All right. Here we go.

Long story short. I can’t put off writing it any longer. I admit it. I kissed him. Yes, I kissed him and it was fantastic. We were talking and talking and talking and then he brushed a tear from my eyelash and then he took my hand and suddenly we were kissing. And proper kissing, too, a genuinely fully charged tongue-twanging passionate clinch.

Oh my God, I go weak to think of it.

I suppose it went on for a minute or two (maybe three, no more). Just big kissing. He didn’t try to push his luck, which was damn lucky really. He did slowly clasp me more closely to him but not in a gropey way, although my (ahem) breast did end up pressing rather hard against his. I was braless today and in a soft cashmere poloneck and what with him just being in a cotton shirt I could really feel myself against him and him against me. Christ, my heart was pounding. He must have felt it like a bloody sledgehammer.

Anyway, in the end I pulled away. Well, it really was either that or progress further, which would have been terrible! My God, what am I even thinking of? He was ever so good and nice about me wanting to stop (not that I did want to!). He just got up, kissed my forehead gently and said, “If ever you need someone to talk to, I’m one call away. One call” Then he was gone.

Well, work was out of the question after that, so I just staggered home and here I am, reflecting on it all. I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time. Of course I feel guilty but also I can’t deny I feel very exhilarated. But then I think of Cuthbert and my own infertility and feel completely wretched about being excited by a kiss. I do wish life was easier.

It’s a little bit later now and I feel worse. I got to thinking about Sam, you see, and obviously started feeling guilty. Not just about the kiss but also about last night. He suggested writing a screenplay about an infertile couple and I absolutely exploded, which I’m not sure was quite fair. I mean I still hate the idea and if he ever did it I’d kill him, but I think I should have been more sympathetic to his point of view. After all, it’s been me that’s been pressing him to explore his emotions further and use his feelings in his work. I mean obviously I did not mean quite such specific emotions. Him exploiting our most private agonies for easy laughs and cheap emotional stings is out of the question, but I still think I should have been a bit more gentle in rejecting the idea.

By the time he came home I was feeling very loyal to him, in need of his love and in need of showing him mine. I had resolved to demonstrate to him how much I care and to be much closer than I have been of late. Well, it didn’t work, of course. I tried to hold him and to hug him and to bond in both a physical and emotional sense but, surprise, surprise, he just gave me a peck on the cheek and went to his bloody study to brood about his career. If he wants to drive me into the arms of Heathcliff-style Byronic actors then he’s doing a good job.

He didn’t even ask if I’d heard how Cuthbert was.

Dear Sam

I got home and found Lucy all clingy and wanting to talk about the strengths in our relationship. Well I’m sorry but I just can’t do that stuff at the moment. I don’t think she realizes how much my life has been screwed up recently, or if she does realize she doesn’t care. As far as she’s concerned I’m there to offer either affection or sperm as and when she feels she needs it. My worries, my complete humiliation at work, the ignoble end to a career I’ve worked on since leaving university, she sees these things as selfish and unworthy obsessions. Stuff I ought immediately to thrust aside as unimportant when real stuff like our relationship or not having a child comes up.

I mean, for God’s sake! The world doesn’t need any more babies! Millions and millions starve every year, millions more live in a misery of deprivation and abuse. Why don’t a few people start not having babies? Why don’t a few people start living their own lives, fulfilling their own destinies? That’s what I say. Being childless Lucy and I have a unique opportunity. We’re young(ish); we’re fit; we have a dual income (for now); we could be doing anything! Learn to fly a plane, walk to the source of the Andes, save the rainforests, get completely arseholed in the pub every night, anything. Yet all we do, all Lucy cares about is trying to have a baby.

I suppose the truth is that I’m lying to myself because I want us to have one too. It may not be all I care about, but it’s what I care about most.

Poor Lucy. She only wanted me to show her that I love her and my God I do love her. I love her and fancy her so much. That night on Primrose Hill was just magical, even though it didn’t work.

It’s just that I’m not very expressive, I suppose.

Bugger everything.

Dear Penny

Melinda rang at seven o’clock this morning. It’s not meningitis. They don’t know what it is but it’s definitely not meningitis. I’m so happy for her because it would have been almost unbearable. Cuthbert’s going to have to stay in for a while under observation but he’s really rallied and Melinda sounds like the entire universe has been removed from her shoulders.

I told Sam and he said, “Oh great, that’s absolutely brilliant, I mean really wonderful news, fantastic,” but after a minute he went back to looking at the media appointments section of the Guardian.

Anyway, when I got to the office today Sheila said, “What’s happened to Sam? Have you been injecting him with monkey glands or something?”

I had no idea what she was talking about but I soon found out. On my desk there were a dozen red roses and the card attached said, “You’re beautiful and I must have you.”

That is honestly what it said. “You’re beautiful and I must have you.”

I mean, it was there for all to see. No wonder Sheila presumed it must be Sam. I mean, for someone to leave a message like that, open, for all to see, he’s got to be pretty confident of his ground, hasn’t he? I must have gone a red so deep it would have been visible in Australia. Sheila spotted my confusion, of course.

“Unless it isn’t from Sam,” she said wickedly.

“Oh no!” I said, far too loudly. “They’re from Sam. We’ve had a row. I expect he’s trying to make up. How embarrassing.”

I’m so angry I could… Well, I don’t know what I could do, but honestly! I mean all right, yes, I kissed Carl Phipps. In fact it could even possibly be suggested that I snogged him, which was very very wrong of me, but that does not give him the right to start making public requests for intercourse, does it? Surely not? I mean I’m a married woman! What’s more, it’s the appalling arrogance. I mean the swine is so damn sure of himself. He’s so used to the amorous fantasies of stupid little fans that he just presumes he can get his leg over whoever he likes. It’s horrible.

I mean yes, I admit it, I fancy him, he’s gorgeous. But this is too much. The moment Sheila went out for her cigarettes (she had four with her first cup of coffee, four, it’s quite incredible), I phoned him at home.

“Yo,” said his answerphone (yes, “Yo”, gruesome), “the Phipps man here. I’m either out, busy or too shagged out to pick up the phone. If it’s about work then you can call my people” (my people! That’s us!), “on 0171, etc… Or if it’s about stuff in LA you could talk to Annie on 213, etc… If it’s about New York you could call William Morris on 212, etc… Otherwise, hey, do that message stuff after the beep thing.”

Well, having sat through that, I’d had plenty of time to prepare myself.