Death by Chanel Rouge Noir & Expensive pots of beautifying cream

The book is not going well. My Greek Chorus are right with their Cassandra prophesies. "We said as much," they nag. But maybe they are write and my nice supportive Inner Gran is wrong? What if my blockbuster with film deal wrapped in is never written?

The bank were very unfriendly about the £8,000 bauble as they insist on referring to my ring and flabbergasted by the £700 shoes. I have been threatened with a CCJ which is not a Circus Carnival for Juveniles as you’d imagine but a nasty mark on your file that stains your good name and means no one will ever lend me money again. 'You will be a blight on your children’s life!' The Greek Chorus wail.

My ex-husbands will feel jolly righteous because I’ll have to come clean to them about my incomprehensible behaviour in the Burlington Arcade. This whole episode will be another black mark against my name. See why I don’t like getting out of bed? It only costs me money and I always end up in the soup. Much better to stay in bed. I know how to that. I am safe in bed.

And as ever I will make it all sound far worse than it is. I always do. Catholics love nothing more than a good shriving of the soul. Although admittedly what I have done is pretty bad. It is my nature to highlight my mistakes and flaws to the ex-husbands. They are my confessional since the church brought in “reconciliation” to replace the confessional box. Now they want you to have a face to face with them. I always said, the day they stopped sung Latin mass was the thin edge of the wedge. So I shall confess all to my ex-husbands. My penance will be harsh. It will take courage and for that I best stay in bed to restore my spirits.

I haven’t left the flat for four days. I have been living off an old tub of yogurt, espressos from my Gaggia, some out of date vitamin pills, and the last of my Valium script. On the up side I have lost 2.3 kilos whatever that is in old money. I preferred pounds. Stones and pounds were solid and satisfying. When people ring up I mute the television or music or dvd and talk my life up. I make out I am having the most luxurious pampering relaxing “me” time. “All curled up with books and magazines and doing a bit of internet shopping while my face pack sets,” I tell them. “Are you writing?” they ask. “Like a Trojan,” I assure them.

I tell no one that I am sans credit cards, sans credit rating and by day four sans yogurt. All that’s left in my refrigerator now are some Chanel Noir nail varnish and lots of pots of expensive face cream that make me red, spotty and peely. Yet despite the Health and safety warnings on them none of them is likely to lead to a successful overdose. Shame, I would look so pretty spread out in my peignoir, a few pearls strewn about, the new diamond ring and Louboutins. And with my literary skills think of the note!

Then I think of the note and I think knowing my luck it will be a bestseller that is turned into a film with a big star like Angelina Jolie attached. And I think it would look rather glamorous having “Death by Chanel and Expensive pots of beautifying cream” read out at my inquest. That would up the anti on my suicide note sales too. They’d probably auction it off for my charity that I have begun setting up. At the moment ACCESS ALL AREAS is just a mass of meetings, forms, brick walls, indifference and endless chats with branding experts but it’s heading in a generally forward-ish direction. The point it my suicide note could really be the lift my children’s charity needs - if only I had managed to launch the charity. As it is my death will mean nothing but a headline. Then I think, I bet my agent would be delighted once I’m dead. Her commission dreams will be realised. I suddenly find a will to live. Paradoxically the will comes from my suicide note.

Then I remember that I am due to have dinner at the Wolseley with Gillian in an hour, followed by drinks at the Arts club on Dover Street with Claire, Gillian and Man of Bronze as Husband Number 3 likes to be referred to and then we are all of to a burlesque show at the Met bar on Park Lane. I find some coins and one of those vintage £5 notes you see so rarely around London now. Cab drivers love them.

I find this cheering and life affirming after all my doldrums and rouse myself out of bed.

WANTED: ONE LUXURY LIFESTYLE SOUGHT BY REFINED GIRL HIT BY DISTRESSED CIRCUMSTANCES – all assistance welcome. Please respond

A Greek chorus have followed me around all my life. They give me commentary on my life, my dreams, my thoughts and my actions. I am never free of them. My Greek chorus is currently wailing – “you are poor, in debt, twice divorced – and yours were not the successful divorces you jealously read about.” They cry out in a gloatey sort of wail, “ She is no gay divorcee living off lorry loads of alimony!” They nag, “You have no viable means of support apart from writing books which you make a quarter of a cent on. And since you took a tangent from writing moderately successful novels to writing the screenplay you’ve earned NO money.” And finally they broadcast, “Tyne O’Connell is broke.”

I shush them! The guy in the Burlington Arcade jewellery shop who was already a bit miffed by me looks askance.

My Greek chorus never have a kind or encouraging word. The nuns who brought me up told me my Greek chorus was my conscious. People have a lot to say about mean nuns but mine were darlings with strong Irish brogues or incomprehensible Flemish accents. And honestly there is nothing more edifying than watching little nuns in full length habit playing tennis or kicking a football. If I’d been brought up by New York psychiatrists they might have put me on heavy meds for admitting to these voices in my head.

My gran used to tell me that inside every little old lady there lives an antique little girl and inside every little girl there lives a little gran, who’s always on your side. I was quite thrilled by the idea of having an Inner Gran as a little girl. My Inner Gran was always on my side. But now my son has married I have accepted that one day not too far away I will be an actual granny. But for now I rely on my Inner Gran. A sweet old dear who reassures me that I will write many more successful books.

The Greek Chorus start up again, “Or Not! There is every chance you will never sell another book again! You’re children who are now all older than you were when you started having them age 18, all earn more than you. You live in a flat smaller than your youngest son’s travelling trunk. Your days of wealth, health and freedom to splurge on luxury items are over are over. You will never see forty again and your bank manager has threatened to unleash the dark dogs of hell onto you. Now is not the time to splash out on a large diamond ring.”

“Will you be quiet for one minute and let me think!” I blurt.

Huffy shop guy flounces off.

I try and listen to the little encouraging voice of Inner Gran as she reminds me I am refined glamorous mother of three wonderfully educated healthy successful children. My Inner Gran says supportively, “if anyone deserves a little treat its you dear. You’ve been a marvellous mother. A faultless wife and if you ask me, your next blockbuster book is just about to be sold to a major studio for development with a big star like that Angelinia Jolie attached.’

The Greek Chorus starts up. “What blockbuster? She hasn’t written a book in a year!”

Inner Gran comes the rescue. “She’s had a lot on her plate. She needs inspiration”

And then it comes to me. Inspiration. This where the diamond is so crucial because while money can’t buy a girl love or indeed credit is inspirational. Offering as it does the sort of commitment neither man nor agent can offer. That sparkler will stick with me through thick and thin. It won’t leave me like men and children and agents. In hard times I will look at it winking at me on my finger reminding me, “it’s alright darling, the good times are just around the corner for you and me.”

That was when it all began to take shape this idea that my blockbuster book that was soon to be a blockbuster film with major star attached would only get written once I had the security of this diamond snugly nestled on my finger.

“I’ll take it!” I declare to the Huffy Shop Guy in the tones of those imperious women wrapped in sable and mink in forties films. These voices just come jerking out of me. I don’t know why. I’d love to add “send it to my hotel and bill it to my husband’s account.” But apart from the attitude of the guy behind the counter who would no doubt sneer and roll his eyes, I do not live in a hotel, I do not have a husband and even when I did he never had an account I could charge anything to.

I slip him my platinum American express and pray that that diamond does its work before Amex attempts to take the money from my account next month. I say a Hail Mary and make a pledge to get Ex-husband number 1 onto saying a novena for my next book deal. Its not that I can’t pray for myself but he is Italian and his grandmother was bbf with Saint Pia and left millions to the Vatican so I figure god will sit up and take notice when he hears the Santospirito plea. As ex-husbands go SP is as good as they get. He is the best kept secret in the ex-husband fraternity. We lived together for over 12 years after we were divorced he was such a good ex-husband. We even stayed together during my marriage. When he eventually left so did my husband. Maybe that was the magic formula to those halcyon years. If you really want a marriage to work keep your husband close and your ex-husband even closer.

Ex-husband 2 has his good points too. He’s just a bit of a hysteric. He’s one of life’s flouncers, a man who probably should have been an opera singer. Our marriage would have been so much more successful if he could have sung all his histrionic tantrums to me.

But it will all be fine. I’m back at home the ring is on my middle finger and now it’s teamed with a pair incredible ballet pink Louboutin’s which I couldn’t abandon once I’d spotted them gazing at me with puppy dog eyes from the window of the Louboutin boutique on Mount Street. Louboutins being the Aston Martin of Girl World they were a snip at £670 odd pounds. What man would walk past a pristine Aston Martin at that price? Not a one that’s how many and yet they have the temerity to raise an eyebrow when we behave in perfectly sensible equivalent ways. The world is full of hypocrisy but so what, I am drunk on inner beauty. I look amazing. All my flaws compensated for by my ring and shoes. I want to show the world. Me and my ring and my shoes. The invincible team. We rock. I climb into bed and cuddle up with my laptop focusing on the three weeks before Amex starts to demand the £7,900 payment from my woefully overdrawn account. Plenty of time to get down the bones of my blockbuster. These little purchases really were all the lift I needed. Why could my Ex-husbands (not to mention The Greek Chorus) never understand this about me? My creative juices are really flowing now. Maybe just a nice cup of tea to get me started…

Five hours later. I have typed a mere seven words of the book that will save me from life on the street.

“Oh my giddy aunt what have I done?”