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 I have been living off an old tub of yogurt, espressos from my Gaggia, some out of date vitamin pills, and the last of my Valium script.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.
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