Actually I think I’m going to be sick.

I just spoke to Lucy, which I’m really glad about. I’d just been thinking how much I missed her when she phoned. It was so nice. I haven’t heard her as affectionate in ages. I suppose she was feeling the same way I was. It’s not often we’re apart.

I really am a lucky man. A lucky, lucky man. I just don’t deserve a girl like Lucy, she’s beautiful and funny and interesting and I’m just a git. In fact I’m worse than a git. I’m a bastard, a deceiving bastard, because I’ve already betrayed her trust over my movie script, and now I’m planning a second and even greater betrayal that I can hardly bear to think about, let alone write.

I hope I didn’t sound like I’d had a drink.

Dear Penny

Well, it’s been a week since the night I choose not to mention and I feel a bit better about it all. The weird thing of feeling guilty and frustrated isn’t easy to deal with because there’s no doubt that I do like Carl and in another world I could easily see myself with him but I’ve been really trying to push these thoughts from my mind because I’m absolutely committed to my love for Sam and there’s an end to it. In fact we’re really getting on at the moment. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s doing this IVF thing or perhaps I’m making more of an effort because of “you know what”, but we do seem to be happy together.

I think it’s partly Sam, actually. He seems very positive about things and about himself, which is quite a change from the way he’s been, well, for years really. It’s very nice.

I’ve been sniffing my drugs every night. This way of pumping them up your nose is all right, but it does mean that you go to bed making the most appalling honking snorts. I can’t believe Sam can still fancy me, although he assures me he does. It doesn’t matter anyway at the moment because sex is now out for us. I think theoretically we’re still allowed to do it but I don’t feel like it. These weird hormonal drugs are taking effect, I expect. That and concentrating everything on the big day.

Dear Self

Lucy is snorting and honking like a pig in bed, poor thing. It’s these drugs she’s taking up her nose. I’ve had to come through into the spare room, which is where I’m writing this. To be honest I don’t think I’ll get much sleep anyway. You see, I’ve finally made my big decision.

I’m going to read Lucy’s book.

I have to if I want this script to be as good as it can be. If I want to have any chance at all of it having genuine heart and soul then the heroine’s voice must be authentic. I’m sure I could get it right in the end on my own, if I had time. I could talk to Lucy, coax it out of her. I’ve already used lots of her lines. There was one about telling a doctor to sit on a traffic cone and see if he could relax that I put in only today. But you see I don’t have time. This script is hot now. It’s coming together now and I have to finish it.

I mean Lucy would want me to get the woman right, wouldn’t she? Of course she would.

I tried taking a look tonight while she was in the bath. I felt like a thief, which of course is what I am. The damn thing was locked, of course. She’s got one of those leatherbound journals from W. H. Smith. It’d be easy enough to pick but I might break it and then the game would be up. What I must do is go and buy another one. I’m certain that all the keys are the same. They only cost about a fiver.

I feel terrible about this, but what can I do? If I don’t blow it, within six months or so I could have my own movie. The ultimate dream of every single wannabe writer on the planet. Courage, Sam. You have no choice.

Dear Penny

I went into Spannerfield today for a check-up. It seems the sniffing business is not moving fast enough, so they’re going to switch me over to injections, just shallow ones in the leg, which I can do myself, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

There was a lady waiting there who’s on her sixth cycle! I felt so sorry for her. She’s from the Middle East and it’s terribly important to her to have a child. I think the pressure on women is greater in some cultures. At least I don’t have to put up with that! Christ, some men can be bastards, as if a woman doesn’t have to deal with enough sadness when she can’t conceive without a load of pressure and guilt from her husband.

In so many ways I’m lucky with Sam, apart from loving him, that is, which goes without saying. He really is very gentle and supportive in his own way and he certainly never puts me under any pressure. I’ve asked him to give up the booze completely, by the way, in order to get his sperm into tip-top condition. I thought he’d sulk but he’s been very nice about it. He said it didn’t bother him at all.

Dear etc.

Damn, blast and bollocks. I hate being off the booze. Somebody had a leaving do today and I had to drink Coke. It’s surprisingly difficult to kick the sauce. You say to yourself, “It can’t be so hard, I’ll just take a month off,” but then suddenly Trevor’s having a dinner party and you have to drink for that. Then there’s the pub dominos team reunion coming up and you have to drink for that. And of course you’re having beans on toast in front of the telly tonight, and you can’t not have a drink with that.

Ah well. I’m going to stick with it. I love Lucy and I’m not going to let her down, particularly now that I’m actively planning to deceive her. My local Smith’s was out of Lucy’s type of journal today and I didn’t have time to go further afield, but I’ll do it tomorrow. My resolve is hardening. Lucy is being ever so nice to me at the moment as well, which doesn’t make betraying her any easier. We seem to have entered a new stage of affection. Perhaps it’s the treatment. Apparently it plays havoc with a woman’s hormones. Well, that is, after all, the point. Also I imagine Lucy is feeling quite emotional because there is now the actual, real possibility that the treatment will work and in a couple of months’ time we’ll be on our way to becoming parents. My God, imagine that. We’ve got so used to just presuming upon the inevitability of Lucy’s periods that this is a thought that takes some adjusting to. I always stress how small the chances are when I’m talking to Lucy because I don’t want her to be too disappointed, but I suppose it could happen! And what then?!

I got a taste of it today actually. George and Melinda brought Cuthbert round for tea. He’s crawling now, that is when he can find a moment in his busy shrieking, shitting and vomiting schedule. My God, that lad can puke. There seems to be a constant flow of milky vom emanating from his mouth. I mean he doesn’t hurl it, not often anyway. It’s not as if he’s coating the furniture or anything, it’s just always there, sort of falling from his toothless gums. Which of course means that eventually he does coat the furniture because everywhere he goes, and he can get about a bit these days, he pushes his face against things, leaving a stomach-turning slimy, milky, gobby patch behind him. I’ve seen it on George’s shoulder many a time. It’s as if a large and angry seagull hovers permanently above him, waiting for him to put on a decent suit.

Cuthbert also broke a model of a Lancaster bomber I made when I was ill last year and had painted with meticulous care. The model (which I admit was a kit, but a bloody difficult kit) was perfect in every detail. I even sent to Germany for the authentic eggshell blue paint for the underside. Ironic, isn’t it? That you have to send to Germany to get the right paint for a Lancaster bomber. They’re a big modelling nation, of course, and let’s face it, in the end they did win the war. Anyway, I’d thought that I’d put the model way out of reach. “Everything precious three feet off the ground,” Lucy had warned me, but Cuthbert seems to have an extension section in the middle, like a dining room table. Out of the blue he can suddenly reach twice his physical length. You don’t see it happen. You don’t know anything about it until there’s an unholy screaming. Then you turn to see him surrounded by glass or china or in this case plastic (he’d sort of rolled himself on it, crushing it totally), at which point you have to comfort him! It’s unbelievable. I mean, he didn’t spend a week making it, did he?