no messing, takes a full hour. I try to pass the time by a) watching a documentary about Princess Diana on the Biography Channel, but I have to switch off as the bit about her being harassed by the paparazzi is just that bit too close to the bone today, b) somehow getting the strength to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom but I have to crawl straight back to bed again after the shock of seeing my face in the mirror. Honest to God, I look like someone gouged out my eyes and replaced them with flint. Besides, all the crawling around is starting to give me carpet burn. Then there’s point c). Like eating a Pot Noodle, I know it’s bad for me, I know it’ll make me feel worse afterwards, but I can’t help myself, I switch Channel Six on again as it’s coming up to the six o’clock news and, whoop-di-doo, I’m still there. Still the second bloody news item, which makes me wonder what the hell the third news item could possibly be; ants in a straight line crossing a road?
Next thing Sam’s back in my room, so I snap off the TV and pretend to have been just lying there all along, innocently whinging. Then I notice that he’s empty handed. Which can only mean one thing.
‘Well, I’ve read them all cover to cover,’ he begins.
‘And…?’
He doesn’t answer the question. Which instantly makes me fear the very worst.
‘The Sunday Indo had an OK-ish piece…’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, when I say OK, I mean there was one fairly sympathetic article, called “What Next for Jessie Woods?”’
‘What’s next for me? A gunshot, if I’ve anything to do with it.’
‘Come on, Woodsie, you’ve got to face this head on,’ he says, his huge rugby player’s frame hulking in the doorway, eyes distractedly darting towards the window every thirty seconds or so, even though the curtains are drawn. ‘Damage limitation, that’s key right now. And showing your face in public again. They’re having a field day knowing you’ve locked yourself up in here. You’re a sitting target. You’re front page in everything but the Sunday Sport and that’s only because there’s some glamour model with thirty-eight double-D cups on the cover. But you made page two. With a picture of the house and a banner headline saying “Hiding out in The Chateau de Shame”.’
‘Shut up, please! Enough!!’ I screech, sticking my two fingers in my ears.
‘Look, Woodsie, the absolute worst thing you can do is nothing. In your shoes I’d go straight in to see my agent in the morning and release a statement clarifying your position and above all apologising. Best way to get rid of them is to grovel for a bit, say you’re sorry and pray it’ll all die down.’ Then he sits down on the edge of the bed beside me and for a while we’re both silent. I know he’s right; just the thought of having to face the world tomorrow is crucifying me. Next thing, he springs up, running his hands through his hair again, so it looks even bouffier. ‘Anyway, speaking of damage limitation, I better go.’
‘What? You’re leaving? You can’t leave!’
‘We were due to have dinner at Nathaniel and Eva’s, remember? I think at least one of us should go.’
‘But…Sam, please, no. Can’t you cancel? They’ll understand. Especially when they see we’re holed up like hostages here.’
He’s firm though, the way Sam always is whenever he’s made his mind up about something. ‘No,’ he insists. ‘We already cancelled on them last night. It would be rude.’
I don’t want to be left here by myself, but I know I’ve no choice. I’ve royally buggered up his weekend, the least I can do is let him out from under house arrest for a few hours. After all, it’s not like he did anything wrong. I look at him and suddenly a huge surge of love comes over me. I mean, just look at him, for God’s sake; protecting me, checking through the papers for me, trying to fix me and make everything all better again. My rock. My Prince Charming.
‘But you’ll come back here later, won’t you?’ I ask, aware of how pathetically weak and clingy I sound and not even caring.
‘Course I will. Now try to sleep,’ he says gently on his way out. I just nod and manage a watery half-smile.
Then, from the bottom of the stairs, he calls up, ‘By the way? You really need to get the downstairs loo fixed. Smells like a Victorian sewer down here.’
Oh yeah, that’s another thing about Sam. He’s surprisingly intolerant of lax household maintenance.
Ten p.m. and I’m still awake and staring at the ceiling. Sleep won’t come so to pass the time I make out a list of all the crap things in my life right now versus all the good things.
Crap things:
-No job
-No money and I doubt if even Bob Geldof with all his experience in dealing with Third World debt could bail me out of the financial black hole I’m in. Have a lot of grovelling ahead of me before I can be deemed employable again. If I can ever be deemed employable again. Because it’ll take great good luck, plus Liz Walsh having a mild stroke which will completely black out her entire memory bank for the last twenty-four hours -Prisoner in own home
What a rubbish idea this was, I think, flinging the pen away from me after only a few minutes. Just when I thought I was all cried out, this is only bringing on a fresh batch of hot, stinging tears. So instead, I focus on the positives in my life right now. But it’s a far shorter list. Scarily short. Because the only good, rock solid, dependable thing in my life right now is Sam. That’s it. He’s the one person who’s there for me through thick and thin and after the way he’s stood by me this weekend, I think I love him even more. If that were even possible.
It’s just a bit odd that by 2 a.m., he still hasn’t come back.
He hasn’t come back by the following morning either. I hardly slept a wink; just kept dozing fitfully and at about 8 a.m., eventually abandoned that as a bad job. So then I started frantically phoning and texting Sam instead. Twenty-five calls and seventeen texts. Like the demented lunatic I’ve turned into, I actually counted. No answer to any of the phone calls and no reply to my manic text messages either. Now, just to give you an idea of just how utterly unheard of this is, Sam always, always has his phone on his person at all times. He’s one of those people who even brings it into the bathroom with him whenever he has a shower, and by the way, I am NOT making that up. Communication is like oxygen to him.
So now I’ve spiralled off into a sickening flurry of panic. The love of my life has probably been in some tragic car accident and at this very moment could be lying comatose in a hospital bed in plaster from the neck down, unable to say or do anything except move the tip of his little finger, so none of the nurses in the intensive care unit know to call and tell me what’s happened.
Suddenly, the lethargy and depression of yesterday are gone and now I’m wired by this whole new world of worry that’s just opened up. I try calling Nathaniel and Eva’s home number, my hands sweaty with tension, but no answer. Which means this must be bad. Frantically, I ring Eva’s mobile. She answers immediately, sounding half asleep and groggy. No, she yawns sleepily, she hasn’t heard from Sam either, not since he left their house early, about tenish last night after they’d all had dinner. But, here comes the killer, she lets it slip that Sam did call Nathaniel earlier this morning to, wait for it, arrange drinks and dinner with some clients at Bentleys swanky restaurant later on tonight.
Right. So that’s the coma worry eliminated then. It never occurred to me that he just…didn’t bother calling me. So, in other words, he went home last night, as normal, got up for work as normal and even found the time to book dinner and drinks with his best friend.
I have to slump back against a pillow to digest