LIZ JONES’S DIARY

In which I deliver my script to the movie star

ONS AT U R DAY , I got the train to London for work, to see a movie star in a play. I was staying at the Hospital Club and had arranged to meet two friends in the bar before we made our way to the theatre; the star had left our tickets at the box office. I was nervous, as I was meeting the actress in order to give her my screenplay. One of my friends is acting as producer, the other as director of publicity.

After the play, we went backstage and posed for the ubiquitous selfie. The star had a limo waiting at the stage door and the roads were lined with hundreds of her fans, screaming. We went ahead to my hotel, where I had booked a table, while she came along in the limo. We ordered food, the movie star turned up, and I made her laugh: I told her I had once threatened to punch the world heavyweight champion (Evander Holyfield; he had harmed a horse) on the nose. She was curious that in our little group there were two psychics: my thank you to the women who had told me to go and write my film, it will be a success, I just have to believe in myself.

As she left, the movie star whispered to my producer friend: ‘I am fascinated by Liz, can’t wait to read her script.’ We are meeting for tea next week. I finally got to bed at 2am. I sent a picture of me with the star to my friend Isobel, who was on tenterhooks, desperate for news. ‘ Fantastic! Two really strong irons in the fire!’ (I had submitted my finished novel only the day before.)

The next day, I checked out and went to meet the casting director of my film. I’ve known Sue since we were 18: I believe in bringing along those who have stuck by me. We were at the Ivy Café, surrounded by movers and shakers. I want to be a mover and shaker. She asked me about David. ‘Oh, he’s coming here after our meeting,’ I said, chewing on my avocado-on-muffin.

Come 2pm, David wandered into the restaurant. He came to share my banquette. ‘You know Sue,’ I said to him. I will remind you, but didn’t feel I had to remind him, that Sue was my friend and frequent visitor to David’s when I lived next door to him in 1983, and at Christmas we had all gone out for dinner. I had also introduced her by name. ‘Um, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ ‘I’m sorry, Sue, his brain has melted,’ I said. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, ordering fishcakes, two camparis and tonic. As he ate, I could see the spinach in his mouth. He seemed disconnected. ‘ Are you OK?’ I asked him. ‘You’re slurring your words.’ Sue just stared at us, open-mouthed. ‘I didn’t sleep last night.’ I told Sue our plan is for me to pop to see his flat. ‘David has been doing his garden, kitchen, getting rid of stuff. It’s his way of helping me out. He is no longer drying his clothes and sheets on work surfaces.’

David looked sheepish. ‘Um, I didn’t drive here,’ he said. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t be able to park. We’ll have to tube it.’

‘But it’s a Sunday!’ I said. ‘I’ve got so much luggage. It’s 30 degrees!’

‘Oh, and I had to cancel the plumber. I told you I’ve run out of money. I got the fridge I was given stuck in the sitting room door. I bought a washing line today, I just haven’t put it up yet. But I got rid of the tree stump in the garden.’

I rolled my eyes at Sue. He’s been burning that tree for three years. David ordered dessert. We asked for the bill, but it turned out Sue had already paid. ‘I would love to spend some time with you,’ David said, as I made him hail a taxi. ‘Oh, how was your hen night?’ ‘Hen night? What do you mean?’ ‘Last night. Sounded like a hen night.’ It was the culmination of 18 months’ hard work. It was nerve-racking, terrifying, a high-stakes gamble that one woman will love my work. And he thinks it was a giggly night out.

On the train home, I emailed Sue. ‘ Thanks for brunch. See what I mean about David? Do you see?’

It was terrifying, a high-stakes gamble that one woman will love my work