And so that was it. Up went the skirt, down came the knickers and there I was bent over the bed like a condemned woman with Sam hovering at my arse end with a spear in his hand. Most undignified. I could feel Sam drawing an imaginary cross on my right buttock with his sterilizing swab. Upper outside quarter is the rule. That way there is less chance of skewering a major nerve centre and rendering the patient paralysed. Very comforting, I must say. One, two, three, and in he plunged. You have to do it all in one easy movement, holding the needle like a pen or a dart. I must say he did it very well, I hardly felt a thing until he depressed the plunger and pumped in the hormone solution, which wasn’t very nice, but bearable.

I must say Sam looked quite pale when I came up for air. He said he felt he’d earned a drink, but that of course he wouldn’t have one. He said it nicely, as a joke. I really think this whole business is bringing us closer together.

Later on, after we’d all left the Proclaimers’ house, I turned on Trevor and George for not helping me defend my title.

“Oh, come on, Sam,” said George. “It’s a pun, for Christ’s sake. Inconceivable is just a rather poor pun. Surely after all the years we’ve spent at TV Centre deleting crap puns you don’t expect me to defend one now.”

George can be a hurtful bastard when he wants to be.

“You liked it before,” I said.

“Oh yes, before,” he said airily. Yes, before a fashionable young director with a three-picture deal in Los Angeles said he didn’t like it. God, I never thought George could be so spineless. We’re all caught in the headlights of fashion and fame.

I’m going to sleep now. Sam’s still at the dressing table doing his book. It’s amazing the way he’s come round to the whole thing. I wonder if he’ll ever let me read it. I’d never ask because that wouldn’t be fair, but I’d love to have a look. Maybe one day when we’re both feeling very secure in our love. Of course I could never let Sam read mine, not unless I removed the Carl Phipps entries. Like Stalin rewriting history.

I must be sure to lock my journal very carefully. I found it open in the drawer today, so I must have forgotten to lock it last night, although I can’t think how, I always check. Perhaps I didn’t turn the key the whole way. Oh well, lucky Sam didn’t find it open. He might not have been able to resist a read. Actually I think that’s unfair. I think he’d do the right thing. I’m not sure if I would.

After the disagreement over the title, which I think I won, we got back to discussing the hypodermic scene. Nigel was not sure about the “You might feel a bit of a prick” line, which I was appalled at because it’s one of my favourite lines. I also think that objections on the grounds of taste are pretty rich coming from a man who virtually ordered me to make sure there were more sheep-shagging gags on our Saturday variety shows.

Of course I admit it’s pretty broad humour, but the whole scene is meant to be a bit over the top. It’s a big comedy moment. Colin is bending over Rachel with the needle (which should be funny in itself if they get a decent actor) and he says that the nurse had told him that as long as he does it quickly and confidently it won’t hurt, so he jabs it in, she screams and he faints. Brilliant stuff, I think, and Ewan loved it.

Anyway, when Colin comes round Rachel says, “The nurse said it was me who was meant to feel a bit of a prick,” which I think is a very strong line. I mean it’s good to give the girl some rude, earthy lines. Quite feminist, I think.

Nigel just said he didn’t think it was funny and George, damn him, said it was a very old joke and a pun to boot.

Anyway, I was just getting all heated and defensive as we writers do when Ewan really alarmed me by saying, “It doesn’t matter, anyway, we won’t be hearing the dialogue. I always play thrash metal music over my injection scenes. It’s a personal motif. I’m known for it. Have you ever heard of a Boston grunge band called One-Eyed Trouser Snake? They’d be perfect.”

A bit worrying, that, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Everyone knows that in movies the writer is lower than the make-up girl’s cat.

Anyway, then Nigel asked Ewan if he’d given any thought to casting.

“Well, the girl’s what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” Ewan replied.

I quickly interjected that in fact I’d been thinking early thirties and unbelievably Ewan just laughed! He could see he’d shocked me, so he tried to explain himself.

“Look, Sam. I think we’ll need to be pretty non-specific about the girl’s age. I mean obviously we’re not looking at teenage waifs but she’s got to be vaguely shaggable, for Christ’s sake. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll accept anything from an old-looking twenty-one-year-old to a young-looking twenty-eight.”

I couldn’t reply. His pragmatism (I might almost say cynicism) had temporarily rendered me speechless. There was worse to come.

“What about the man?” Nigel asked.

“I was thinking in terms of Carl Phipps,” Ewan replied.

I can’t write any more tonight. All I can say is that it’ll be over my dead body.

Dear Penny

I saw Carl Phipps again today for the first time since what I think we must describe as “that night”. It was a bit of a shock. I knew it would happen soon but I still didn’t find it easy. I mean it’s not as if I’ve suddenly stopped fancying him or liking him just because I’ve decided I must not do anything about it. Anyway, I don’t know if he was as flustered as I was because we avoided each other’s eye. He’d come in to talk to Sheila about a movie script that’s come through. It’s small-budget, mainly BBC money, but Sheila thinks it’s interesting.

“It’s a pretty funny script,” she said, “although it hasn’t got an end yet for some reason. I’ve never heard of the author, but Ewan Proclaimer’s slated to direct and you can’t get any hotter than him.”

Carl enquired what the theme was and you could have knocked me down with a feather when Sheila said infertility.

“It’s absolutely the theme of the moment,” she said. “Lucy you’re our expert on the subject. Would you like to cast an eye over this script for us? Tell Carl what you think.”

I wonder if there’s a scientific name for the depth of the colour of red I must have gone.

“No thanks,” I replied with as much dignity as I could. “I can get all that at home.”

Dear Sam

We held auditions today for Rachel, which was very exciting and also most disconcerting since the casting director has definitely erred on the lower end of Ewan’s age range. The venue was a church hall near Goodge Street on the Tottenham Court Road. Ewan sat behind a long trestle table with Petra, also a PA with blue hair and an earnest-looking young man with a ponytail who is to be the second assistant director. George and I slunk around at the back trying not to ogle the actresses too much. Trevor had come down but had left again; he said he found me and George too sickening. George as usual could not resist doing battle.

“Look, Trevor, when I fancy a girl I just look at her. I don’t try and shag her behind a tree on Hampstead Heath.”

“We don’t all do that,” Trevor replied. He really will have to learn not to rise to it.

Ewan was getting the girls to read one of Rachel’s speeches, which I had basically lifted straight out of Lucy’s book. It’s from the bit where she tried a guided fantasy. Wonderful stuff. There were a couple of actresses who made it sound absolutely marvellous.

“‘I mean, why the hell should I have to imagine a baby? Why can’t I just have one! Far less nice people than me have lots. I know that’s a wicked thing to say but I know I’d be a better mum than half the women I see letting their children put sweets in the trolley at Sainsbury’s… I’d read my child Beatrix Potter and Winnie the Pooh and the only glue it would ever get involved with would be flour and water for making collages.’”