I’ve never really believed in anything. Quite the opposite, actually. I have, at times, seen religion or spirituality as a weakness. Why would people need to believe in something they couldn’t prove, when they could just believe in the reality of their own existence? All I ever heard from people who believed in things, was that they were on a constant mission of self-improvement. It all felt so exhausting. Why can’t they just accept their flaws and get on with it? Who were they trying to be perfect for? I never understood it. I felt people leaned towards spirituality when they couldn’t cope. I’d get enormously judgemental about it, because personally I’d rather bury all my feelings and have them play out in weird and destructive ways than ever go through a process of trying to sort them out.
I did have an experience of sorts about eight years ago. Funnily enough, I was with Caroline on Melrose Avenue in LA. We wandered into a fortune teller’s shop which, by some weird chance, backs on to the house I live in now. Caroline and our friend Gemma Cairney, who had come to stay with me for a while, both wanted to get readings. I, of course, thought the whole thing was utterly ridiculous. While they sat in the corner with the main lady – who I need only describe as looking like a fortune teller, because she looked exactly as you’d expect one to look – I stood twiddling my thumbs in the middle of a room. Suddenly, another woman appeared out of nowhere and sat me down on the couch. Before I knew it she was looking at my hand. ‘Hmmmm,’ she said. ‘Your life line isn’t very long.’
‘Great,’ I huffed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Hmmm, yes. You’ll be having a miscarriage or an abortion.’
She then stood up and walked away. I was obviously stunned.
‘How much do I owe you?’ I called after her. To which she replied, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ before disappearing behind a curtain.
‘Did anyone else even see her?’ I asked the room. No one confirmed that they did.
Later that day, Gem and Caroline and I were in the back of a taxi. We were all very hungover, and Gem was threatening to be sick. We were all very hot and bothered and in terrible moods. After a long spell of silence, and quite unprompted, I said, ‘I can’t wait for my abortion.’ At which Caroline erupted with the kind of laughter that would stop traffic, and Gemma threw up.
Thankfully, I never had a miscarriage, and neither did I choose to have an abortion. I considered my faith in anything spiritual well and truly dashed after that. I still have no idea if that woman even worked there.
But then 2020 happened.
Soon after Caroline died, I felt entirely connected to the idea that she was still with me. The sheer impossibility that she had gone was not something I could grasp. I lay on my back in the middle of the garden, looked up at the clouds and said the words, ‘OK, Universe, I’m listening. Talk to me.’
And so it did. First up, it had a plane write the words ‘Be Kind’ right above my head. I still can’t believe that happened. Anyway …
A week before she died, I had been asked to be godmother to my friends Jonny and Michelle’s baby girl. As I have two boys, it was emotional as they ‘gave me a girl’. I was so honoured. They asked me if I was sure about the responsibility, of which I had no doubt. There was just one issue: as I was never christened myself, I’m not legally allowed to be a godmother. I know, I know, I can feel the devil calling my name too, but they didn’t mind about that, which was such a relief. So, I became the loving, unofficial but entirely dedicated godmother to a perfect little chunky-thighed dollop of deliciousness called Phoenix. Hi, Phoenix, if you are now grown up and I am making you read all of my old books, I love you very much.
Phoenix was an extremely cute baby, and I had big plans to take her for walks and even have her sleep at my house, so Jonny and Michelle could get some rest. But then Caroline died, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do anything. I felt like my head had been filled with exhaust fumes. I couldn’t focus on anything, let alone a baby. And I felt really bad about it. Of course, my friends completely understood. But still, it was a shame. And then I realised something that hadn’t immediately been obvious to me. Phoenix was born on 9 November, the same day as Caroline. It hit me like a hundred butterflies flying into my face at once. A big shock, but actually rather lovely when you stop trying to shoo them away. At the time, I was willing to grab hold of anything that offered me the slightest feeling of comfort. Nothing like a baby to do that.
Then came the tree.
I have never believed that dead people go anywhere. I don’t think about heaven or hell: I am here now, and this is my one chance. I’m not to waste it. But when Chris and I moved into our house in LA, a cute three-bedroom bungalow just off the grungy end of Melrose Avenue, long before we had kids, I did nominate a palm tree that I could see out of the bathroom window to be my mum. At the time, I’d obviously been feeling a bit emotional and felt I needed to connect with her in some way. I would stand at the window and say goodnight and good morning. I’d occasionally ask her to help me out and watch over me, if I thought I needed her to. It was nice. I knew it wasn’t my mum, it was a tree, but it was a little focus point that I could direct my feelings towards. I liked the tree. It was one of those tall, thin and bendy palm trees that totally defied ergonomics. I remember thinking, ‘If you can keep standing tall, so can I, tree.’ From my bathroom it was alone in the sky and looked magical.
It’s now my kids’ bathroom, so I rarely use it or stand there long enough to look at my tree. If I’m honest, I’d forgotten about it for the last few years. But one night recently, as my kids were in the bath, I looked in the mirror at my devastated face and for the first time in years I thought of my mum’s tree. I looked out of the window and it was still there, but now it wasn’t alone. Another, smaller tree was growing right up alongside it. Where did that come from? An entire tree, just like that? I decided that the new tree was Caroline, and sometimes I go into the bathroom, and I chat to both of them at the same time. It’s nice. I recommend nominating trees as people that you have lost, because for the most part they don’t go anywhere, they continue to grow, and you can always rely on them to just shut up and let you be sad.
Caroline’s funeral didn’t happen for a few weeks. That was a long time to be on the other side of the world from my friends, talking to trees. Chris and I were both set to go, but as the time got closer there were rumours about borders being closed and, even though we never truly believed it would happen, we felt nervous to both be in another country from our kids. We didn’t have a nanny, so it was already emotionally stressful to be away and leave them with our only regular babysitter. We decided that Chris would stay home, at least then if I got stuck (it would never happen though, right? How could you shut America’s borders? Ridiculous!), the kids would be with their dad. Leaving was impossible, but I couldn’t not be there for Caroline. Her mum and sister had asked me to say a few words at the service and I was determined, although terrified, to get through it.
I stayed with Josie in her sweet flat by Hackney Fields. It felt so familiar and I couldn’t think why. When I told my sister where I was staying, we realised that she had lived in the house next door for years. She knew exactly where I was, she even knew the woman who lived upstairs. I allowed the coincidence to find itself on the list of signs I was being sent, that the big life I live is actually quite tiny, which was a lesson I think I maybe needed to learn.
By the time I got to Josie, we were both cried out. We were like two birds that had just flown into a window, leaving us stunned and trapped in a moment of time that felt endless and impossible to navigate. We talked and talked. Various levels of pain, anger and love peaking and troughing as we freely let ourselves say whatever it was we needed to say. And then Josie said, ‘My crystals will protect me.’
Oh here we go, I thought as my eyes did an involuntary roll. I’ve lost Josie to the madness of crystals.
But for once I couldn’t summon up the energy to contest the notion, so rather than scoff, I listened. She went on …
‘A few months ago, I needed to find somewhere to live, so I asked my crystals for a two-bedroom flat near Hackney Fields, with a bath and garden, for a reasonable price. The next day I was in a taxi and I was telling the driver I needed a place, and he said, “I know somewhere.” And he connected me with the woman who owns this flat – and here I am, living in it. It’s exactly what I asked for.’
‘Where did you get these crystals?’ I asked, putting my coat on. And before I could say ‘How do you spell amethyst’, we were walking down Broadway Market to her favourite crystal shop.
On the way, we walked through London Fields. We were talking about Gemma and I was saying how I couldn’t wait to see her. I met Caroline and Gemma at the same time, in Australia. Caroline was host of I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here Now, and Gemma and I had been invited down to sit on the panel and discuss the contestants in the jungle. We’d had the most amazing week, bonding for life. I was craving her. As Josie and I entered London Fields, the sun was going down minus one beam of it that was shining directly on the face of someone who was standing alone in the middle of the park. ‘Is that Gemma?’ Josie said. And it was. We all ran towards each other, the person I had wished for just standing there, the final rays of sunshine bouncing off her cheeks.
‘I just stopped to watch the sun go down,’ she said.
And I thought, no, that isn’t what happened, actually. The universe just made you stand still so we could find each other. That’s a much more likely story.