to plan the hair and wardrobe — yes, they could have the candy-striped trews they saw in Vogue and yes, they would go with those scoop-necked tops. OK, high-necked if they preferred. And the new season's boots, well, obviously — then I continue. 'The Burberry bags have been marked down and you've bought yourself two . No, no wait, you haven't bought yourself any because who wants a bag that no one else wants? No, you got a bonus at work and you bought yourself an Orla Kiely that there was a waiting list for and you're just back from a sun holiday where you caught jaundice so not only are you rake-skinny, but you've a lovely colour. His car has just been clamped, it's pelting rain and one of his shoes has been stolen by a vicious inner-city fox.' Etc., etc. It's my attention to detail which people rate me for, I'm told, and when Anton ran off with Lily, it was a case of fantasist heal thyself.
The scenario I'd comforted myself with involved escaping to some remote rural Mills & Boon community. Beside the sea, naturally; some fantastically wild sea with big waves and surf and spray and the whole lot. I'd go for long, mad walks along the sea or the cliffs and while I was out tramping along gloomily, some hunky farmer would spot me and, even though I hadn't had my roots done for ages, he'd take a shine to me. Of course, he wasn't just a farmer, he was also a film director or a former entrepreneur who'd sold his innovative company for millions. I'd have an ethereal fragile quality about me, but because I was so wounded I'd be rude to him in the village shop when he tried to be nice to me. However, instead of calling me a stupid bitch, like he would in real life, and recommencing his fling with the village floozie, he'd take to leaving two fresh eggs on my doorstep in the morning. I'd get back from my four-mile stomp along the cliff to find the eggs — still warm from the hens, of course — waiting for my breakfast. (And never mind that my breakfast would normally consist of a mini-Magnum and three bowls of sugarpuffs.) I'd make a delicious omelette, with some wild parsley snipped from the garden that came with the house. Or else he'd leave a freshly picked, hand-gathered bouquet of wild flowers, and the next time I met him I wouldn't sneer, 'Do Interflora not deliver out here, then?' Instead, I'd thank him and say that buttercups were my favourite flowers. (As if.) At some stage I'd end up in his kitchen where I'd see him tenderly feeding a tiny lamb from a baby's bottle and my heart would begin its long overdue thaw. Until one morning, when I was out on my hike, a piece of the cliff would dislodge itself, taking me with it. There had been warnings about the unstable cliff edges, but in my death-wish state I'd discounted them. Somehow the hunky farmer would have seen me toppling over into the briny and he'd come with his tractor and ropes and rescue me from the little ledge I'd fortuitously landed on.
Bosh. Happy Ever After land.
6
TO [email protected]
FROM Gemma 343@ hotmail.com
SUBJECT non-stop drama.
Wait till you hear. Last night I was in bed, comforting myself with the film director-farmer fantasy when I heard a noise coming from Mam's room. Some sort of bump, then she was calling piteously, 'Gemma, Gemma.' Like this - Ddgemmmmaaah ddgemmmaaah... so I pelted into her and she was turned on her side, writhing like a dying haddock and said, 'My heart' (So people really do say that in the real world) 'I'm having a heart attack.'
I believed her - she was grey, her chest was heaving and her eyes bulged. I grabbed the bedside phone so hard it fell on the floor.
It's the weirdest thing, making a 999 call - I'd only ever done it once before Anton had had badly bad hiccups and I'd been very drunk. (Actually, so had he, it was the reason for his hiccups) We'd tried everything to stop them, cold key down his back, drinking from the wrong side of the glass, looking at his bank statement to see just how overdrawn he
The scenario I'd comforted myself with involved escaping to some remote rural Mills & Boon community. Beside the sea, naturally; some fantastically wild sea with big waves and surf and spray and the whole lot. I'd go for long, mad walks along the sea or the cliffs and while I was out tramping along gloomily, some hunky farmer would spot me and, even though I hadn't had my roots done for ages, he'd take a shine to me. Of course, he wasn't just a farmer, he was also a film director or a former entrepreneur who'd sold his innovative company for millions. I'd have an ethereal fragile quality about me, but because I was so wounded I'd be rude to him in the village shop when he tried to be nice to me. However, instead of calling me a stupid bitch, like he would in real life, and recommencing his fling with the village floozie, he'd take to leaving two fresh eggs on my doorstep in the morning. I'd get back from my four-mile stomp along the cliff to find the eggs — still warm from the hens, of course — waiting for my breakfast. (And never mind that my breakfast would normally consist of a mini-Magnum and three bowls of sugarpuffs.) I'd make a delicious omelette, with some wild parsley snipped from the garden that came with the house. Or else he'd leave a freshly picked, hand-gathered bouquet of wild flowers, and the next time I met him I wouldn't sneer, 'Do Interflora not deliver out here, then?' Instead, I'd thank him and say that buttercups were my favourite flowers. (As if.) At some stage I'd end up in his kitchen where I'd see him tenderly feeding a tiny lamb from a baby's bottle and my heart would begin its long overdue thaw. Until one morning, when I was out on my hike, a piece of the cliff would dislodge itself, taking me with it. There had been warnings about the unstable cliff edges, but in my death-wish state I'd discounted them. Somehow the hunky farmer would have seen me toppling over into the briny and he'd come with his tractor and ropes and rescue me from the little ledge I'd fortuitously landed on.
Bosh. Happy Ever After land.
6
TO [email protected]
FROM Gemma 343@ hotmail.com
SUBJECT non-stop drama.
Wait till you hear. Last night I was in bed, comforting myself with the film director-farmer fantasy when I heard a noise coming from Mam's room. Some sort of bump, then she was calling piteously, 'Gemma, Gemma.' Like this - Ddgemmmmaaah ddgemmmaaah... so I pelted into her and she was turned on her side, writhing like a dying haddock and said, 'My heart' (So people really do say that in the real world) 'I'm having a heart attack.'
I believed her - she was grey, her chest was heaving and her eyes bulged. I grabbed the bedside phone so hard it fell on the floor.
It's the weirdest thing, making a 999 call - I'd only ever done it once before Anton had had badly bad hiccups and I'd been very drunk. (Actually, so had he, it was the reason for his hiccups) We'd tried everything to stop them, cold key down his back, drinking from the wrong side of the glass, looking at his bank statement to see just how overdrawn he
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