Читать книгу Best Day of My Life: True stories to inspire, move and entertain - Told by a cross-section of the UK's celebrities and courageous everyday people - Giles Vickers Jones - Страница 22

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I thought about writing about my first wedding, when the howling storm blew out all the braziers, and we all had to stumble about the castle grounds in the dark searching for our supper, hungrily following the sound of the bagpipes.

Or I thought about having my second wedding (to the same chap), when we were waiting in Vegas for our car to turn up, and the lady on the phone said, ‘Are you sure you can’t see it? It’s a pink Cadillac with Elvis in it. Oh, and a baby seat,’ just as it swung in in all its unmistakeable pink Cadillac-y glory, Elvis posing in the front and, yes, a baby seat.

Or the days my babies arrived, of course; but those are everybody’s miracles.

So this is a just a lovely day I had a couple of years ago that for some reason has always stuck in my memory.

I always get impossible at the end of books, as everything goes faster and faster and I just need to get it finished. West End Girls was a particular pain in the arse as it was the first book I’d written after Wallace arrived, and, like most new mothers, all I really wanted to do was stare at my amazing baby and, if at all possible, bore the pants off other people about how amazing my amazing baby was.

My husband Andrew was out working in the garden with Wallace, who was then about eight months old. Every time I glanced out of the studio window, they were doing something useful – moving earth with Wallace perched proudly on top of the wheelbarrow with his serious face on, or chopping wood, with Wallace hopping and giggling in the bouncer Andrew had rigged in the nearby tree. October is gorgeous where we are in France; the days are sunny and warm but the evenings are crisp and chilly.

Taking me quite by surprise, the book finally, FINALLY tumbled to a halt that afternoon – I thought I had a few days to go, but no, there it was. Everything had worked out nicely and I could type THE END (which I always do).

As usual when I finish books, I had a little snivel. It sounds ridiculous, but when you’ve spent a year or so with a bunch of people, even ones you’ve made up in your head and even ones who deep down you know can’t really exist (in my line of work, for example, the really handsome and also humble and single man who has a knack of turning up in the right place at the right time), you do miss them when they waltz off, all problems solved and all obstacles removed, into the sunset.

So I tottered a bit blearily into the sitting room where Andrew was laying the fire and trying to stop Wallace from crawling into it.

‘I’ve finished!’ was all I could say, before bursting into tears.

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Andrew as it certainly was for him, not having to live with a whingy end-of-book writer any more. ‘I’ll open some champagne.’

‘OK,’ I said, then on impulse went and changed into my red party frock. So then Andrew changed into his good shirt.

We drank the champagne and decided to put some music on. And then we did some dancing, and put Wallace to bed and ate good steak for supper. Later, our close friend Joaquim drew up in his car. We’re used to having our friends wander in and out, and he’d had a hard day at the harbour. We realised that perhaps we’re too open with our house when he wandered in and grunted at us, before slumping down on the sofa, turning on the television and falling asleep without noticing that we were drinking champagne, I had an evening dress on, the fire was roaring and we were actually dancing. So we just looked at each other, laughed our heads off and went to bed early.

That was it. That’s all there was to the day. It was delightful, though nothing amazing happened. But the reason I wanted to remember it was this: one day I know our boys will be all grown up, and I won’t have a baby to bounce on the tree in the autumn sunlight; there will be no books to finish because no one will want to read them any more; the red cocktail dress will not fit, or be too old and worn.

So I just wanted to record an ordinary day that had books and champagne and dancing. And – and I think I have just realised I am really writing this for my twice-wed husband – I want you to know how much I have always loved you. And I hope this scrap helps keep us warm on that never-thought-of future day, when we have had our last dance, because there will be a last time for all of these things. And then the howling winter wind blows in, and turns the fire cold.