And then he leaves, while I sit in the dressing room with my dress in my hands, ruined, because once again I couldn’t stop him.

41

By 9.30 p.m., I’m back at the party. He’s mingling, chatting, pressing the flesh, and I’m standing by the bar trying to work out what just happened, trying to make sense of it all, trying not to fall apart because everything is a fucking mess and my world is crashing round my ears. Caroline’s in a corner crying, and anyone who goes over to pat her shoulder shoots me a dirty look after. Vince keeps catching my eye and making throat-slitting gestures, I’ve ignored three phone calls from Rose, who no doubt wants to tell me I’ve won an award for worst daughter, and Barbara Good the imaginary alpaca has pissed off back to her imaginary barn, so is thus unavailable for imaginary emotional support. To make matters worse, David Lyon-James has just arrived in an impeccable navy suit, and Vince expects me to re-establish my authenticity as a producer and win back the £1.2 million commission. It is, as they say in the biz, a shitshow.

I stand in a corridor for a bit to do some mindful breathing but keep getting hailed by various Red Eye staff in various states of inebriation.

‘Hey, Clover! Come and have a drink!’

‘Heard you trashed Monty to his face this morning, you hero.’

‘Hendry! Fab hair, you’re looking hot.’

‘Clover, are you watching the show? I’ll save you a seat.’

Shaking my head, I stumble away, trying to reconcile the cock-up I’ve made of everything. ‘It’ll all come out in the edit, it’ll all come out in the edit . . .’ I repeat my producer’s mantra to myself and can’t resist a little hysterical giggle. It does matter, it really matters, but you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? Otherwise, you’d cry. Or throw all the bricks through all the windows.

My phone rings again, and I’m about to cancel the call when I see that it’s Robbie. I really want to hear his voice; that kind, gentle voice that told me about sixteenth-century monks’ effluence all those years ago – I’ll come clean with him later, but right now I just want to find out if he got a takeaway, how the twins are, whether the cat brought in any mice today. I go downstairs and outside, where it’s quieter, to answer.

‘Hi, are you home?’ I’m imagining them carousing in the kitchen, Grizelda delicately weaving her way through the foil cartons littering the table.

‘No, I’m at the police station. Hazel’s been arrested.’

That really isn’t what I wanted to hear. I wish I hadn’t answered.

‘My God! How did that happen?’ I’m feigning ignorance but can probably have a stab at guessing.

‘She bunked off school to go on a climate protest, and ended up plaiting her hair to the railings outside City Hall. She called me because I’m her lawyer, apparently, though I have no idea how an in-depth knowledge of copyright infringement is going to help us here.’

‘I am so shocked and surprised by this news, I had no idea.’

‘She told me you saw her in Queen Square and said fuck school.’

‘Shit.’

‘She also said you’ve had a perm and you’re insane, and although I’m intrigued, I can’t go into that right now, because I’ve got to get her out of jail.’

‘Oh my God, will she have a record or something?’ I’m picturing Hazel behind bars, unable to style her hair. Her life will be over.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. They’re saying it’s just a breach of the peace, so she won’t be charged.’

‘Shall I come and help?’ I’m keen to get away, even though I still have work to do.

‘No, you’re at that wrap party, aren’t you? I’ll take care of it and we’ll see you later. Maybe in court.’

Of course, Robbie is joking, taking this in his stride. He always turns up when it counts. And this is another task I’m very happy to delegate.

‘OK, will you keep me posted? Tell her I’ve come to my senses and she’s grounded.’

‘Don’t worry, I may not be the lawyer she needs, but I am absolutely the irate father.’

I kill the call and stand in the street, pondering. So now my mother, my boss, my producer – and everyone who’s talked to her – hates me, my best friend thinks I’m a grifter, my sister got married without telling me, I’ve lost a million-pound commission, and my daughter has been arrested. Then there’s the dressing room business, which I’m trying not to think about, and at the end of all this I have to confess my sins to my husband. It’s just too much, it can’t be fixed; the production’s in smithereens and the fire’s out of control. I sink to the ground, hugging my knees, as the tears start.

Why did I think today would make a difference? That I could change, hone the skills I needed, prepare myself for this moment and turn it into a triumph? My luck ran out, and I have only myself to blame. Glumly viewing the pavement opposite, I see a woman walking briskly, her bag tight against her body, eyes darting to survey the territory. She’s clutching her keys in her hand, doing everything right, alert to danger. It might work, it might not. The danger might be waiting at home, for all I know.

‘Are you OK?’

I peer up through my bedraggled curls. It’s my assistant producer, Flora, bending over me, her hand stretched out, concerned. Lovely Flora, who also never moans, just gets on with it, keeps the plates spinning, doesn’t complain. There are so many of us out there, struggling on, pinning the smiles on our faces even if inwardly we’re raging or falling apart.

A woman’s work is never done. I blink back the tears, take her outstretched hand and let her help me to my feet.

‘Yes. Sorry. Just a hot flush. It’s boiling in there.’

She smiles. ‘I’m just making a call, I’ll see you back inside.’

It’s a hell of a to-do list, but I have to get through it somehow, spray a hose on the conflagration. Time to roll up my sleeves and get stuck in. Brushing myself down, I turn around and head back to face the music. It’s thumping in there, everyone partying hard. No sign of Petroc. Back in the party room, I start with Caroline, who is still sniffling, being comforted by Oz, of all people. He’s awful to all his producers, treats them like dirt. I shoo him away.

‘Caroline, I’ve come to say sorry.’

She squints at me, her fringe all askew. ‘No, I’m sorry – you’re right, I’m lazy and horrible and no one likes me.’

She’s clearly been at the free prosecco. ‘No, you’re not, you’re a bit bossy, but that’s a good thing – you just need to channel it in the right way.’

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, watching me with doleful red eyes.

‘I messed up at Chew Hill this afternoon. I should have been more constructive in my criticism. Should have been kinder. You have the makings of an excellent producer, and it’s my job to turn you into one. Before, I was too feeble to do it, and today I was just a bitch. You deserve better, and I’m sorry.’

Caroline starts to cry again. ‘It’s not true! You brought us bagels! That’s not feeble, that’s just . . . nice.’

‘Well, from now on I’ll stop bringing bagels and be a bit more direct.’

She laughs through her tears. ‘Can’t you bring in some bagels?’

‘No more bagels! But I can give you something better . . .’ I dig around in my bag, looking for my purse. There’s my twenty-pound note, still unfurling, and my mother’s Visa, which also took a battering, but I don’t need either of those. ‘Here.’ I hand Caroline a business card.

‘Art Andra.’ She looks up at me enquiringly.

‘An incredible artist. I think he could be really good talent. You should get him in, film a taster tape. Maybe work on a format together. It can be your own project, and if you get a commission, it’s your credit.’

I’m spinning her a line here, but it’s not entirely untrue. Arturo Andra may be a bit of a wally, but he’s renowned in the art world and has a cartoonish quality that might work on telly. He could be good on camera if only he had someone to boss him around.

Caroline flicks the card around her fingers like a majorette. ‘You really think he’s got potential?’

‘I think he could have, with the right producer. Maybe the right executive producer?’ I tease her, and she steps forward to hug me, which I think is a bit much, but the gesture is probably fuelled by fizz. We’re never going to be friends, but I reckon we can work together.

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘You rock. I’ll give him a call.’

‘You do that,’ I say. ‘Tell him I said hello.’