It wasn’t easy getting over him or coming to terms with what happened to me, but thank goodness I had Carl. Carl has been a true and loving friend and has seen me through the most difficult time of my life. I don’t think I could have got through without him.

He wrote to me the day after the awful scene on the film set and asked if he could see me. I admit I flew to him, I was so upset and confused about everything that I was happy to get comfort and affection wherever I could find it. I’m very glad I did.

We didn’t sleep together that first night, or the next, but I admit that it was not long afterwards.

My God, Penny, it was wonderful!

Perhaps it was the rawness of my emotions and also the rather defunct nature of my sex life in the preceding months that made me so receptive, but credit must also go to Carl. Some men just have a knack, that’s all. I know that now. He made love to me as if it was the only thing that he wanted to do on earth at that moment. And do you know? I think it was.

It went on for weeks, Penny, that first glorious fling. I just took a complete holiday from everything and pretty much lived to make love to Carl. Sheila issued all sorts of dire warnings about being caught on the rebound and displacement of unhappiness and things like that but Drusilla said that passion is its own reward and she was right!

Carl is the first man I have ever been with (there have not been exactly many) who really seems to relish massaging a woman. I don’t mean feeling her up prior to leaping aboard, I mean massaging, properly applying himself to the job of soothing and relaxing her with no other thought in mind than that. It’s a wonderful thing. He still does it (although perhaps not quite as often). We lie together naked on his bed and he’s happy to work at my neck and shoulders for an hour or more. One thing I did notice is that he likes to watch himself while he does it. He has a large mirror at the end of his bed and I often catch him drinking in the rippling muscles of his image as he massages me. Fair enough, I suppose. No reason why he should be watching me. I can assure you he has a lot better muscle definition than I have.

We don’t actually live together, but we spend a lot of time in each other’s place. I love the weekends. Carl is very big on Sunday mornings, lots of croissants and real coffee, big dressing gowns and the papers, just like being in a hotel, which is lovely. Those are some of my favourite times. That and occasional trips to a little cottage he has in the Cotswolds, all logfires and stone walls, very Wuthering Heights. We do have a lot of fun together, we really do. I can’t say it’s been perfect, of course. I’ve had my low moments, as, no doubt, has he. The truth is I was in love with Sam for six years and you don’t get over something like that in a couple of minutes, particularly if you had no idea that the thing was going to end. Carl also carries baggage with him. It’s not another girl, it’s more… well, Carl loves himself rather a lot, not in a horrid way, don’t get me wrong, in fact it’s quite charming. It’s just I sometimes feel that simply being Carl Phipps is often enough for Carl. He doesn’t need anyone else.

That’s why I must be very careful about this business of our baby. Carl often says he loves me and how much he regrets the fact that I seem to be unable to have kids, but I don’t know how he’ll feel when confronted with the fact that I’m having one. I shan’t force him. Of course I want more than anything for him to be as pleased as I am and for us to be a family, but if he’s not ready for it then I’ll simply have to think again.

I do love Carl, I know I do. It is not the same as my love for Sam was, of course. I don’t think that any two loves can ever be the same. If they were they’d be interchangeable and what would be the point of that? In one way my love for Carl is more exciting (I think you can guess in which way, Penny) and I suppose in other ways it’s less so. I must say it’s very strange living with a man who likes to talk so much. By rights I should love it. Sam, of course, was famously the man hidden behind the newspaper and I hated that. It’s just that Carl’s preferred topic of conversation is himself. It’s great fun and very charming and terribly interesting at times and it’s also rather impressive. I’m constantly astonished at the skill with which he seems able to bring the most unlikely topics back to the subject of Carl Phipps. Mention metaphysics and Carl will tell you that he has for a number of years been working on a verse play about John Donne; mention Schleswig Holstein and Carl has made a toothpaste commercial in Flensburg. It’s his work, really It possesses him. Basically Carl is and always will be a very very dedicated actor. His art means everything to him, and that is as it should be. It’s just that occasionally I do want to say to him that there might be tougher and more emotionally draining jobs than acting – fireman, for example, or paramedic. In fact I did say that to him quite recently and he told me that in fact it has been scientifically proven that the amount of adrenalin released into the body when an actor tackles a lead Shakespearean role is equivalent to that experienced by the victim of a car crash.

Perhaps I just attract men who are obsessed with their work. At least Carl is enthusiastic about his, unlike gloomy old Sam. At least Carl believes in himself.

I’m writing this at Carl’s flat. I have a key and of course I want to tell him the wonderful news as soon as I possibly can. I tried his mobile but he’s on set and mobiles are banned. Not the Inconceivable set. That was finished months ago. He’s guesting on an ITV detective thing, playing a charming killer. I’m sure he’s wonderful in it (he says he isn’t but I can see he knows he is). Inconceivable is about to be released and there seems to be rather a lot of excitement about it. In fact, I’ve agreed to go to the première, which is the day after tomorrow. At first I was adamant that I wouldn’t, but in the end I was persuaded. The whole thing is still sort of unfinished business, and I think that seeing the film might finally draw a line beneath it all.

Also I do want to see Sam again and perhaps at his moment of triumph (our moment of triumph; I’m a credited and paid-up writer, ha!) will be a good time. I can hear Carl letting himself in. Time to tell him the news.

I’ve told Carl and he’s absolutely thrilled. He went all misty-eyed and talked a lot about fatherhood and his own father and the circle of time and the scheme of things and replacing himself on earth. Then he put on his big coat and went for a very long walk, returning looking windswept and very serious. I suggested that we should go out and celebrate but he didn’t want to. He says that creating a life is a huge responsibility and he wants to spend some time in meditation. Each to their own, of course, but nonetheless it would have been nice to chink glasses for a moment even if I can only drink water.

Perhaps he’ll be more fun at the première. I know there’s to be quite a party.

Dear Sam

I’m writing this on the evening of the première of Inconceivable. I should be tying my bow tie because it’s all going to be rather a posh do, but I can’t find it. I can’t find my trousers either. I can never find anything in the house any more. This is because everything is on the floor, which also happens to be where I keep my pizza boxes and my empty bottles and cans. Therefore there’s much confusion. George is in the other room waiting for me. He’s kindly agreed to be my date for the night but only if I wash my hair and trim my beard. This I’ve done. I’m also wearing the brand new underwear that Melinda kindly sent round. I must presume that I was beginning to smell.