to play the lead in her film. For free.
She says he’s lovely, and I’m sure he is. I told her I’d seen him perform once, before he was famous, in a play at the Bush Theatre. He was brilliant, I said, and I would have been happy to expound a little, or even a lot. But she wasn’t that interested. In any case she was in a rush. She mentioned that Finley was being incredibly helpful: that she’d been calling him up about twenty times a day the last couple of weeks—which is news to me—and that apparently, out of the kindness of his heart, he’s given her the name of a young producer and some hot new director and a whole bunch of other people to help bring the project together. Fantastic. As Fin would say. God, he’s so delightful.
Anyway, Hatty’s leaving Damian in London to cast the leading girl, and she’s taking time off work and flying out to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet up with Bettany. She giggled when I asked what she was going to talk to him about. She said she hadn’t the foggiest. ‘I’m really just going there to see if I can buy him dinner,’ she said. ‘And to thank him.’ Ho-hum. Lucky thing.
Fin’s in LA at the moment, of course. I have to admit I toyed with the idea of not mentioning that fact to Hatty. Not sure why. Well. Yes I am. In any case, I did tell her. And she already knew it. She’d just been speaking to him. In fact he’d advised her to check in to the same hotel. ‘If I can’t get Paul Bettany to have dinner with me which I probably can’t…’
‘He’s got a very beautiful wife, by the way,’ I said sourly.
‘Exactly. Which is why Fin and I are almost certainly going to meet up for dinner tomorrow night. He says he’ll take me to the Ivy to cheer me up.’
Fin’s just called to ask where he should buy a new sofabed. He says the one he has in his office is too lumpy, and given how many nights he’s spending in London at the moment (‘with the trains as they are’) he wants to invest in a new one. He says he won’t be coming down to Paradise before Friday again this week.
I decided not to kick up a fuss, mostly because, as Fin cleverly reminded me only this morning, it was my idea to move out to Paradise in the first place.
Doesn’t matter, anyway. Got loads of telly to watch. Plus at some point I seriously ought to do some work. I’m so behind with the novel now it makes me feel sick whenever I think about it. Plus I’ve got an article to write about white wedding dresses (Yes or No?) and, though I distinctly remember injecting enormous amounts of passion into the discussion when the piece was commissioned, I’ve forgotten whether said passion was in favour or against, and since it’s now almost two weeks overdue I’m hesitant to ring up and check. Also, much more excitingly, I have a cunning plan to write a newspaper column all about my strangely adventureless life out here in the sticks. Why not? I’d enjoy it, even if no one else did. It would almost be like having someone to talk to.
Truth is, though, I’ve slightly lost track of my laptop. This has never happened before. In London I used to write on it every weekday, like a normal person with a job to do. Plus I couldn’t survive twenty minutes without checking my e-mail. In fact I virtually slept with the laptop under my pillow. Now I’m not even sure how many days ago it was that I last saw it. So what the hell’s going on?
Might this be a first indication of a new unhurried, unworried persona emerging from my desiccated urban shell? I sincerely hope not, actually. Apart from the rest of it (and I’ll need to make a real effort with the journalism if I’m to keep myself from being buried alive down here) there’s the next novel to be delivered in three and a half months, and pretty much everything I’ve written so far looked like complete drivel, last time I read back. I think I’m going to have to start again.
Computer still not turned up. Ditto the nametags. Where did I put them? Ripley tells me he’s lost his blazer, which I bought new for some incredibly stupid reason, also about forty-five sizes too large, so that it was virtually unwearable anyway. I wrote his name in biro on the label while I was waiting for the bloody nametags to arrive, but now he tells me the label was ‘a bit itchy’ and he cut it out.
£60 down the shit-hole, then.
I wonder if there’s an agency somewhere that will sew people’s nametags in for them? There must be. If I could find my wretched laptop I might be able to find out.
It occurs to me that I haven’t laid eyes on my computer since that peculiar carpenter came round to measure up for bookcases over a week ago. I think he may have snuck it out with him when he left. Which explains a lot, actually. At the time he certainly had me fooled. I even felt a little sorry for him. Now, of course, I’m beginning to wonder if he was actually a carpenter at all.
He spent hours measuring up; literally hours, and then at the end, while he was still blowing gently over a stonecold cup of tea, I asked him, not unreasonably I thought, how long he thought he might need to build the things. And he looked astonished. He looked quite put out. Five minutes passed with him carefully adjusting the position of his mug on the kitchen table, scratching on his fleabites and so on…
Until finally, very, very slowly, he said: ‘Fact ezzz, Madam [Madam!] I can’t say…Not in so many werrds…I wud if I cud, believe me…Much as I’d love if I cud, see…As the saying goes, How long is a piece of string?’
And that was it. Beyond that, however many times I asked, whichever way I phrased the question, he simply refused to be drawn.
I got his name off a card at the launderette, but that’s hardly a solid endorsement, is it? If my laptop doesn’t turn up soon I think I’m going to call the police.
Called the police. Funny. Ten years in Shepherds Bush and I never bothered to contact them once. Three months down here in Paradise and I’ve already got the number for the local station on speed dial. What does that say? Not at all sure, yet. But it must say something, mustn’t it?
I had already explained how I wrote novels and magazine articles and so on, and about Ripley and Dora and the new dog called Mabel, and the move down from London. I’d explained that my husband was originally from Quebec but that he didn’t really speak much French any more. I think I told him about my 2.1 in history, my antipathy to the London Olympics, and about my recently deceased great aunt who was allergic to oysters. So I was on the very point of handing over the carpenter’s name and telephone number—when I spotted my precious laptop, nestling happily beneath a large dictionary on my, er, desk.
Luckily, I managed to get the policeman off the telephone without his suspecting anything. He’s suggested I go down to the station to make an official statement. Which obviously I can’t now, can I?
Shame.
