Chapter 28
To-do list
Complete first of Philippa Perry’s exercises, i.e. unpack the last argument you had and write down all self-critical thoughts
Find out if Phillipa Perry has an app
Look up Philippa Perry’s agent – has she ever she considered a TV show?
Speak to Jacob’s maths tutor to ensure he is following the national curriculum. Also that he can add up
Make trampolining child on Bounce-a-thon flyer look less weird
Sort outfit for forthcoming TV Awards
Book appointments for nails, tan, highlights
Whiten teeth
Charge up all hair removal devices
Buy shape-enhancing body suit
Complete daily ‘Core Crusher’ workouts on Asana Rebel. NO EXCUSES.
COLLAGEN!
DIY living room panelling
Find out where kids are hiding socks
Fix mortgage rate
Descale kettle
The Television Critics Association Awards aren’t as well known as the Baftas but they have some things in common. First, they take the form of a glittering ceremony, in this case in London’s Park Lane, with stars of the small screen flying in from as far afield as LA, Paris and Milton Keynes. Second, everyone in the room desperately wants to win, whatever they say about being honoured just to be nominated. Third, the most eventful parts of the evening tend to happen after the main event.
I’ve been to many an awards do in my time and have all the backstage gossip. I’ve seen famously married showbiz couples suggest threesomes with waiters, newsreaders line up coke on toilet cisterns and – most excitingly – once chased Jupiter from Gladiators down a corridor to tell her she had some loo roll stuck on her high heel. She was suitably grateful.
They are, above all, a lot of fun and certainly the glitzier side of my job. It’s also reassuring to know that, of the plethora of paparazzi in attendance, most rarely have the urge to photograph me. They want Emilia Clarke and Felicity Jones; they want Helen Mirren and whoever it was that took part in the most recent I’m A Celebrity .
Nevertheless, you still want to look good, not least because anonymity is by no means guaranteed. Once, when I was running late for the Baftas, I forgot to shave my underarms, so had to walk round with my hands pinned to my sides like an emperor penguin. Unfortunately, I ended up in the Daily Mail like that after inadvertently standing behind the Duchess of York for a red carpet shot. It only made page 34, but still.
I tell myself that this is the reason I am putting so much preparation into my appearance for this forthcoming date in the calendar. That it has nothing to do with the – as yet unconfirmed – possibility Zach will also be there.
Since our email exchange the week before last, I have gone to great lengths to make it clear that I have not given him a second thought. When we see each other at work, we exchange a curt hello. We’ve had a single meeting together in which I refused to meet his eye. I have managed to avoid any one-to-one contact, unless you count once bumping into him in the coffee shop opposite the office. He offered me a sachet of sugar and I mumbled a ‘no thanks’, before shuffling out as quickly as possible.
If ever my thoughts drift to his muscles and the dimple in his chin while I’m lying in bed at night, I simply whip out the Philippa Perry book and turn my attention to being a better parent instead. My dreams are another matter. I have recently experienced a cornucopia of erotic fantasies involving isolated rockpools on white sandy beaches, the velvet, womblike corners of theatre cloakrooms, the main lift at work and – always, always, always – Zach Russo.
It cannot go on.
But in the meantime, I feel mysteriously compelled to be my best, most polished self at the awards. As nothing in my wardrobe feels quite good enough, I am left with no choice but to go online for a new outfit. It is a frustrating and ultimately fruitless endeavour. I have no idea why Pinterest has taken to suggesting ￡980 blouses to me in its email round-ups; I feel like sending them a copy of my payslip to prove just how screwed up their algorithm is. But the unedifying result is that I now have what my mother would disapprovingly call ‘expensive tastes’. The consequence of this is that I can find nothing I like that’s also in my budget.
I’m starting to despair when Daisy, of all people, makes a suggestion.
‘Why don’t you hire one?’ she says. ‘It’s better for the environment and what everyone our age does when we go somewhere special.’
I’m sceptical at first. I’ve seen no evidence that Daisy goes anywhere special, unless you count the ‘Knit one time, we treated ourselves to a mani-pedi in advance, pretending we were the kind of women who often whiled away half an afternoon on this sort of stuff.
‘I hired a dress on Daisy’s recommendation but it’s going straight back.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Way too revealing.’
She takes a sip of her drink and narrows her eyes. ‘Did you get a pic?’
I click on my phone and hand it over. She looks at it, then up at me.
‘Do not return that,’ Rose says, with a warning tone.
‘Really?’ I say, stunned.
‘Lisa, it’s gorgeous!’ she gushes. ‘You look phenomenal! When did you get abs like that? And your cleavage . . . oh my God. It’s to die for.’
‘It’s just the lighting in my bedroom,’ I mumble, a little taken aback. ‘Though I have been doing this Core Crusher thing . . .’
‘ Wear it ,’ she says, emphatically. ‘Honestly, you must.’
‘Hmm . . . no, I’ve got a long black one I’ve had for a while. I think that will be better. I always feel comfortable in that.’
There’s an ominous silence.
‘Can I be honest?’ she says. ‘That black dress does nothing for you.’
‘Are you serious? That dress is sartorial perfection. Carla Bruni has one just like it.’
‘Well, I can’t speak for her, but it makes you look like you’ve dedicated your life to religious service and contemplation.’
‘Rose!’
‘I’m sorry!’ she leaps in. ‘Look, everything else in your wardrobe is fabulous. Seriously, I’d love a dress sense like yours. But that particular one . . . it’s not terrible by any means. But you’re 47 not 87. You’re still sexy and vibrant. I just cannot allow you to send that gorgeous thing back.’
I sigh and look at it again on the phone. ‘Is this meant to be some sort of tough love?’
‘Exactly!’
‘But it’s so low my bra would show.’
‘You can get bras in all kinds of weird and wonderful shapes these days,’ she argues. ‘Or even just some of those stick-on nipple covers.’
‘Shhhh!’ I hiss, laughing, but mainly concerned that the people on the next table can hear.
It’s only later, after dinner, homework and a text exchange with Jeff about a play date for the kids at the weekend, that I click on my phone. I’m multitasking as usual – simultaneously loading laundry into the washer, as I idly google:
Where can I buy good quality stick-on nipple covers?
I realise my error the moment I hit ‘return’ – but by then it’s too late. A message arrives from Jeff almost immediately.
I don’t know, love – but make sure I’m the first to know when you find out xx