Episode 14: Modified Rapture

Episode 14: Modified Rapture

Xmas Eve

Lovely restaurant lunch with the wanking Sir Sidney and Lady Norwich, the Haworths’ relations. On Lady Mother’s side, you guessed that, didn’tcha? He is the actual British Ambassador, yep. Tall, thin, beaky, obviously thought yours truly is not quayte quayte. Her name is Deb but I’ll never work up the guts to call her by it. Tall, thin, beaky, even more obviously thought I’m not quayte quayte. They brought along a nice Peter Hawkins for Bridget, who turned out to know quite a lot about the British theatre without being gay, you get that phenomenon occasionally outside the shores of Oz, and a nice blond Benedict Little who is gay and took an instant shine to Rupy. And vice versa, though that goes without saying. After the very French lunch at the very French restaurant the two of them went off together to look at monuments (sic).

    By contrast the afternoon was sheer bliss because it consisted of John and me attending a Pentagon cocktail party full of lovely uniforms all getting cheerfully pissed. Maybe there were a few ladies in little black numbers but in the circs, they didn’t count. Then in the evening we all got together and decorated the Xmas tree in John’s flat, and so to bed.

Xmas Day

The morning was pretty much bliss and the afternoon, which incorporated Xmas lunch at three o’clock with bloody Sir Sidney and Lady Norwich (they pronounce it Norrish, ya wanted to know that, eh?), pretty much unmodified Hell.

    Like, in the a.m., all the presents I chose went over really well, especially the studio portrait of Tim for John, and Velda’s little painting of John’s cottage for Matt. Then, I scored some really lovely ones on my own account, the extravagant clots had clubbed together and got me a set of white leisure gear suitable for wanking Xmas lunches, not to mention up-coming New Year’s lunches with puce and magenta cows. John didn’t try and foist the diamonds on me again—thank God, because frankly I don’t think I’d’ve had the strength to refuse them a second time. But he did give me an extra little prezzie, a lovely carved mother-of-pearl butterfly he got ages ago when on manoeuvres in the Pacific. He’s had it altered so I can wear it as a brooch or a pendant. Claimed he couldn’t resist it, then couldn’t think of anyone to give it to. That’d be right, you can’t see a puce and magenta cow appreciating it, and Lady Mother would’ve looked down her aristocratic nose and wondered why he was giving her a Native Artefact.

    Then it went downhill. Even the food couldn’t make up for the rest of it. Xmas dinner incorporated goose, not turkey, and the news that yes, actually, the kitchen staff had come in to “help” with the Xmas din-dins but of course, quote unquote, Lady N. had let them go after that. Jesus God Almighty, you’d never think it was His birthday, would you? I admit the pudding was extra, soused in brandy, with a white thing called a hard sauce that was peculiar but delicious but heck, by then I was pretty well past caring. We met the Norwiches’ eldest daughter, Petronella, gee, that was a treat. Clearly thought Terence would do nicely as husband Number 2, having ditched the first, mercifully without producing offspring, but funnily enough that didn’t stop her giving John the eye. No extraneous males, so clearly Lady N. also thinks Terence’d do nicely. Got the impression that Bridget was disappointed that nice Peter Whatsisname wasn’t there: good and bad, if you see what I mean. Didn’t work up the guts to call Lady N. “Deb” to her face—right.

    Little tokens were distributed in the early evening and I can now report, or you can just skip this bit, that up-market Washington pseuds are just as pissed and shagged-out by Xmas evening in the frozen North as our lot are after the day of sweltering Antipodean heat wave we usually get to accompany the cold prawns and crayfish starters, and the hot turkey and hot pud. Yeah.

Boxing Day

Went to Mount Vernon, George Washington’s house. Took all day, had to get up very early and didn’t get home until very late. A nice Georgian-style house but the whole set-up so touristified you wonder why you’ve bothered. We all took lots of Polaroids and humiliatingly I hadda send some of Matt’s to Mum as mine didn’t come out too good. Or at all, in some cases. Gave in and wore Miss Hammersley’s fur coat, it was bloody brass monkeys.

27th December

Slept in, then wrote letters, strictly chronological in the case of bloody Joslynne’s. Went to the flicks in the evening like normal people and John fell asleep before it was a third of the way through, I’m starting to get used to this phenomenon. You could say the day was unremarkable, but as it featured not one puce or magenta cow, not even a phone call, and a considerable period alone with him, mark it down with a great big red letter!

28 and 29 December

More red-letter days, at this point I was deluding myself into thinking things had definitely taken a turn for the better; here’s what I wrote to Joslynne (chronologically, as ordered):

Dear Joslynne,

    We’re having a day off from all the super-pseuds and sight-seeing so I’m grabbing the chance to write before it all starts up again. John sends something appropriate, hang on, I’ve forgotten what, I’ll have to interrupt a letter to Lady Mother, oh dear. His best regards and compliments of the Season, quote unquote. I knew it wasn’t anything as down-market as “Season’s greetings.” Before you ask, he’s sitting at his desk, it’s one of those heavy old-fashioned ones, it’s by one of the windows and it’s got a neato little brass and green lamp, a real American desk lamp, not an antique, a reproduction. Wearing a navy Viyella shirt buttoned up and a vee-necked fawn pullover, a thin one, the central heating’s on. NB for mine, he could turn it right up to its original D.C. level and leave it there but never mind, if he doesn’t like the place too hot, let him, it’s no skin off my nose. And dark blue cord slacks, extra.

    I’m trying to obey orders and be chronological. And if the last letter went astray in the post, too bad: you can ask Mum about Xmas Day with the wanking Norwiches and get the Edited Version!! Yesterday (28th) we had a very nice lie-in, then got up to find it had snowed in the night! It was so pretty! After breakfast we joined up with the others, plus and pretty Benedict Little, he seems really keen, a nice change because he is definitely not the sort to nick Rupy’s best watch (in fact his own is a Cartier). And off we went to see the monuments in the snow, and take lots of Polaroids, and make snowballs quickly before it melted, and eat American hot-dogs off carts and dive into a hamburger joint for lunch. It was one of the nicest days of my entire existence! Though none of my Polaroids came out very well. The one enclosed of me in the new white parka and my black tracksuit pants, pointing, was taken on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and I’m pointing down at the very same view that Clint Eastwood and that lady with the lovely bone structure sat and looked at in summertime in that really good suspense thriller where he’s the oldest Secret Service agent in the world. You know, it had John Whatsisface as the nutter trying to shoot the President with a plastic gun. The very blurred one is the one I took of the view and the really sharp one is the one Matt took two seconds later with the same camera and the sun in the same position. It looks weird under the snow, doesn’t it? We tried for a shot of the White House but couldn’t get very near, there were loads of other tourists who’d also had the bright idea that a shot of the White House in the snow’d be good.

    That’s about it for my chronological report. Hope it was clear. We’re not planning anything much for the rest of the day today, just meeting up with Fred and Bonnie Stolz, nice Peter Hawkins, and of course Benedict, for a good plain steak-house dinner tonight.

    We rang Velda yesterday and she said Tim’s fine, and she let me speak to him, he recognised my voice, we could hear him going “Wuff, wuff!” and panting like anything! She said he was wagging his tail like mad, too. It’s been really cold and stormy there and they had, guess what, a power cut!! We both went into hysterics transatlantic.

    John says you’d better address your next to Matt’s place, okay? And tell Davey and Rowan I haven’t forgotten and I will definitely send them some pics of Disneyland, but as my attempts at Polaroid-taking have been so inglorious, I’ll get someone else to take them. It’s very lowering. John was going to buy me a new camera, but he’s changed his mind. Ten degrees off the horizontal, he can understand. Cutting off the heads or the feet or both, he can understand. But just plain blurred? Every possible explanation has been ruled out except (Matt’s suggestion, not serious) pyramids. John didn’t get it, he is so not into pop anything. He’s taking lots of proper snaps on my behalf, but the only thing is, his up-market film has to go away for months to be developed. They ruined a whole roll of really expert shots of Washington monuments at one of those while-you-wait places, so that was that. So maybe next Spring I’ll be able to send you a whole lot of really cool pics of Washington D.C., by which time I’ll’ve forgotten what they were!

Love to you and the boys,

Rosie.

New Year’s Day

If there’s an opposite of a red-letter day, like, a black-letter day, this was It. Lunch with the choicest selection of Washington super-pseuds that could possibly be gathered together under one roof. And let me just add this: no-one had warned me that Wanda Hooten had once nearly been selected for the Olympic skating team…

    Of course Rupy and me had seen that publicity shot of John and her out riding, so we did know the Hootens’ dump must be an estate, but crikey! We turn in through these huge gateposts, sinking feelings in the tummy on the part of some, and then it’s at least another K before we even glimpse the house. Fair warning, yep. Gee, then guess what! The front door’s opened by a Black butler! Don’t they know Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery? (Didn’t say it.) People are having pre-lunch drinks in the drawing-room. Did I mention dear Wanda’s got one of those rather cat-like faces, a bit like Jackie O’s? If we hadn’t already realised she’s got the cat’s personality as well, this is the day it’ll dawn. Let’s be fair, she’s looking great, in a very striking combo of black tights under a black skating dress trimmed in red. There’s three other ladies there, all in skating dresses, too. At about this point it dawns that we’ve missed a cue or fourteen. Only how can it be a skating party? The snow’s melted. I stand here like a nong in my new white casual non-skating gear, probably looking as puzzled as I feel.

    So the first thing she says to me is that I must excuse her for receiving guests in such informal dress. Then she speaks extra-nicely to Bridget. It all seems sort of weirdly familiar and after a while it comes to me: it’s exactly like the scene in That Symington Woman where the villainous Lady Maude puts down poor dear Gaynor for wearing a ball dress to a cocktail party and then speaks extra-kindly to Bridget’s character. No wonder Bridget was looking totally disconcerted, she must’ve been biting her tongue not to reply with her line. And, as later enquiry reveals, was.

    Then we all have to have drinks. Eggnog, it seems to be the thing Americans drink at this time of year, yuck. Terence asks for a Scotch instead, good on him. After a while Admiral and Mrs (Terri) Baxter come in. She’s the one that’s Wanda’s best friend, remember? The one she’ll have plotted this whole do with, yep. Very thin and leathery looking, about fifty, with short dark auburn hair. Goodness! She’s wearing a skating outfit, too! Not a skirt, for a change, but black stretch pants with a dark green stripe down the seam, a matching dark green sweater, and a cute little green and black striped hat with a bobble on it. She takes it off and casually shakes out her hair, even though it’s not a cut that you can shake out, and says to me: “There you are at last, my dear! You must try out Wanda’s rink, it’s divine! Oh,”—pause, looks me up and down—“but you are intending to skate, are you, honey?”

    Oh, well, all is revealed! (Or nearly all, the sycophants haven’t told me about Wanda’s almost-Olympic career, yet.) Well, what can ya say? All I do say is: “No, I can’t skate. I’m looking forward to watching you and Wanda perform, though, Terri.” I don’t dare to look at Rupy, he’ll be thinking that “perform” in this context doesn’t refer to the skating. And yes, he’ll be right.

    And perform they do. They’re both all over John, it’s so disgusting I leave them to it. You’d swear they’ve worked out the moves beforehand, because at every possible opportunity they come up one on each side and lean on his arms.

    Gee, at lunch I have to sit between Matt and Rupy while John’s dragged off by Wanda and ends up between her and Terri, ya couldn’t of guessed. He’s so good at the poker-face thing I can’t tell if he cares or not. Rupy isn’t even allowed to be beside Benedict! Well, true, women like Wanda take pleasure in making sure that no-one else is enjoying themselves. The lunch goes on for ages, huge helpings, and Wanda and Terri kindly take it in turns to explain the American recipes to me, even though I don’t ask them to. There’s twenty people here in all, and they have to bend forward and speak down the table, but gee, they manage that okay. I just smile and nod and do the Lily Rose thing, what else is there left to do?

    After lunch we have to go off and skate, fancy that. Several of the older men stay behind but gee, all the ladies come. Wanda grabs John’s arm and absolutely forbids him to talk business on New Year’s Day. Very arch: spew. The indoor skating rink’s like a huge barn, with only a few seats at one end, and most of the floor the rink itself. Much smarter than a barn, though: fully lined, with, would you believe, a bar, that’ll counteract the healthy exercise efficiently, and a huge sound system, natch. Just fancy, Wanda’s puce and magenta friends have all brought their own skating boots, someone must have told them it was gonna be a skating party! But there are plenty of guest boots, gee, fancy that.

    Terri Baxter swans up to me while Wanda’s whirling girlishly on the ice with the sycophants laughing and clapping. She forces a pair of boots on me. It’s getting bloody embarrassing, people are starting to look sideways, because Terri’s insisting too much. And John’s mouth has tightened noticeably, I can see it even past the cluster of puce and magenta cows helping him to put his skates on (oh, yeah). But as I can’t even stand up in skates, funnily enough I don’t get out on the ice and make an absolute tit of myself. In fact I’m forced to say to the bitch: “Terri, the fact that I’m here proves that you can drag a horse to the water; but you can’t make him drink: do you have that saying in America? I can’t skate, and John already knows it, in fact it’s probably where Wanda got her intel from. I’ll say it louder if you like.” So she shuts up and pushes off.

    John, Terence and Matt are all quite good, evidently they all used to skate when they were boys. And of course Matt does a lot of roller-blading. Bridget’s very nervous, and tells me she hasn’t ice-skated since her sister Katie was mad on it when she was eleven and Bridget was thirteen and their mum used to make her go with her. So I say she doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to. But funnily enough a Mrs Gloria Schumaker swans up to her in an abbreviated royal blue skating dress and matching royal blue tights and insists she has to try, so she does, poor lamb. She doesn’t fall over too much, but enough, one feels—but at least Matt kindly partners her most of the time. John actually tries to join me several times but gee, each time Wanda or Terri or Mrs Gloria Schumaker, she must be a particular friend of theirs, she’s certainly helping them as if she is, comes up and swoops on him.

    I like watching skating, though not the competitive sort where they both lead and pout with their bums, both ugly and silly, and without the puce and magenta cows it could’ve been a lovely afternoon. Oh, well. It did come to an end: Ambassador Hooten came and broke it up forcibly.

    But the black-letter day’s not over yet. In the car going home good old Terence tries to maintain that Hooten was annoyed with Wanda Makepeace for making it so obvious that she’d set me up. But after all, Terence, I ask pointedly, if ill-advisedly, how could she have known that I can’t skate?

    There’s a pregnant pause, during which I have time to be very thankful that Bridget’s gone with Matt and Rupy in Benedict’s car. Then Terence says feebly: “John, did you tell the Hooten bitch that Rosie can’t skate to save her life?”

    “Mm?” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

    “Perhaps he told her that I can’t skate for toffee, Terence,” I suggest pointedly, if ill-advisedly. “Try a different set of keywords.”

    John puts his hand on my knee. “I thought you handled it magnificently, darling.”

    Yeah, thanks, lover.—I’m simmering nicely.—“Thanks for not warning me, John.”

    “What? Oh, about the skating?”

    Yeah, about the skating! Jesus! –Coming to the boil.

    “But I had no idea she intended it to be a skating party, Rosie.”

    “Right! And ya had no idea she’s got a bloody great Olympic-sized skating rink of her own with artificial ICE, the artificial puce and magenta BITCH!” I shout at the top of my voice. –Boiled over, you got it.

    He tries to stay calm, cool and collected and keep his temper, not to say tries to calm me down, but I remain at steaming point throughout the rest of the drive and throughout the evening, up to and including refusing to go out to dinner with the rest of them, to whom he unwisely refers as “your friends.” And later, up to and including refusing to sleep with the poor bastard, something that I’ve only ever done once before in my life, when that toad of a Jonno Palmer tried to make me do it without a condom and get me up the spout, just before I walked out on him.

    In the morning he’s very forgiving but funnily enough I’m not, and anyway, there’s no time for reconciliations, because we gotta rush off to the airport to catch our plane for California.

    So much for Washington, D.C., first round.

    And I’m quite sure that there was a Plan B, if I’d turned out to be an expert skater.

3rd January: California

Last night featured a reconciliation by mutual consent, like, one of those wordless ones. Good in itself but not wholly desirable, as possibly some explanations or apologies were due, not sure from whose side, definitely mine but possibly his as well, in fact on re-thinking that ice-rink thing— No, I won’t, it’ll turn into a lifelong grudge.

    Anyway, we’re staying in a nice clean Californian motel, not that far from Matt’s apartment, which is not in Silicon Valley, actually, or anywhere near it, and not even in Venice near the beach with all the dumb roller-blading bunnies (that film with Steve Martin, he was too old for her and met a much properer but intensely boring English lady. No? Don’t fret yaself to death over it, it wasn’t that good. Interesting social document, yes. Great entertainment, no.) No, the apartment’s in a small block in Altadena, the next suburb (technically they all seem to be cities) up the slope from Pasadena, mostly small middle-class houses, bungalow-type, with, this is interesting, ground ivy. The sort that doesn’t go mad and climb everything in sight like the stuff those unfortunate neighbours of Aunty Kate’s have got, that she never stops complaining about. The ivy and the neighbours: it climbs, they don’t stop it getting over her fence. Goddit? Matt’s apartment block is slightly Spanish-looking, white concrete, you got it, with arches, you got it again, and curved orange roof tiles. The apartment’s only got one bedroom but there’s a big sofa-bed as well, so Terence has scored that and Rupy and Bridget are in the motel.

    It’s miles warmer than Washington, in fact more like a mild early summer. The locals are mostly wearing jackets or jumpers, but actually, although it’s chilly at night it’s mild enough during the day to wear a blouse without even a cardy, no wonder people have emigrated to California in droves over the past fifty years! However, everything you ever heard about the smog is true, at first I thought it was just overcast but no, that greyish look to the sky is smog. Didn’t do much today, Matt thought we needed time to recover (our tempers included, in the case of some, but he’s far too nice to say any such thing). His own car’s a little sports job, but he’s borrowed a station-waggon from some married friends who’ve gone to Hawaii for Christmas. So we mostly just drove round, today, through Pasadena, much more up-market than Altadena, full of Spanish-American-style millionaires’ palaces, through downtown LA, boy is it boring (with the smog getting worse as we got nearer, our eyes starting to water), and out to Beverly Hills, he thought we’d like to see it. Full of millionaires’ palaces and movie stars’ homes, yeah. Then a quick side-trip to Hollywood, which I have to report is technically a dump, up to and including the famous Sunset Strip: some of those run-down looking joints may be owned by such as Dan Ackroyd and uh, Johnny Depp? and be the trendy places to be seen at night, with or without your coke-snorting gear, but boy are they dumps. And the road itself is in shocking condition, all patches of different-coloured seal. Very wide, too: most unattractive, like some of the more hideous parts of Sydney. Anyway, dear Matt thought it’d be fun to grab hamburgers at a place on the Strip (technically it’s a Boulevard, fair warning), so we did. Gee, the buns were warm underneath, the lettuce was crisp and dry, and the meat was, you goddit, totally tasteless. Rupy had it written all over his face that it’d be much more fun to go to a see-and-be-seen joint with café tables (like, on the sidewalk, in the smog and exhaust fumes?), so Terence tactfully suggested that we might do that for lunch tomorrow. While we were over there, drove past Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, very Chinese, but quite small, and saw the stretch of pavement with the stars. And on the way home drove past the original Brown Derby.

    Dinner with one of Matt’s girlfriends, Salli Greenstreet, definitely one of the roller-blading bunnies, not a thought in her head, but entirely cheery and friendly, at a family restaurant. Not all that different in style from a Sydney family-type restaurant, that Italian place near Mum and Dad’s came forcibly to mind, except that the American vinyl upholstery was miles more comfortable, the American décor was far more tasteful, and the quality of the American service was out-of-sight better. This place specialises in “Tex-Mex”, which Salli’s very keen on, but Matt assured us anxiously that we could order plain steaks if we preferred. Uh—and there was no chance the stuffed green peppers wouldn’t be cooked through, Rupy, he said dazedly. Rupy was tempted, but plumped for enchiladas, same as me. Bridget had never had Mexican before, evidently it’s not as popular in Britain as it is at home: me and Joslynne, when in funds, often used to buy a taco kit, and even Mum and Joslynne’s Mum sometimes did, for an easy treat. Though in the latter’s case it came with the usual warning about all those chemicals and preservatives being injurious to your health. Anyway, Bridget followed Salli’s advice and had the mixed platter, it gave you a lovely selection and she was thrilled with it. And not too hot, she reported happily. There was loads of choice, even “lite” for the diet-mad, but I just had the standard corn enchiladas, with beef, and they were great! John and Terence pretty clearly weren’t used to Mexican food, either, so they had the same as Matt: giant flour enchiladas, they were disconcerted by the size of the things, like a dinner-plate. The Mexican bit seemed to stop short with the puddings, so following the maxim when in Rome, I had the cherry pie. It tasted just like the cherry chewing-gum.

    Then Salli thought we’d like to see the really great view of the city at night, so we drove up to a look-out place and looked at a great spread of twinkling lights, the sort of view that makes you realise there are some wonderful things about Modern Times besides the dental care. And so to bed, with the thought of Disneyland tomorrow, how will John and Terence stand it, poor dears!

4th January

A strange mixture of trendy shit and family entertainment, could we be in California? Lunch at a see-and-be-seen joint with café tables on the sidewalk, in the smog and exhaust fumes. Features Rupy done out in his best oval-lensed, steel-rimmed shades, black tee-shirt under an open floral shirt in shades of grey and black (kind of, to the unprejudiced eye, Urban Grunge mixed with Hawaiian, very odd), and very casual black cargo pants (with the weird pockets on the legs, empty, you goddit), plus giant Named sneakers that I didn’t realise he owned, the gold watch, just a few tasteful little bits of gold in the ears, and a to-die-for shoulder bag. Alas, this doesn’t result in half a dozen Hollywood trendies coming up and prostrating themselves at his giant-sneakered feet. Or even one.

    Hard to say which is the weirdest, Bridget’s Thai citrus salad or Terence’s warm chicken salad with balsamic vinegar dressing. Mind you, they’re both “lite” and both scattered in little bits of chilli and those nasty little tickly bits of Japanese salad green that taste like nothing. In short, just like the trendy Sydney see-and-be-seen joints—yep.

    Disneyland in the afternoon, by contrast, is sheer Heaven and apple pie. Very clean, though Salli’s warned us to hang onto our purses, not to say our babies that we haven’t got, lovely rides (none of the sort to make my weak stomach feel queasy), everything easy to find, plenty of clean loos, in fact the definition of good clean fun. Bridget, Matt and I have a whale of a time. Terence and Rupy tolerate it. John, poor lamb, is bored out of his skull. Oh, dear.

    “I coulda spent a whole day here!” I say with an ecstatic sigh as we pile into the station-waggon at dusk.

    “Mm,” he murmurs.

    “Those tuna sandwiches were good, John, you shoulda had one!” –Especially as his lite lunch of bean-sprout salad contained almost no solid nourishment. Though its marigold petals were pretty.

    “Mm.”

    Oh, well.

    The rest of California was more of the same, really. Bridget and Matt didn’t get it together, Matt remained thrilled that his father and uncle had come out, Terence and John remained tolerant and bored. Salli took me and Bridget to a J.C. Penney’s and we stocked up on stuff we could probably get back in England at Marks and Sparks, never mind, it’s American, it’ll make a change. Bridget had to buy an extra suitcase and after a while I gave in and also bought an extra case. Went to the beach one day, I paddled but Bridget was too polite to and Matt, being acclimatised, thought the water would be too cold, and the rest of them were too chicken to be seen in bare feet. Well, that was my conclusion. Funny to think it was the Pacific and on the other side of it was home. After a bit John came up and asked me quietly if I was homesick but I lied.

    Then we had to say Goodbye to Matt and go back to cold old Washington, D.C. It was a grey day, not quite sleeting, when we arrived, the pathetic fallacy in action. Gee, John found five messages from Wanda and two from Terri Baxter and one from Gloria Schumaker on his answering machine! He pointed out that he’ll be back home at the beginning of March but funnily enough that didn’t cheer me up all that much, because waiting for me was a huge letter from Brian telling me all about the wonderful locations they’ve got lined up for the fourth series. I think the only stately ’ome they’ve left out is Castle Howard, the rest all seem to be in it somewhere. Plus and the cars from Beaulieu, I guess hiring them out to TV companies is a nice little earner for them. (Not to use in car chases, to film static or at the price of megabucks moving in a stately way down the drive of the stately ’ome.) John looked sideways at the letter—literally, he’s got this trick of doing it kind of out of the corner of his eye—but didn’t comment. He’s got this trick of doing that, too, I’ve now realised.

    We weren’t forced into any more frightful socialising before we left, though Terence vanished in the general direction of ghastly does given by ghastly bridge-playing Washington wankers, isn’t that alliterative, but as I was in agonies of guilt and Rupy was in sympathetic agonies and Bridget, having got it all out of us, was also in sympathetic agonies, we weren’t what you could have called riotously cheerful. Poor John asked dubiously if I fancied the California lifestyle, then. Actually I wouldn’t mind Matt’s sort of lifestyle at all, it’s not that different from back home. Well, heavily suburban, drive everywhere, compensate for it by chucking megabucks away on the gym, live off fast foods, takeaways and stir-fries? But I lied anyway.

    He put his arm round me and asked me again if I was homesick, but being riddled by guilt, if you already know it skip this, does not have a softening effect on the psyche let alone the temper, whatever it might have on the brain, and I only just stopped myself from snarling at him. All I could manage was a very grumpy “No.” So he concluded I was homesick and said perhaps I’d have a chance to get back to Australia later in the year. What did that mean? Boy, if ever there was a remark calculated to make all a girl’s insecurities rise up and leer at once—!

    Subsequent brooding over it hasn’t helped. Was it just a casual remark, one of those stupid things men say without thinking about what the distaff side is gonna read into them, or was it— Folks, we’ll never know, so why go on brooding over it? You may well ask.

    Anyway, we had a very strenuous last night which culminated, chronologically if not technically, in me bawling all over the show like an idiot and him not saying anything except not to bawl and he’d see me in March.

    So now I’m on a bloody jet plane, pinned in between Bridget suffering agonies of guilt because John asked her to keep an eye on me and not let me take more than one other dose of travel-sickness pills within twenty-four hours, and now she thinks she should’ve stopped me taking too many coming out, and Terence sulking because John tore a pretty mild strip off him (I was supposed to be dozing but actually had my ear pressed to the bedroom door) for not stopping me from taking… Yeah, well. Rupy’s already asleep, possibly exhausted from last nights’ revels with Benedict, possibly because sleep temporarily blots out the agonies of sympathetic guilt…

    Why the shit didn’t I just tell Brian goodbye before bloody Christmas and get it over with!

   … And I’m absolutely positive John knows, he had a very funny look in his eye the entire last few days.