Ben Elton - Inconceivable

Anyway, I wasn’t feeling much better when I got back to work, which I’m afraid was not necessarily a very good thing. You see, when I got to the office, in, as I must point out again, a highly vulnerable and emotional state, the place was empty save for Carl Phipps! He was standing over my desk reading a contract.

There is no point denying that he looked handsome. Very handsome. He’d hung up his big coat and was standing there in a baggy white shirt open to the chest. What with his tight black Levi 501s and his Cuban-heeled boots all he needed was a rapier and he could have fought a duel.

“ Sheila and Joanna are down at the Apollo press call,” he began to explain, but then he said, “You’ve been crying.”

“No, I haven’t,” I lied pathetically.

“ Tell me what’s wrong, Lucy. I hate to see you cry.”

Well, that was it. Suddenly I was in floods and before I knew it he had his arm around me and was comforting me. I honestly do not think that at this point he was making a move on me. At least if he was it was a very subtle one. No, I genuinely think that he was just trying to be nice. Although I’m not sure if men are ever entirely non-sexual in their actions. Anyway, first I told him all about little Cuthbert and how worried I was for George and Melinda. He was quite wonderful about that actually, genuinely concerned and in fact he knew rather a surprising amount about the symptoms.

“ The majority of suspected cases turn out to be just that, suspected.”

“How do you know?” I asked into his chest.

“I’m an actor,” he replied. “It’s my job to know.”

Well, even in my highly charged state this was a bit close to luvviedom for me and I think Carl felt the same because he quickly went on to explain.

“ I played a junior doctor in three episodes of Angels a few years back. Tiny part but that’s never an excuse for not doing the research.”

He was stroking my hair now, just in a comforting way.

“ The symptoms in these cases are quite generalized and sometimes the real cause of the problem is never known, the baby just gets over it. Babies are very tough, you know, and very brave, even though they don’t look it.”

I must say, he made me feel a lot better about things, although I still scarcely dared hope, but it was just so nice talking to him, such a change from Sam, which I know is a horrible thing to say but it’s how I felt. Anyway, I ended up telling him all about myself, even all my infertility fears. He was a really good listener, which is quite rare in an actor and really seemed concerned. Of course he came up with all the same old stories that everyone comes up with about friends and cousins who tried for years and then had ten, but somehow coming from him they seemed genuinely comforting.

All right. Here we go.

Long story short. I can’t put off writing it any longer. I admit it. I kissed him. Yes, I kissed him and it was fantastic. We were talking and talking and talking and then he brushed a tear from my eyelash and then he took my hand and suddenly we were kissing. And proper kissing, too, a genuinely fully charged tongue-twanging passionate clinch.

Oh my God, I go weak to think of it.

I suppose it went on for a minute or two (maybe three, no more). Just big kissing. He didn’t try to push his luck, which was damn lucky really. He did slowly clasp me more closely to him but not in a gropey way, although my (ahem) breast did end up pressing rather hard against his. I was braless today and in a soft cashmere poloneck and what with him just being in a cotton shirt I could really feel myself against him and him against me. Christ, my heart was pounding. He must have felt it like a bloody sledgehammer.

Anyway, in the end I pulled away. Well, it really was either that or progress further, which would have been terrible! My God, what am I even thinking of? He was ever so good and nice about me wanting to stop (not that I did want to!). He just got up, kissed my forehead gently and said, “If ever you need someone to talk to, I’m one call away. One call” Then he was gone.

Well, work was out of the question after that, so I just staggered home and here I am, reflecting on it all. I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time. Of course I feel guilty but also I can’t deny I feel very exhilarated. But then I think of Cuthbert and my own infertility and feel completely wretched about being excited by a kiss. I do wish life was easier.

It’s a little bit later now and I feel worse. I got to thinking about Sam, you see, and obviously started feeling guilty. Not just about the kiss but also about last night. He suggested writing a screenplay about an infertile couple and I absolutely exploded, which I’m not sure was quite fair. I mean I still hate the idea and if he ever did it I’d kill him, but I think I should have been more sympathetic to his point of view. After all, it’s been me that’s been pressing him to explore his emotions further and use his feelings in his work. I mean obviously I did not mean quite such specific emotions. Him exploiting our most private agonies for easy laughs and cheap emotional stings is out of the question, but I still think I should have been a bit more gentle in rejecting the idea.

By the time he came home I was feeling very loyal to him, in need of his love and in need of showing him mine. I had resolved to demonstrate to him how much I care and to be much closer than I have been of late. Well, it didn’t work, of course. I tried to hold him and to hug him and to bond in both a physical and emotional sense but, surprise, surprise, he just gave me a peck on the cheek and went to his bloody study to brood about his career. If he wants to drive me into the arms of Heathcliff-style Byronic actors then he’s doing a good job.

He didn’t even ask if I’d heard how Cuthbert was.

Dear Sam

I got home and found Lucy all clingy and wanting to talk about the strengths in our relationship. Well I’m sorry but I just can’t do that stuff at the moment. I don’t think she realizes how much my life has been screwed up recently, or if she does realize she doesn’t care. As far as she’s concerned I’m there to offer either affection or sperm as and when she feels she needs it. My worries, my complete humiliation at work, the ignoble end to a career I’ve worked on since leaving university, she sees these things as selfish and unworthy obsessions. Stuff I ought immediately to thrust aside as unimportant when real stuff like our relationship or not having a child comes up.

I mean, for God’s sake! The world doesn’t need any more babies! Millions and millions starve every year, millions more live in a misery of deprivation and abuse. Why don’t a few people start not having babies? Why don’t a few people start living their own lives, fulfilling their own destinies? That’s what I say. Being childless Lucy and I have a unique opportunity. We’re young(ish); we’re fit; we have a dual income (for now); we could be doing anything! Learn to fly a plane, walk to the source of the Andes, save the rainforests, get completely arseholed in the pub every night, anything . Yet all we do, all Lucy cares about is trying to have a baby.

I suppose the truth is that I’m lying to myself because I want us to have one too. It may not be all I care about, but it’s what I care about most.

Poor Lucy. She only wanted me to show her that I love her and my God I do love her. I love her and fancy her so much. That night on Primrose Hill was just magical, even though it didn’t work.