31

JEN

I still can’t believe what Penelope said to me. What a bitch. I’m so furious I forget to pick up a jacket or coat, and I’m freezing. But I don’t want to risk going back inside. God knows what I would do to her. Perhaps I should think about moving out, getting another place. But where would I go? I run through my list of friends. My stupid column had brought about the breakdown of most of my relationships. There was only Bex left.

I walk as quickly as I can, both in an effort to keep warm and to dispel the hot ball of anger and frustration that burns within me. I hardly notice anything around me, and a few minutes later I realise I’m on the Heath. Perhaps I can pop over to Bex’s flat in Kentish Town. But no doubt she’s still cross with me after what I said to her. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but remember I left it in my room. Fuck. Could I just surprise her? If I turned up on her doorstep with something – flowers, some chocolates, a bottle of wine for later? – then she would have to forgive me, wouldn’t she?

I start to make my way across the network of paths that lead across the Heath. Myriad thoughts cloud my head. My whole life has been a mess. At one point I thought I was so successful. It looked as though I had everything. An amazing wardrobe of designer clothes. I had a string of handsome and clever boyfriends, culminating in Lawrence. I had a voice: millions of people read what I had to say. And yet it was all a facade. My swish clothes served to disguise my inner demons. I drove those boyfriends away, and Lawrence ended up hating me. Even my name, which I’d changed by deed poll, wasn’t real. And my column? It served no purpose but to give a quick hit of Schadenfreude to the readers – they may have crap lives, but at least they’re not as batshit crazy as that Jen Hunter.

Thanks to my therapy, I realise that I had become addicted to writing about my life, but also addicted to seeking out dysfunctional situations which made for better copy. And although I know I should look upon losing my column as an opportunity to start again, I still found the withdrawal process painful. ‘Think of it like giving up alcohol or drugs,’ my therapist had told me. ‘It’s not going to be an easy process, but you’ll be a happier person at the end of it.’

Easier said than done.

I thought following the story of Victoria Da Silva and Daniel Oliver might help. It would take my mind off myself, for one thing. On a practical note, I might actually be able to use it to relaunch my journalistic career. But after what Penelope said to me, I doubt my abilities. Perhaps it is better if I put it to one side. But then what would I do with myself? How would I earn a living?

A vision of myself comes to me. I’m not that old, perhaps in my late forties. I’m living in a dump of a council flat somewhere, not even in London. All of my designer clothes have been sold off, and I’m sitting in a formless grey tracksuit. My face is free of make-up and I look pale and unhealthy. I’m on benefits and on medication, a toxic combination. I don’t have anything to live for. I have no job or friends. Even Bex has deserted me. A pile of yellowing paper sits in the corner of the room – my old columns, which I read and reread as a form of both escape and punishment. What is the point of carrying on? I’ve been stockpiling pills ready for the time when I end it all. I see myself as a corpse, lying on a cheap, stained mattress, a body that goes undiscovered for weeks on end until the neighbours begin to complain about the smell.

The cry of a bird overhead brings me back to the present. I’m standing at the tumulus, a mound that I’ve heard described as an ancient burial site – some say it’s Boadicea’s grave – or an old battleground. It’s a deserted spot today, and the trees that surround it whisper an unknowable message in the wind. I go and sit on one of the benches and close my eyes for a second. If only I had had more sleep last night. I can feel myself drifting off, my consciousness fading. I’m vaguely aware of something rustling in the bushes behind me, but I assume it’s a bird or a rat. It all goes quiet, apart from the wind. But then I hear it again, but this time it sounds like footsteps. I open my eyes, but just as I do so I catch a glimpse of a figure in a mask. It’s a Guy Fawkes mask, used at demos like the Occupy movement. Everything happens so quickly. I open my mouth to scream, but something hits my head. I hear a crack and I’m falling to the ground.