performing his principal speech for me, complete with extravagant gestures. I’m pleasantly surprised by how much better he’s got. His accent’s way less overpowering, and he’s actually developed comic timing.
‘You’re going to be brilliant, Horst, I can feel it in my bones.’
‘My life has taken an upswing in many directions, and much of it is due to you, Anna. Perhaps there will be a reparation I can make at a later date.’
‘Well, this is a pretty good start. We need all the help we can get.’
He gives me a tentative look. ‘Anna, do you hear Polly’s happy news?’
‘I’m really pleased for them, honestly.’
Adam took Polly to Rome for the world’s shortest mini break, proposing to her on the roof of the Hotel Locarno. We always said we’d go, but somehow we never quite made it – which was pretty much the story of our life together. Polly’s beyond thrilled and I’m doing a pretty good job of sharing her joy.
Horst is determined to prove just how helpful he can be, scuttling off to get me a welcome cup of coffee. I stare after him, a crazy plan starting to evolve. I outline it to Ruby back in the caravan.
‘If we say he’s like Czech, or Polish or something, no one from Casual Chic will know the difference. He could be a knitwear designer who’s so cool that he’s still underground. If I’m confident enough about it, I swear they’ll buy it. It’s all about the illusion.’
She claps her hands with glee. ‘I love it! It has to be a better option than Dr Fox.’
‘What have we got left to lose? Either it’s a catastrophe, or a triumph. There’s not much in between.’
Horst is bowled over by the idea. ‘For you to trust me with your precious party is a gross, gross honour. And I need to practise my acting at all possible times.’
So with that insane strategy in place, we head down to the rose garden to check on the progress of the shoot. Tom’s skilfully manipulating the wildly bog standard photographer we’re using, leading Hilda and Arthur round the garden to find the perfect spot. He’s too absorbed to notice me, so I simply stand and watch him, struck by what a skilled diplomat he is. They snap roll after roll of film, till I’m worried that Arthur’s ancient legs will crumple beneath him.
‘That’s enough for now,’ I say, leading them off to the caravan for a cup of tea and a sit down while the team set up the next location.
‘Never seems to stop, does it, Anna?’ says Hilda, grabbing my arm.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say guiltily. ‘I really appreciate you taking more time out for this.’
‘Time out from what?’ she giggles. ‘It’s not like I’ve got a career! Anyway, we missed you.’ I smile at her affectionately, wishing on so many counts that I’d overcome my paranoia and attended the earlier sessions. ‘I want to hear all about what’s happening with your young man.’
‘Oh, the young man. It’s all gone tits up, since you ask.’ What on earth possessed me to use such a phrase? Hilda doesn’t seem to mind at all though, merrily launching into a stream of questions. Before I know it I’m telling the whole unvarnished truth, right from the top.
‘Ooh, he was a right cool Eddie that one. I wish I’d known. I could’ve told you he’d be trouble.’
‘I think I knew myself actually, Hilda. I just didn’t want to hear it.’
‘So why did you bother yourself with him? You’re a lovely looking girl: you could have your pick.’
I love it when people say things like that. It’s the kind of statement kindly cab drivers make when they pick you up and you’re looking downcast. It’s so not true though, not when you take out all the ones who are married, or alcoholic, or commitment‐phobic. Or all three.
‘I’d never tried a man like that before. You know, a trophy. I guess I didn’t appreciate how much polishing was involved.’
Once Arthur’s revived we head back out for the next set‐up, which Tom’s located round the back of the house in the kitchen garden. Arthur and Hilda hold hands amongst the lettuces, the afternoon sun casting a rosy glow over proceedings. Tom strides over to me, hair askew and hands muddy.
‘Anna, I really think this is going to work out.’
‘What?’ I say, oddly excited.
‘The photos. I think they’ll look really good.’
‘Oh. Yes. Thanks so much for this. I’d be totally scuppered without you.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he says, laughing at me. ‘Who knew I could ever be someone’s knight in shining armour?’
This is day two of our photography extravaganza. We went back to the hairdresser’s roof garden for Oliver and Steve, and followed up with a lush enclave in Hampstead.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ I ask him. ‘Can I at least take you for a drink?’
‘Um, I’d love it but I’m not sure there’ll be time.’
‘Oh, OK.’
I clam up, unreasonably petulant, before my phone starts up. It’s our slothful, podgy lawyer calling to tell me that we’ve got absolutely no rights over Becky and Lucas’s contribution.
‘Surely if we’ve put all that work in we must own the material?’
‘Sadly not. We would have if you’d got them to sign a release form, but under the circumstances we don’t have a leg to stand on.’
A release form: how obvious. But how hard to effect when your subjects are meant to be close personal friends. I turn to Tom, tears springing to my eyes. I can’t keep this many spiky, unyielding balls in the air indefinitely.
‘Hey,’ he says, giving me one of his all‐enveloping hugs. ‘We can fix this, I know we can.’
We pace around the caravan, throwing out options. Watching how Tom’s effortlessly run the shoot I almost consider asking him to try to talk them round, but I know it’ll be futile. His phone rings but he dumps the call, face screwed up in problem‐solving mode.
‘Got it!’ he shouts, and then more subdued, ‘But I don’t know if you’ll like it.’
‘Try me.’
‘Polly and Adam.’
‘You’re actually suggesting I interview them about how they fell in love? I’m literally the last person on earth who needs to have that conversation.’
‘Look, Anna, I know it’s hard, but I’m not sure you’ve got much choice. We’ve got a day left to pull this off, and I for one am not prepared to let you squander all your hard work.’
I sit in sullen silence, trying to conjure up an alternative personality for myself, a personality in which I’m magnanimous and saintly enough to go through with it.
‘Have I ever told you about the first time I picked up the kids from Maggie’s new place?’
‘No.’
‘So Arnold Schwarzenegger comes lumbering to the door – he’s all ripped muscles and stubble – and I’m feeling like this putrid shrimp.’
‘You’re muscly!’
‘Not like him I’m not. Anyway, the kids take ages to come downstairs and Joe is kind of surly but Belle flings her arms round his fat neck and asks him if he’s going to read her her bedtime story. I felt like I’d been dumped all over again, first Maggie then Belle.’
‘That must have been hideous.’
‘It was hideous, but eventually I thought, well at least she’s happy.’ Even as he says this, I see a cloud crossing his face. ‘At least she’s not hating living with him, and storing up all kinds of pain to screw up the rest of her life. And then I felt OK about it.’
‘And your point is?’ I say, reaching out to grab his wrist, hoping he’ll appreciate that I’ve heard how much it hurt.
‘That humiliation, or rejection, is a temporary feeling. It’s possible to rise above it, particularly for someone like you.’
‘Someone like me?’
‘Someone who appreciates the ridiculousness of life. I don’t know, I’m not explaining myself very well, but I know you’ve got to do this, and I know you’ll do it with dignity.’
‘Dignity, always dignity,’ I declaim theatrically, thinking again of my grandmother. I must go over for supper once my one‐woman war is finally over. I go to take my hand away, but he grips it tightly, holding it aloft. ‘Courage, Anna,’ he says jokily, but with real fervour.
I call Polly en route back to London in Tom’s car, his silent presence giving me the strength to ask this agonizing favour. ‘Are you sure?’ she says doubtfully, and I promise her that I am.
‘I don’t want actual, gory details but I do want to hear how good it is. I am pleased for you, Pol, I promise you.’ She gets a bit teary, and agrees on the spot, promising to strong arm Adam. I think about telling her how much he hates having his photo taken – even holiday snaps were like torture for him – but decide she’s not going to appreciate my insider knowledge. I momentarily imagine making them pose for some Harry‐style outrages, but obviously I bat that evil thought away.
By the time we get to Harlesden it’s almost dark.
‘So this is where it all began,’ says Tom. ‘How are you coping with being back here?’
‘It’s a lot better than I thought it would be,’ I tell him, ‘but I know I’ve got to make a run for it soon.’
‘Take it from me, escaping from the parental home is even better the second time round.’
Tom’s rented a maisonette in Queen’s Park. It sounds like a big step down from the family home, but an ideal venue for all that athletic lovemaking with cranberry girl.
‘Do you actually stay at your flat much, or are you mainly at Louisa’s?’ Why am I asking that? Most of my thoughts should stay locked in my stupid head.
‘No, I do stay there. You know, Chicken Tonight and The Simpsons. I’m pretty much your typical divorced man.’ I laugh, wondering why I originally thought he was such an A‐grade dullard. As I’m reflecting on his many sterling qualities, Karen flings the front door open and comes down the path. She’s wearing a vile tie‐dyed tunic and her ‘Rats Have Rights’ badge.
‘Is that you, darling?’
Before I know it Tom’s stepping out of the car.
‘Are you Mrs Christie? I’m Tom, Anna’s friend.’
‘Karen Parker. I’ve never believed in the patriarchal enslavement of marriage.’
Shut up, Karen.
‘I’m not too much of a fan either,’ laughs Tom.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard all about what a trooper you’ve been.’
‘I love rats,’ says Tom, clocking the badge. ‘My daughter’s got a white one called Boris.’
That’s it. Karen’s off, expounding her views on animal experimentation (not a fan) and the government’s many other crimes against our furred friends.
‘You must come in for a drink, Tom, now you’ve driven all this way.’
‘Well, actually I’ve got to get going…’
‘No, no. I love meeting Anna’s friends.’ Does she? ‘Surely you can spare fifteen minutes?’
She pretty much manhandles him inside, pouring him a half of Greg’s lethal home brew and plaguing him with questions about his gardening. ‘The rape of mother earth is the tragedy of our age,’ she tells him earnestly. I feel like I’m going to die of shame, catapulted back to all those years when I avoided bringing boyfriends home at all costs. Still, there’s something oddly touching about the warmth of her hospitality. I can see she’s really enjoying having him here.
After a good forty‐five minutes he insists he’s got to leave. Karen gives him a fulsome hug, and I walk him to the door.
‘I’m so sorry I won’t be able to help you out tomorrow,’ he says.
Tom’s fixed up a Japanese garden in Kensington for us, but has to get on with his day job.
‘No, it’s all right, I think I’ve watched you enough to have a vague idea of how to set it up. Which is not to say I’m looking forward to it.’
‘You can do it.’
‘Will you come to the event next week? I know it’s not really your bag, but it would be weird to not have you there now.’ I pause. ‘Bring Louisa obviously.’
‘We’d love to come. I think she actually reads Casual Chic.’ That figures. He smiles down at me. ‘I’ve really got to get in the car now. Don’t forget, Anna, dignity always dignity.’
He’s looking straight at me as he says it, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him. Perhaps it’s the phrase making me feel like I’m in some fabulous black and white melodrama, but before I know it I’m leaning upward to lock lips. Sadly he’s in an entirely different film. He gently pulls backward, and I topple inelegantly into his chest.
‘Sorry, I…’
‘Hey, it’s fine.’
‘No, it’s not. I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.’
And with that I give way to a sob, stumbling back into the house, slamming the door. How could I have made such a fool of myself? I’m running about ten years behind everyone else’s timetable, throwing myself at attached men and living with my parents. ‘Tom seems like a very decent chap,’ says Karen, coming up the stairs. It’s too much for me: I rush into my bedroom and throw myself down on the bed, wrapping myself up tightly in my birthday pashmina. Is there anyone in the world who’s a bigger loser than me?