‘Well, I think you are incredibly brave.’ That is my therapist, Bianca. I’ve just told her how terrified I am. That even going to the supermarket makes me nervous. That when I took myself for a mini break at the Bull Inn in Totnes, Nic had to put me and Mini Puppy on the train at Darlington, as I was scared Mini would fall onto the tracks.
During my stay, instead of going to the beach, I would take Mini to an area of grass (a ‘community’ square, with a big sign saying, ‘No dogs’) a few feet from my apartment, then hurry back inside to watch the women’s football. I read Yellowface on my balcony in one day, but even that made me scared, its tale of being found out, failing as a writer.
‘How have you managed to achieve so much in your career?’ she asks me, incredulous. I agree the two don’t add up. I reached an earthquake zone in Kashmir by hitching a lift with the United States Air Force, saw children with gangrene. I’ve been to the largest refugee camp in the world, in Somalia, seen babies starving.
I’ve stood in a town square in Ethiopia, in 40-degree heat, threatening to fight men who refused to take the 20-stone loads of grain from the backs of tiny donkeys, or even give their charges water. I hosted a body image summit with the then Labour government, sent a letter to every glossy magazine editor asking for them to stop using children on their pages instead of real, grown women, only to receive in return a round robin telling me in effect to get stuffed. I’ve been sent to attend the post-Oscars Vanity Fair party, without even a ticket. It’s been hard.
‘How have you done it?’ Bianca asks me, aghast. ‘I also see from your writing that you are all about the truth, no matter how uncomfortable or embarrassing. You want women to know they are not the only ones to be cheated on, to grow old. Whose family hates them.’
‘You want to know why?’ I say.
‘I don’t want to be sacked. So I push boundaries. I write about stuff I never thought I would. I never spare myself. Or others.
I put the copy first, not anyone else, not even myself. I’m brave because I’m afraid.’
‘That’s a hard way to live,’ she says. ‘I’m a fast writer, too,’ I go on. ‘I could be given 30 minutes to file 800 words on Meghan’s new product launch, and I do it.’
‘Does that bring satisfaction?’
‘The moment I’ve filed, am told, “It’s brilliant”, I think, “Yes!” Like an Olympian who has come first in a race. But then, just like an athlete, I look at the scoreboard. I wait for a proof, a headline, the analytics to find out how well my piece has done over the coming days. The elation is fleeting.’
‘Then how do we make that elation last longer, capitalise on it? What used to make you happy, how did you reward yourself?’
‘After, say, that trip to the Oscars, I knew I’d return home to my lovely house. I would buy things. Go out for expensive meals in fancy places. I was always in Selfridges.’
She laughs. I’ve always loved films with gorgeous houses: Single White Female, Panic Room. Never mind Jodie Foster is about to be murdered, look at that staircase! I’m enjoying the new season of And Just Like That… purely because of Carrie’s new duplex.
I’m feeling more ‘me’ now I’m in the vicarage. I currently have boxes and boxes of oak parquet, waiting to be fitted over the paint-splattered concrete floor. I sit in my white walled terrace, surrounded by green foliage and white blooms (I’m not a fan of colour) and congratulate myself on getting this far, rebuilding a lovely home. But I want to show it off, share it.
‘You must learn to be happy single. Take care of yourself, put on make-up, exude positivity and joy. Smile.’
I tell Bianca I heard that even if you force a smile, the effect on your brain is like thousands of bars of chocolate. Also, smiling is better than Botox for making you appear more attractive. And so I comb my transplanted eyebrows and tell myself, ‘This is enough. I don’t need a man, or anyone.’
Bianca really does now seem like a close friend, so I send her a photo of the German. ‘Not sure any woman could resist someone that suave,’ she replies. ‘To new chapters.’
But you know what? Here’s an uncomfortable truth. Every morning I peek at my phone, hoping he has got back in touch…
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Scammers. I got the following text: ‘Gov Penalty Charge Notice. You have an outstanding parking ticket, and you may face prosecution.’ It’s from a mobile number. I reply: ‘I don’t own a car, numbnuts.’
