There’s a moment of genuine sorrow that we won’t be signing her – she looks very promotable – followed by relief that we won’t have any part in ruining her. Another agency will snap her up and it’s obvious how things will play out – she’ll end up on Love Island or Celebrity Big Brother and for a couple of years she’ll be subject to daily snarking from the sidebar of shame. Eventually she’ll crash and burn – they all do. They think a scandal like this is an entrée to a world of riches and fame, but ultimately it’s just a one-way ticket to misery and oblivion.
Alastair takes Sharmaine off to a secluded couch at the far end of the room and my four o’clock arrives, a profile-writer from The Times. At about five, she takes her leave, and when we stand to say our goodbyes, Alastair and Sharmaine King are still in a cosy huddle at the far end of the room. For the love of God. He was simply meant to be shutting things down.
All my meetings have finished but I decide to hang around, work on Matthew Carlisle’s press release, then scold Alastair when he finally releases Sharmaine … Shite, three missed calls. Tim. I call him back.
‘You certain about this Matthew Carlisle thing?’ he asks.
‘Oh, I am, Tim. I’m glad to have a big new project.’
‘Alastair can do him.’
‘Um, no, he wants me specifically.’ Pleasure leaks out in my tone.
‘If you’re sure. He’s shortlisted for a prize at the Brighton Media Awards, but that’s a secret. He doesn’t know yet.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ah, someone mentioned it … But Paxman is also up.’
‘Guess this isn’t Matthew’s year.’
Tim says goodbye and I write Matthew’s press release.
Recent rumours in the press imply I had an inappropriate relationship with my children’s nanny. I emphatically and unreservedly deny all of these unsubstantiated rumours. There was no impropriety. This is a very difficult time for our family and I respectfully ask for our children’s privacy to be respected. There will be no further comment from me on this matter.
I email it to Matthew and his wretched brother for their approval … And what the hell is keeping Alastair? I stretch tall like a meerkat – they’re still in a head-to-head huddle.
I feel oddly protective of Sharmaine King, and if they haven’t finished in ten minutes’ time, I’m breaking things up.
Finally, Alastair stands. With narrowed eyes I watch him help Sharmaine into her coat – God, I wish I was tall: that coat is amazing. Zara, I recognize it from my online adventures, but it would swamp me. He places his hands on her forearms and – get this – slides his hands along, pushing the coat and jumper upwards, so he’s touching her bare skin. Everyone in the place is looking. He shifts her a few inches so that they’re facing right into each other, drops his knees slightly so that his hips are angled towards hers, kisses her fresh young cheek, lets his lips linger a moment too long … She blushes. I sigh. I’ll fucking kill him.
‘Bye,’ she breathes, then stumbles over her brogues. She’s gone and from the loud exhalation it’s clear the entire room has been holding their breath. Everyone seems to wake up from a reverie, looking at their companions quizzically, as if to say, ‘Who on God’s earth are you?’
I snatch up my stuff and meet Alastair at the door. ‘Come on.’ I’m walking at speed. ‘You’re catching a taxi to Heathrow – you need to get out of this country.’
‘What have I done?’
‘You tell me.’ We’re walking down the stairs and out into the street. ‘That poor girl! You were meant to be giving her the kiss-off. It should have taken ten minutes tops.’
I see a taxi and stick my hand up. It stops before me, its engine ticking. ‘Get in.’ I prod Alastair.
‘Heathrow via Shepherd’s Bush,’ I tell the cabbie.
As soon as we’re settled, Alastair says, ‘I’m lonely.’
‘But you’re going about things the wrong way.’ The amount of times he’s already been told this stuff probably runs into the hundreds, but I’m going to tell him again. ‘You think The One is going to appear and the giddy feeling that everyone gets at the start of a relationship will last for ever. Okay, you fancy them and do the sexing, at least in the early days. But we’re all just flawed human beings, lurching along together as best we can. Eventually The One will annoy you, the way your friends sometimes annoy you – they’ll disappoint you, or when they’re eating apple crumble and custard, the sound of their spoon banging against their teeth will fill you with rage. But you can’t bail …’ My voice meanders to nothing. Because, of course, Hugh bailed.
It hits me like a blow in the chest. Again. Groundhog break-up.
Alastair prompts me. ‘You haven’t finished. Say the stuff about a relationship being like a small country. It’s for my good.’
I carry on my well-worn lecture on auto-pilot. ‘Creating a healthy relationship is like creating a small, land-locked country. The borders are always under threat and every day you have to shore them up. So when something in the country implodes, the shockwaves move outwards and the borders push back until eventually the crisis subsides …’
What right have I to say any of this to Alastair? None. Not now. Hugh and I have ruptured, our borders haven’t endured …
Alastair gives me a sharp nudge. ‘Amy, we’re not finished! Tell me I’m too good-looking, et cetera, et cetera. Come on!’
He’s like a child insisting on his bedtime story. Wearily, I gear up for the final part of my scolding. ‘People think it’s great to be good-looking but, Alastair, it’s the worst thing that could have happened to you. You’re irresponsible with it.’
‘It’s like?’ he prompted.
‘It’s like putting a child in charge of a gun.’
He nods. He looks simultaneously happy and hangdog. We sit in silence and, after about eight seconds, he gets out his phone, then so do I.
We don’t speak until we get to the flat in Shepherd’s Bush.
‘Tell Druzie I said hey.’ He lifts my wheely case out of the cab and places it on the pavement.
We hug. I’m fond of him and I feel bad for having lectured him. Pot, kettle and all that.
52
I’m running down a dusty grey street, tall broken buildings on either side of me. Far ahead in the distance is Hugh, and I try to call to him, but my voice won’t work. This is a dangerous place, a ruined city, snipers above me, enemies all around. In my arms are several kittens, wriggling and trying to escape, but when I look down, they’re not kittens, they’re baby girls. There’s Sofie. And Kiara. And Neeve. And one, two, no, three more Sofies, their baby faces looking up at me with weird blue eyes.
Through the smoke Hugh is still visible but he’s moving away fast so I try to speed up too. Then a tiny Sofie, much smaller than the others, slips from my hold and there’s no time to stop so I scoop her up by her ear and she’s wailing in pain but Hugh has disappeared now and I must run faster, but my legs are too heavy. The sky is darkening with my terror – if I don’t catch him, our family is broken for ever, but he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
He didn’t know I was there. He didn’t know how hard I was trying to catch him. I don’t matter to him, not at all, and that loss is like a blow to my chest. It crackles with green electricity, painful enough to kill but I’m not allowed to die.
Then I wake up.
Lying in the darkness, my heart is pounding and it takes a few moments for the crackling sensation in my chest to disperse. I fumble for the light-switch and the instant brightness erases the horror of the nightmare.
53
Friday, 21 October, day thirty-nine
‘How about “Star in the Reasonably Priced Car”?’ I call across the office to Alastair. ‘Too laddish?’
‘Maybe. Fine line – you need him normal and likeable, but not so blokey he could be a nanny-shagger.’
‘Mmm.’
I’m working flat out on Matthew Carlisle and the greatest source of inspiration is the Guardian questionnaire he did two years ago.
Matthew Carlisle (39), the son of an electrician and an Italian immigrant, was brought up in Sheffield. For three years, he’s presented BBC political flagship This Week. He’s married to actor Ruthie Billingham, they have two children and live in London.
– When were you happiest? Last Tuesday: wife, kids, couch, movie, pizza.
– What is your greatest fear? No pizza.