‘Princess Anne will be her maid of honour.’

‘Jacob Rees-Mogg will give her away.’

‘For a substantial fee.’

‘How nice.’

By this point we’re laughing, wheezing, gripping the stems of our glasses, our noses near the table. I briefly begin to cry, because I’ve got a big evening ahead, but soon pull myself together. Maz doesn’t say anything about it, but squeezes my hand and stands, picking up her bag.

‘Shall we go on an alpaca walk?’

I blink back tears, confused. ‘I don’t think we’ve got time to nip to Crediton.’

She smiles her slow, sea-cow smile. ‘Sometimes you don’t need a real one. The imaginary ones are actually better behaved.’

So, outside the pub, we each take a rein, and walk towards the restaurant with our animals. Maz says she always names her pretend-alpaca Geraldine, ‘after the goat in The Good Life,’ so I name mine Barbara. We agree Barbara has good energy, unlike Geraldine who has pugnacious tendencies and seems inclined to veer left. But both of them give us comfort, as we stroll through the quaint streets of Clifton admiring the Brighton-coloured cottages, festooned with fluttering Jubilee bunting. It all has a seaside holiday feel, as if everyone – not just me – is taking the day off. Looking towards the Mendip Hills, we spot a hot air balloon that punctuates the deep blue sky like a full stop. It’s in the shape of a giant koala head, with two round ears poking out and a piece of eucalyptus emerging from its mouth. I feel glad to be surrounded by these gentle beasts – Barbara Good, Bigwig, and the floating marsupial – as we prepare to confront a more dangerous one. When the kids were younger, Robbie and I used to take them to Bristol’s annual balloon fiesta, watch the great gasbags inflate and lift off, holding hands and staring open-mouthed at the multi-coloured vista above. I feel sad that they don’t want to do it any more, don’t want to hang out with us. Maybe Hazel will let me go on marches with her, and Ethan will let me . . . sit in his room. I rub Barbara’s head affectionately and she butts me for treats.

I now have not one but two support animals to sustain me through the difficult night ahead. Part of me is dreading it, but another part is rubbing her hands. It’s time to get on, lay the ghost. It’s time to shake that tree, and see what falls.

31

‘Do you believe in God?’

The producer of Songs of Praise asked the question like any other in an interview, in the same way she asked how I got into television, and where did I see myself in five years’ time. In any other job, it would be irrelevant and maybe even inappropriate, but I guess for this one it was OK.

‘Um, I’m sort of ambiguous. Agnostic? But I do believe in fate.’

Oh, I believed in fate. In karma, kismet, destiny. But not in a serendipitous way. I believed in a universe that required a strict balance of goodness versus evil, of happiness versus misery. If you had too much of one, you were due a dose of the other. In my case, it was best to be as good as possible, and avoid too much joy, lest it provoked a corresponding hit of hardship. However, at that point in my life, I felt I was in line for a windfall, which was why I was there. I was daring to take a step, even if it meant treading on a butterfly.

‘Well, of course it doesn’t matter either way. An openness to the possibility is helpful though.’ The producer pointed upwards, presumably to indicate God’s potential presence.

I embraced that openness, simply because I would never presume to deny His existence, as it would have felt like far too much of an affront, a taunt or provocation that invited a thunderbolt from above. I didn’t want to get into any fights, even with a potentially non-existent supreme being. As far as God was concerned, I was Switzerland.

‘And why do you want to work on Songs of Praise?’

Because I wanted to get drunk with Susie on location – not the kind of drunk where I tearfully confessed what happened in my last job and sobbed harder when I saw her look of horror, but the kind of drunk where we hiccupped hysterically and tottered back to our hotel, our arms around each other to keep ourselves upright. I wanted to hear choirs sing and revel in the righteous boom of their voices, and wander round churches, letting their sacred majesty seep into me and purify me, and I wanted to make a new start working in a different kind of television where I could leave the ghosts and ghouls behind. Because I wanted to be an assistant producer, without needing anyone to elevate me to that level. Because I really, really wanted to leave Beatnik. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, but I was sure that all those things could make me better, tip the balance back towards happiness.

‘I’ve always admired the show, and think that you’re doing really interesting things with the format.’

With key points written on my palm to prompt me, I proceeded to outline all the excellent ways they were bringing religion to the masses. I sang the praises of Songs of Praise and, like with David Lyon-James twenty years later, had its producer eating out of my hand – literally, in this case.

‘Now, to the issue of references . . . You’ve given Martin Haggard as a contact at Beatnik Media, but is there anyone else there you would like us to speak to?’

There was no need for my notes at this point. I looked her in the eye and said ‘No, thank you, Martin is fine.’ My links at Beatnik had to be reduced to one slender, brittle branch which could be broken off once I’d scampered across it. No one else there would speak for me.

Outside the producer’s office, I walked past Susie’s desk and she winked at me and made a call sign. Later, I got two calls – one from her and one from the producer, telling me I’d got the job. The sigh of relief I gave went straight up to the heavens.

* * *

I’ve always had nightmares, ever since I was little. After the Ross-on-Wye wasps’ nest incident, I used to dream there were insects in my bed, crawling all over me, tangled in my hair, a spider dangling just above my face. The visions were so vivid, so real, that I would get out of bed in my sleep, brushing off the bugs, slapping my pillow, pulling off the duvet to check. Even after I woke up properly, I couldn’t convince myself that they weren’t there, that it was all just a figment of my imagination. Sometimes I would sleep on the floor, because the bed felt contaminated – whenever Rose found me there in the morning, she would exclaim ‘Goodness me, again? We’ll have to get this baby a bed guard.’ And then she’d yank the comb viciously through my birds’ nest hair until I was made neat to match the house.

During my teens, there was a recurring dream about forgetting my lines in a play. Or rather, not having any lines to begin with. I’m standing in the wings, and no one has shown me the script but everyone’s waiting and I just have to get out there. Once I’ve stumbled on stage, I realize pages of the script are lying around, behind a sofa, under a table, taped to a grandfather clock, and I have to make my way there, find my line, learn it, say it at the right time before anyone realizes what a mess I’m in. Can I rescue the production? Or will the audience see through me? I always used to wake, panting and drenched in sweat at the precise moment the pages ran out, when I was left high and dry, my panic at a pitch. When in real life I was asked to audition for the school production of Blithe Spirit, I couldn’t face it, because I was sure the dream would come true. When I told Rose, she laughed and said ‘Oh, I don’t think so! No one would be able to hear your mousy little voice!’ So that was that.

And then the window dream, which started when I was twenty-six. Someone trying to get in, and I haven’t closed them all, haven’t left things secure as they ought to be. I’m running round, starting at the top of the house, working my way down, slamming everything shut, worrying that I’m too late, he’s already in – but rather than look for him, I want to know which window was open, which one was it? Which was the nail that led to my lost kingdom? I must close it, must finish the job, get it done, make everything right and tight. So rather than escape from him, get away, I just go round with my checklist . . .

I don’t have the dream so often nowadays. My brain is probably gearing up to give me a fresh and juicy nightmare scenario. But I did have it a few times during lockdown. You’d think that being away from the office might calm me down, give me the space I craved, but it didn’t. In fact, it blurred the boundaries between work and home, made me feel like I couldn’t escape. My home was always my refuge, a switch-off, but now it was my office too – a window had been opened, and all these jobs and worries and obligations had filtered in, overwhelming me. So I started having the dream again, thrashing around in bed until Robbie’s arms around me woke and soothed me.

‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘It’s my fault,’ I panted. ‘It’s my fault.’

He stroked my hair. ‘Not everything is your fault, Clover. Sometimes it’s just theirs.’

‘No.’ I found that hard to believe.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ he said again, his hands warm and secure.

But I knew it wouldn’t be, until I closed the window.

EVENING

32

The Brycgstow turns out to be a pub with ideas above its station. Maz says she was perching at an island in one of the IKEA showroom kitchens, and heard a couple talking about ‘Bristol’s hottest new riverside inn’, saying the cocktails were deadly and it had an ‘ambience’. When we arrive, we stand by a lectern for five minutes being ignored by numerous bustling staff who all look like busy fools. It’s a big, airy space, with heavy oak tables, a flagstone floor and pictures of ye olde Bristol on the walls, so I go over to have a gander while we’re waiting. One of them is a sepia photo of a Victorian woman alongside a cutting from an 1885 newspaper. She was a barmaid called Sarah Ann Henley, famous for throwing herself off Clifton suspension bridge:

SKIRTING CERTAIN DEATH . . .

Her daring leap was the result of a lovers’ quarrel. The lady’s young man, a porter on the Great Western Railway, determined to break off their engagement, writing a letter to the young woman announcing his intention. She, the jilted lover, filled with despair, rushed to end her life by a fearful drop from the Suspension Bridge.

Thankfully for Sarah Ann, she was saved by her crinoline skirt – a billowing effect caused by an updraught of air turned it into a sort of parachute, slowing her fall, so rather than plunging to her death, she landed in the muddy banks of the river and was rescued by passers-by. Despite her injuries, a taxi driver refused to take her to hospital in case she dirtied his cab, so they got a stretcher from the police station instead. As she recovered in hospital, news of her misfortune spread, and she received several proposals of marriage. It’s one way to find a man, but not one I’d recommend.

The next photo is from 1896, of two children surrounded by policemen. The girls are Ruby and Elsie Brown, who were thrown from the suspension bridge by their father, and rescued by a passing boatman. Their murderous papa, Charles Albert Brown, had money problems, and was deemed insane at trial, but by 1901, he’d been released from prison and was back at home with his wife and daughters. I suppose whatever else she’s done, at least Rose hasn’t tried to throw us off a bridge.

These tales of attempted suicide and murder are interesting design choices for this establishment, which clearly sees itself as a cut above your average boozer. I wonder what Sarah, Ruby and Elsie would make of their photos on display in a gastropub near what was supposed to be their final resting place. Still, they’re not around to object, and it certainly lends an ‘ambience’.

None of the staff have approached us yet, and eventually I have to get their attention.

‘WHAT FALSE NAME DID YOU GIVE, MARINA?’ I address Maz, who is reading the bookings list on the lectern. She looks up, puzzled, but the passing maître d’ hears me and is with us in an instant.

‘Can I help you ladies?’ he purrs, eyeing my sister like she’s a mouth-watering freshly cooked lobster.

‘We have a booking in the name of . . . um, what did you go for in the end?’ I ask Maz, who reluctantly rejoins Planet Earth.

‘Ashton,’ she says, in her habitually vague way, as if she’s just made it up.

The maître d’ scours the list. ‘Ah yes, Ashton, party of three!’ He beams. ‘Come this way.’

‘Who does he think we are?’ Maz murmurs, as he leads us to a prominent table in the centre of the room.