Dear Sam

I’ve read the rest of Lucy’s book now and it’s wonderful. Just what I’d hoped for and exactly what I need. It’s stuffed with really funny thoughts and poignant bits. Quite difficult for me to read, of course, since I’m the butt of most of her barbs, but in the end I don’t feel that I come off too badly. I felt very guilty reading it and not just because it’s so wrong to be doing so but also because it’s clear that I haven’t always been as attentive to Lucy as I should have been. I’ll definitely try to be more sensitive to her needs from now on. Perhaps the appalling revelation of her near infidelity is what the Americans term “a wake-up call” and the pain I’m feeling will serve a purpose. I’m not one for fatalism but perhaps I was meant to find out about what so nearly happened so that I can work harder on my marriage before it’s too late.

Anyway, I’ve copied out loads of good stuff from Lucy’s book and really feel that I can get down to finishing the script. Obviously I’ll give Lucy some kind of co-writing credit, depending on how much of her stuff I use. That’ll of course mean telling her, which clearly I shall have to do anyway in the end. Oh Christ, how am I going to do that?

Dear Penny

Sam came with me to the hospital today to pick up all the needles and drugs for the next series of injections.

The last couple of days have been uncomfortable for me, but not everything has been negative. Since the other night when he went all moody Sam has been very loving towards me. He’s really making an effort, for which I’m very grateful as IVF does make me feel low. The fact that it seems to be bringing out the best in Sam is a great help. He’s also got very enthusiastic about his work, which is a huge relief for me as his negativity had got very wearing. I must say I can’t quite see what the enthusiasm is based on. We listened to a bit of Charlie Stone’s show this morning on our way to Spannerfield and it struck me as being about the most puerile thing I’ve ever heard. I said so and Sam agreed with me, so I asked him how he’d managed to get so absorbed in it. He said that he had things in the pipeline. I definitely get the impression that there’s something Sam isn’t telling me, but I don’t mind. He’s allowed his secrets. After all, I have mine. Looking back I can scarcely believe that episode with Carl ever happened. How could I have been so stupid? To so nearly throw away everything I have. I feel particularly strongly about that now that we’re really moving on with the IVF. Could it work? Will we be parents soon? I try not to let myself hope too much, but I can’t help it.

Sam

I’m filling in the final details on the IVF part of the script now. Well not the final detail – I still can’t decide about the ending – but I’m very pleased with the way I’ve dramatized the process. Ewan is delighted, too, as are the rest of the team. We had an excellent meeting at his house this evening. His wife Morag made us a fabulous dinner and was very interesting about the script. She’s one of those uniquely Scottish beauties, almost eerily white with green eyes, a hint of pale freckles and a great mane of strawberry-blonde hair. Quite gorgeous. Not a patch on Lucy, though. Well, let’s face it, no woman is. It’s probably an awful thing to admit, but I think the terrible shock about Phipps has sort of reminded me of how beautiful Lucy is. I mean of course I knew anyway, but maybe I’d begun to take it for granted. I think being brought up sharp against the fact that other men fancy her has rocked my complacency a bit and shown me how lucky I am.

I really really do love Lucy. More than ever, I think. And that’s not because of how much she’s improved my script, although let’s face it she has.

Ewan laughed and laughed at the new stuff. Particularly the business about the injections. The surprising thing was how excited he was at the thought of being able to put a needle on the screen that wasn’t full of heroin. He seems to think that this in itself is an incredibly original idea.

“So liberating,” he said. “Hasn’t been done in years. Although it did cross my mind that we might be missing out on some comedy here. What if somehow the IVF drugs got mixed up with Colin’s drugs stash and Rachel injected that instead? Could be big laughs.”

Instantly I sensed some confusion. A fundamental misunderstanding, in fact. I said that the idea would be great apart from the tiny fact that my character Colin doesn’t take drugs.

Ewan was genuinely surprised at this. “He doesn’t?”

At first he thought I was joking, but I managed to persuade him that I wasn’t.

“That is fascinating,” he said. “And that business about the arse injections, about you practising on an orange, that’s actually true, is it?”

I assured him that it was. In fact Lucy and I were doing it only yesterday. Ewan turned to George and Trevor, who were attending the meeting, and commented on the extraordinary idea of grown men and women having to actually be taught how to use a hypodermic needle. George and Trevor assumed suitably sympathetic expressions of surprise that there could be such naivety. What a couple of idiots! Trevor knows about needles because of Kit’s various health crises, but both of them would run a mile from hard drugs. Trevor may have had an E at some point and he and Kit certainly smoke grass, but that’s it. George is strictly a Scotch and beer man. What suburban souls we must be.

Dear Penny

Well, Sam administered his first injection into my bum this evening. He had his last practice try on an orange and then prepared to go for the real thing. All I could say was what I had been saying ever since we first saw the bloody things at the hospital, which was, “That fucking needle is four inches long.” I mean honestly the damn things are not needles at all, not in any normal sense. More like spears or lances. They belong in a museum of military history. The doctor explained that they have to be like that because the purpose is to administer an inter-muscular injection. I said, “That fucking needle is four inches long.”

Ewan is anxious to know all the details about the process, which I think is healthy. I explained to him that the inter-muscular injection introduces a hormonal drug, which provokes the female subject into a sort of hyper-ovulation, producing far more eggs than is natural. It is, of course, physically intrusive and rather upsetting. Quite aside from having a four-inch-long needle stuck into your arse.

Ewan was sympathetic about this and Morag, who was sitting in on the meeting, nodded vigorously.

“Exactly,” said Ewan. “This is a crucial scene, a crucial image. Actually, I think we should call the picture My Arse Is an Orange.”

To my dismay there was a lot of enthusiastic nodding at this from Nigel, Justin and Petra. Even Morag (whom I had thought seemed sensible) murmured that it was a “brilliant idea”. I felt rather alone but nonetheless tried to fight my corner.

“Yes, brilliant idea, except that the film is called Inconceivable.”

“Oh, aye, at the moment,” said Ewan casually.

I turned to George and Trevor for support, but they just stared at the bowl of Kettle Chips.

Anyway, the deed had to be done. Sam looked as nervous as I was as he filled up the ghastly weapon with the ampoules of hormone solution, tapping the damn thing to make sure all the air was out. If you don’t get rid of the air, apparently it can kill you. How nice.

“Are you ready?” he said.

“That fucking needle is four inches long.”

“And it’s not going to get any shorter,” Sam said. “Drop ’em.”