Epilogue

The Butterfly’s A.G.M. One Year Later.

Yes, an annual general meeting sounds a tad dramatic, I know, but then we just had so much to celebrate, it’s unbelievable. Our progress in the last twelve months has been so staggering, that if you saw it in a movie, you’d say things like that never happened in real life. To illustrate, let me start with our Barbara.

Oh my God, the reviews for A Midsummer Night’s Dream were so stupendously amazing that I probably could have written them myself. Barbara was pretty much unanimously hailed as the official Next Big Thing. (‘Charisma you could surf on,’ is one review that still makes me so proud of her.) She really, truly did steal the show, and deservedly went on to land herself an award for ‘Best Newcomer’. (‘Best newcomer?’ she quipped at the time. ‘So now I’m an overnight sensation after fifteen years?’) Don’t get me wrong, though, she was beside herself, particularly when she managed to nab probably the hottest, hippest actors’ agent in town into the bargain. And she hasn’t looked back since: one thing has seamlessly led on to another, and right now she’s shooting a period drama about Henry VIII where she plays a very sexy, earthy, scene-stealing Anne Boleyn. Then after that, she’s back to the theatre again, in an Oscar Wilde show, and best of all, after that she’s off to Broadway to work with . . . wait for it, Serena Stroheim, who asked for her especially for a new show she’s directing!

In all the years I’ve known Barbara, I’ve honestly never seen her so happy and fulfilled, still bowling fellas over like ninepins, but with work lined up until well into next year. Quite a change from twelve short months ago . . .

Sneakily, Laura and I did, to our shame, rejoice a bit at the reviews that Evil Angie got for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Or rather, the lack of them. Apparently for any actor, the worst kind of review is one in which you’re completely and utterly ignored, as she was. If this was the show that effectively was a launching pad for Barbara, then it also spelt the end for that awful, minging cow. Evil Angie, however, isn’t one of those people who can be happy for a more successful friend, so shortly after this she moved out of the flat she shared with Barbara, much to the jubilation of all concerned.

Laura probably had the single biggest U-turn of all of us. She is still happily writing away for Tattle magazine, making quite a name for herself, but most unbelievably of all, she has actually turned down briefs so she can continue writing, working from home, and doing what she really loves best: being with her family. Money is flowing in regularly now, so the days of going cap in hand to her mother are long gone AND Desmond is still on the scene. All very discreet, very demure, and very Laura.

There’s never a question of him staying overnight when the kids are there, but they have snuck off for the odd weekend to cultural events all over the place, Glyndebourne for one, and there’s talk of the Edinburgh Festival soon. In public, though, the only evidence that she and Desmond are a couple is when she dust-flecks him, which she does so regularly that Barbara and I reckon this can only be love.

And then there’s me. Twelve months on and . . . yes, I’m single again. Daniel dumped me there a while back, said we were going nowhere and that he wanted to move on, so heigh ho, it’s back to the singles scene for me . . .

I’m JOKING . . .! Had you there for a second, though . . .

No, all messing aside, we’re still together and I can summarize the last, fabulous year thus:

Number of fabulous weekends away: twelve. (Well, everyone knows the mini-break is the true definition of how you know you’re really in a couple.)

Number of times Daniel, bless him, has braved my family with particular regard to messer brothers: an astonishing fifteen. Elder messer brother even went as far as to tell me that he can’t find a single thing to slag Daniel about, which mightn’t sound like it, but is actually praise from Caesar, and his ham-fisted way of saying, ‘Yep, he’s all right. One of us.’ In fact, with the family, poor patient Daniel tends to get hijacked by messer brothers and is regularly dragged off to soccer matches/car shows/golf tournaments. The measure of the man is that I’ve yet to hear a complaint slip his lips. When pressed, all he’ll say is, ‘I like them, they’re good crack.’ And ever since they were all booked to see Ireland play in a friendly, then missed their flight because they were all in the airport bar and claimed never to have heard the final boarding calls, only for my fab wonderful Daniel, one quick phone call later, to arrange for a helicopter to take them, well, that sealed the deal as far as my siblings were concerned.

Length of our proper first date: seventy-two hours, which must be some kind of record, I reckon. It was just like I’d always dreamed, or as Barbara would say, visualized. The day after A Midsummer Night’s Dream Daniel asked me to be ready and waiting at my house, and the only clue I had was that he said to bring my passport.

Oh, who am I kidding? The minute he said that, I knew exactly where we were going and where we’d be staying, and I was right. Yes. The very same trip that Daniel paid seriously over the odds for that night of the charity auction . . . Paris.

The Crillon hotel on Place de la Concorde, to be exact, in the most fabulous, romantic city in the world. Except, well, we didn’t exactly see too much of it. In fact we spent so much time in our room/suite big enough to have a party in, that one of the chambermaids asked us, in broken English, if we were enjoying our honeymoon?

Most romantic gesture of all in the last year: And the award goes to . . . no, not the time he sent roses to the office for no reason, not even the time he whisked me off to New York to see . . . wait for it . . . the office space that Best’s are setting up their US branch in. (Sample sales, here I come.) By the way, it’s only on Madison Avenue, and that was the reason for his prolonged stay away; and yes, he is buying a penthouse, but just for himself to stay in for when he’s over there. (Ahem . . . and me and Laura and Barbara when the three of us skited over with empty suitcases for a shopping trip just before Christmas.)

No, amid a lot of dense competition for the title, the single most romantic gesture of the year happened just after Daniel and I got back, arm-in-arm and still all dewy-eyed, from our Paris first-date trip. It was lunchtime when we got home and, ever the gentleman, he dropped me back to my house and helped me carry luggage inside. (I’ve never been much of a one for travelling light.) Useless Builder was there, lunch roll in hand, feet up, reading the Daily Star. Well, I only wished I’d had a camcorder to record it: Daniel lit into him, demanding to know exactly what had been done since I’d been away, what was left to do, and an exact, wait for it, breakdown of what was left to do, including an estimated finish date? And this was the alpha male side of Daniel in action, not the messer side of him I know so well. Well, Useless Builder’s jaw actually dropped, as I have to say, did mine. The upshot was that, one heated exchange/blazing row later, Daniel fired him, and organized the builders Best’s use to finish the gig. Which they did, within about eight weeks and with minimum fuss.

Some mornings when I wake up in my picture-pretty little doll’s house, and pad across my carpeted bedroom to my stunning, under-floor heated state-of-the-art bathroom, I often think back to that happy day.

It wasn’t the roses, the champagne, the trips, the full-on romance that sealed the deal for me and Daniel.

It was the day he kicked Useless Builder’s arse for me.

Because that’s when I knew. Just knew.

THE END