me to contemplate how different this job is from the work hard/play hard assignments of yore. Quite apart from the twin stresses of the dwindling budget and the lusciousness of the leading man, being the boss is starting to get to me. Natural authority doesn’t seem to come naturally, which is why I was perfectly happy as second-in-command.
Alice and I don’t even bother to leave the house for the rest of the day. Instead we veg out on the sofa watching Dirty Dancing, with Alice trying to persuade me that there’s a case for texting Richard. My admission that the Valentine’s card was a case of mistaken identity leaves her gutted, but I need to do whatever it takes to persuade her to steer clear. I distract her with the vicarious thrill of Ali turning up on the doorstep, and then suffer her badgering me to go on the date I’m determined to cancel.
‘Oh, go on, Lulu, what have you got to lose?’
She’s right, of course, but I’m stupidly fearful that I’ll sit opposite him feeling nothing because he’s not Charles. I can’t stand how sad that’ll be, how trapped I’ll feel by an infatuation that cannot bear fruit. I come so close to telling her everything, but I don’t want to pass on the melancholia that’s plaguing me. Much better I nip it in the bud in private.
‘Maybe,’ I say neutrally. ‘But what do I do? Admit that I lied to him or carry on undercover?’
‘You could give one date a go, see if you like him, and if you do come clean. That way you can see if he’s some kind of authoritarian fascist before you risk it. You deserve some fun, Lulu, you’re working your arse off.’
‘I guess I could counter-claim that he stalked me,’ I say, gradually persuading myself until I’m struck by an image of Charles’s hand gently reaching towards my face. ‘Oh, I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Why are you being so stubborn?’ says Alice, understandably exasperated.
‘It’ll be bad enough pretending I’m you, without the added complication of us then having virtually the same name. And can any good come out of a relationship built on a tissue of lies?’
And there’s Charles again, doggedly invading my mental space. A tissue of lies is the only possible basis we could spring from, which is what makes it a non-starter. Besides, my strong moral code would never allow it. I might have to retreat to bed with a shot of bromide, three Hail Marys and the Girl Guide handbook.
‘Stop being so melodramatic,’ counters Alice. ‘He might find it funny. He might even get off on having had so much power over you at the outset.’
‘Yeah, cos that’d be a good sign,’ I shout, heading upstairs to brush my teeth.
Sunday doesn’t remotely resemble a day of rest. I spend the whole day working on designs while Alice takes off to the cinema with Jenna. Time alone simply doesn’t suit me and soon I’m feeling royally sorry for myself again. My belief is that Sundays should be spent gaily romping through parks with a devoted man and a well-kempt Red Setter, despite the fact I’ve never achieved anything remotely approaching that level of carefree romantic optimism. My Sundays with Steve would most likely involve a drunken lunch with his scary professional friends, in which I’d end up feeling like a pointless curiosity – one step up from a hirsute potter in a self-knitted beret. Now I find myself pining to spend Sunday with another woman’s husband, while an available hottie goes to waste. Suitably chastened by my internal lecture, I send Ali a text. Of course, it’s not that simple. What I actually do is agonize for a good half hour about what to send, and then call Alice.
‘I’m so glad,’ she yelps. ‘And, Lulu, Richard texted me. We’re going for a drink on Tuesday, so it wasn’t a disaster after all.’
‘Great,’ I say, aiming my voice upwards. I can’t risk saying anything else, so I plough on with my dilemma. ‘How’s this: Good to see you last night. If the dinner invitation was for real, I’d love to accept.’
‘Oh no, Lulu,’ says Jenna.
‘Sorry, I’m driving, should’ve said you were on loudspeaker,’ chips in Alice. ‘I think that sounds great.’
‘No, no, no,’ chants Jenna, North London’s self-appointed answer to Barbara Cartland. ‘It should be more playful. How about: Hi, Ali, I’d love you to take me, full stop, for dinner, exclamation mark.’
Where to start? ‘Exclamation marks are the scourge