like this. She left me a series of messages in the first twenty-four hours, none of which I responded to. They veered between conciliatory and cross, but none of them made me believe she realized how betrayed I felt. I know there are things I said that were cruel and unnecessary, but this whole catastrophic conflict seems like it’s about so much more than the immediate events. All our lives Alice has held on to being eight minutes older, eight minutes wiser – the twin with the answers. And I’ve let her, because it’s made me feel safe. Loving someone I can’t afford to love with such ludicrous, illogical intensity somehow destroyed the whole edifice we’d built for ourselves. If I could’ve stepped back into line, I would’ve, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be the sister she wants now. A life without her is unimaginable, but too much else is collapsing around my ears for me to be able to pick my way through it. Besides, after that first flurry of phone calls she’s been shockingly silent. Perhaps she really has given up on me.
There’s not remotely enough time for me to lie in bed stroking my chin and sagely reflecting. I’ve spent the few days frantically trying to get hold of Tim Le Grande, with no success. My only hope is persuading him to lever open the crates and lend me those costumes, but his agent won’t let me anywhere near him. Apparently he’s taken the break in filming to oil his aging limbs on a beach in Mustique, not to be disturbed under any circumstances. I begged her to at least pass on the news of Zelda’s death, but she wouldn’t even promise that. I’m trying to run up an approximation of what we had before with the tiny sum of money and sliver of time that’s left, but I fear it’s going to look tawdry and cheap. Which might be entirely fitting, considering the dog’s dinner that Tarquin’s created. Suzanne hated the cut as much as I predicted, and used it to insist that he let her into the edit. Right now there’s a titanic battle of wills going on between the two of them and the execs, but with the level of life, love and death that I’m dealing with off camera I’m finding it hard to engage.
The investigations into the fire are still inconclusive; I can’t work out if Tarquin’s continued hush about the affair is down to anxiety about his part in it, or an unexpected shred of common decency. I’m fairly confident Emily will keep her trap shut unless disseminating the information becomes useful to her again. Right now, with her show-stopping gown burnt to cinders, she needs me more than she ever has. There’s a special on orange corduroy in Walthamstow Market right now and I won’t be afraid to use it.
I’ve convinced myself there’s no reason to panic Charles unnecessarily, but I know my decision not to tell him the secret’s out is largely born of cowardice. I can’t bear more conflict, more upset – not now. He sent a lovely text about Zelda, suggesting a cup of tea, and it took every fibre of moral resolve for me to say no. If I see him I’ll fall straight into his arms, and I’ve vowed that I’m going nowhere near that dangerous embrace unless I can have him on defensible terms. I’ve wanted more than anything to see him these last few days, which has just served to remind me that it has to be the whole cake or nothing at all. It’s so awful not to be able to call the man you love because he’s not actually your man. And even if I did make the SOS call, I know it would never be as simple as that SOS call I made to Ali. I was illogically sure that he’d deliver what I needed from him, however pissed off he was, whereas any interaction with Charles won’t just be about my need for comfort and succour. We’ll inevitably get bogged down in the monumental mess that we’ve managed to cook up for ourselves.
Still, the intermittent texts we’ve swapped have provided a welcome punctuation. I’ve got to go to set today and there’s no denying I’m still thinking too hard about my outfit. Infuriated by my superficiality, haunted by Alice’s vitriol, I punish myself with a pair of dreary, beige trousers. They look like cricket whites and make my