Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  The film is finished, or at least what’s known as principal photography is finished, and the editing process has begun. I take no interest in it, of course. In fact I’ve had nothing at all to do with the project since the day I ran out of the studio chasing vainly after Lucy in an effort to persuade her to forgive the unforgivable. George and Trevor keep me informed. They say that everybody remains very excited. Funny, this is the fulfilment of a lifetime’s ambition and I don’t care. In fact I actually tried to stop the whole thing. How many writers have done that? After the full extent of my appalling behaviour was so ruthlessly exposed I felt that the only honourable action I could take was to put an end to the film immediately. It turned out that I couldn’t.

  It was no longer mine to stop. The BBC own it in partnership with Above The Line and having already spent over two million pounds on it they were reluctant to cancel. Saving my marriage was not number one on their list of priorities.

  I told Lucy what I’d tried to do and she wrote me a pretty caustic note about it saying that she didn’t care whether the film progressed or not, that what I had stolen from her she didn’t want back anyway. Perversely, I think that the fact that our story no longer belongs to either of us but is instead the sole property of a large corporation has made it a little easier for her. Further evidence of the fact that we as a couple had ceased to exist.

  I’ve given her all the money I got from the film. It’s not a vast amount, although I’m told that if it’s successful I’ll get more from what’s known as ‘the back end’ (George said ‘Ha!’ to that). Half of it’s Lucy’s anyway and the rest is to go towards me buying her out of her half of the house. She doesn’t want to live in it any more. She couldn’t even bear to enter it. She got her sister and her mother to organize her things. That nearly broke my heart.

  In fact it did break my heart.

  She’s bought her own place now but it appears that she doesn’t live there very much. The final level of my torment is that she and Carl Phipps have become an item. Lucy hasn’t told me this herself, of course, because as I say we don’t speak, but she knows I know because she tells Melinda and Melinda tells George.

  It’s not a very satisfactory line of communication but it’s all I have. I torture myself trying to find out more, begging George for every gruelling snippet. It makes us both feel pretty uncomfortable, but what can I do? I’m desperate. I think about Lucy all the time. Apparently the relationship between her and Phipps is all very perky and positive and keen at the moment, which of course I’m very happy about and which of course I loathe and despise.

  I do hope Lucy’s happy, though. I really do and I hope Carl Phipps realizes how lucky he is. Not that I’ve any right to say that. I didn’t.

  I’ve started writing another script. I’m doing what Lucy told me to do, drawing it from within. It’s about a stupid, lonely, pathetic, weak, useless bastard who deserves everything he gets. It’s a comedy.

  Another six weeks gone by.

  Six miserable weeks.

  I’ve discovered something interesting during the long grey days since I destroyed my life. I’ve discovered that despite what they say, time is not a great healer. Every morning I wake up hoping that the simple fact that a few more restless empty hours have elapsed will in itself provide me with some relief from the pain of my self-inflicted wounds, and every morning I’m disappointed.

  Time has healed nothing. I still have the sickness in my stomach and the hopelessness in my head. I still loathe myself and I still love Lucy, who is at this very moment in bed with Carl Phipps (it’s two in the morning). Trevor says that four and a half months is not long enough and that if you want time to have any real chance of healing then you have to be thinking in terms of years, possibly decades. This, not surprisingly, is little comfort.

  I’m afraid to say that I’m in danger of turning into a very sad act indeed.

  I get pissed every night and I haven’t washed my sheets in a month.

  I’m writing this entry in my book, by the way, because I got a letter from Lucy today and I don’t know what else to do with myself. Actually it’s not a letter, it’s an email. This amazed me, incidentally. When we lived together Lucy couldn’t even work the timer on the cooker. I suppose the bastard has taught her. I shouldn’t think someone as cool as him would want a girlfriend who did anything as terminally unhip as post a letter.

  I’d written to her asking if she wanted a divorce and also if she knew where the key to the garden shed was, because the lawn is now about a foot high.

  I’ll download Lucy’s reply into this file. I want to keep it and this book seems as good a place as any.

  Dear Sam,

  The key to the garden shed is under the second fuchsia pot on the right of the door. If this is the first time your thoughts have turned to the garden then I imagine that all the plants will be dead. If they are not, please give them TLC immediately. There is plant food in the shed. If greenfly or similar is in evidence fill the hand spray with soapy water and administer a gentle soaking. Do NOT use chemicals as the garden is entirely organic. Actually I should imagine that it’s entirely cat shit by now because you have to go round and trowel it up once a week or it mounts up.

  I suppose that I want a divorce in that we’re clearly not married any more and perhaps it’s time to formalize that. However, I don’t think it’s fair that it’s me who has to say to you that I want a divorce. After all, I clearly don’t want a divorce in that I never wanted our marriage to come to an end. The only reason I want a divorce is because of what you did and I wouldn’t want a divorce if you hadn’t done it, therefore in a real sense it’s you that wants a divorce. Having said that, I suppose I do want a divorce. But not right now. I just don’t think I could face it at the moment.

  I can’t believe it’s come to this, Sam. How could you have been so stupid?

  Yours, etc., etc. Lucy.

  She actually wrote ‘etc., etc.’. I don’t think I’ll open this document again.

  Dear Sam,

  Four more months have passed and once again I find that I feel the need to collect my thoughts.

  Next week is the première of Inconceivable. Everyone is very excited about the film and the opening is to be rather a grand affair. We’re promised television cameras and the presence of celebrities. The film is already being spoken of as the new British movie. I must say, there seems to be a the new British movie about once a week these days. I don’t want to be cynical about my own film, but the phoenix of British cinema has risen from the ashes so often it must be getting quite dizzy.

  Lucy is going to attend the première.

  I didn’t think that she would, but the publicist has just confirmed that she’s coming, and will of course be on the arm of Carl Phipps. The publicist assures me that she expects them to be very much the golden couple of the night and to attract a lot of press. Along with Nimnh and Ewan Proclaimer, that is. Ewan has left his wife Morag for Nimnh. This sort of thing is of course very common in the world of films. He really is the most appalling bastard. One gorgeous, sensitive woman isn’t enough for him. He has to have a whole succession of them. Well, I’ve discovered that one gorgeous, sensitive woman was certainly enough for me and I lost her and now I’m not remotely interested in any other and don’t think I ever will be.

  The première is of course a real emotional issue for me. At first I thought I’d stay away, not knowing if I could face seeing Lucy with Phipps. George and Trevor, however, say that I have to come. They point out that the film is very good and that this should be celebrated. Actually I’ve seen a tape and I think that it’s good too. Ewan Proclaimer may be an arrogant, heartless bastard, but he certainly deserves his reputation as a hot director. Perhaps the two go hand in hand. George and Trevor also point out that the story is mine (and Lucy’s) and that if anyone should be present at the moment of triumph it should be me. After all, George argued with his customary brutal honesty, I’ve fucked up my entire life and sacrificed the only thin
g I had that was worth having in order to write this movie. I might as well go to the party.

  Dear Penny,

  I never expected to open this book again. It ended so sadly I imagined I’d want nothing more to do with it. Now, however, I have something to say that should be recorded here because it’s the end of the story and also the beginning. Besides this, I have no one else to talk to, Penny. I don’t want to talk to Carl because it might be nothing and if it is nothing I’d prefer never to have to think of it again, and if it isn’t nothing then I don’t want to speak until I know for sure. This is why you, Penny, must be my only confidante.

  You see, I think I might be pregnant. I’m three weeks late and the tester from Boots has proved positive. I’ve made an appointment to see Dr Cooper tomorrow.

  I can hardly allow myself to believe that it might finally have happened.

  PENNY!,

  Dr Cooper has confirmed it. This is the single happiest moment of my life. I am numb with joy.

  I must stay calm, however. These are very early days; it could all still go wrong.

  I’ve been concentrating very hard on my breathing.

  A baby, Penny! Imagine it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from life.

  It’s now a little later. I’ve been making some camomile tea and attempting to centre myself. My heart has been pounding so mightily since I got back from the surgery that I’m scared I’m going to shake everything right out of me. I must struggle to control my joy.

  Perhaps it’ll help if I confess to you, Penny, that this joy is also tinged with one tiny element of sadness. You know what it is, of course. I’ve written to you so often about my love for Sam that you will not have expected the passing of that love to leave no mark on me at all. It is of course very sad that Sam, whom I loved so much and for so long and with whom I shared so many disappointments, can be no part of this wonderful moment.

  It’s not that I wish that the baby was his, not at all. I loved Sam with all my heart but love when it is not reciprocated is a pretty useless thing and I walked away. I thought that Sam loved me and I’m quite sure that he thought he did too, but he didn’t. What he did to me proved that. If you love someone you do not use them and abuse them, you do not betray them utterly. Love has to include respect and consideration and trust. It’s a partnership in which one partner protects the other. Sam didn’t protect me and he didn’t love me. He didn’t love anyone, certainly not himself. Poor Sam.

  It wasn’t easy getting over him or coming to terms with what happened to me, but thank goodness I had Carl. Carl has been a true and loving friend and has seen me through the most difficult time of my life. I don’t think I could have got through without him.

  He wrote to me the day after the awful scene on the film set and asked if he could see me. I admit I flew to him, I was so upset and confused about everything that I was happy to get comfort and affection wherever I could find it. I’m very glad I did.

  We didn’t sleep together that first night, or the next, but I admit that it was not long afterwards.

  My God, Penny, it was wonderful!

  Perhaps it was the rawness of my emotions and also the rather defunct nature of my sex life in the preceding months that made me so receptive, but credit must also go to Carl. Some men just have a knack, that’s all. I know that now. He made love to me as if it was the only thing that he wanted to do on earth at that moment. And do you know? I think it was.

  It went on for weeks, Penny, that first glorious fling. I just took a complete holiday from everything and pretty much lived to make love to Carl. Sheila issued all sorts of dire warnings about being caught on the rebound and displacement of unhappiness and things like that but Drusilla said that passion is its own reward and she was right!

  Carl is the first man I have ever been with (there have not been exactly many) who really seems to relish massaging a woman. I don’t mean feeling her up prior to leaping aboard, I mean massaging, properly applying himself to the job of soothing and relaxing her with no other thought in mind than that. It’s a wonderful thing. He still does it (although perhaps not quite as often). We lie together naked on his bed and he’s happy to work at my neck and shoulders for an hour or more. One thing I did notice is that he likes to watch himself while he does it. He has a large mirror at the end of his bed and I often catch him drinking in the rippling muscles of his image as he massages me. Fair enough, I suppose. No reason why he should be watching me. I can assure you he has a lot better muscle definition than I have.

  We don’t actually live together, but we spend a lot of time in each other’s place. I love the weekends. Carl is very big on Sunday mornings, lots of croissants and real coffee, big dressing gowns and the papers, just like being in a hotel, which is lovely. Those are some of my favourite times. That and occasional trips to a little cottage he has in the Cotswolds, all logfires and stone walls, very Wuthering Heights. We do have a lot of fun together, we really do. I can’t say it’s been perfect, of course. I’ve had my low moments, as, no doubt, has he. The truth is I was in love with Sam for six years and you don’t get over something like that in a couple of minutes, particularly if you had no idea that the thing was going to end. Carl also carries baggage with him. It’s not another girl, it’s more…well, Carl loves himself rather a lot, not in a horrid way, don’t get me wrong, in fact it’s quite charming. It’s just I sometimes feel that simply being Carl Phipps is often enough for Carl. He doesn’t need anyone else.

  That’s why I must be very careful about this business of our baby. Carl often says he loves me and how much he regrets the fact that I seem to be unable to have kids, but I don’t know how he’ll feel when confronted with the fact that I’m having one. I shan’t force him. Of course I want more than anything for him to be as pleased as I am and for us to be a family, but if he’s not ready for it then I’ll simply have to think again.

  I do love Carl, I know I do. It is not the same as my love for Sam was, of course. I don’t think that any two loves can ever be the same. If they were they’d be interchangeable and what would be the point of that? In one way my love for Carl is more exciting (I think you can guess in which way, Penny) and I suppose in other ways it’s less so. I must say it’s very strange living with a man who likes to talk so much. By rights I should love it. Sam, of course, was famously the man hidden behind the newspaper and I hated that. It’s just that Carl’s preferred topic of conversation is himself. It’s great fun and very charming and terribly interesting at times and it’s also rather impressive. I’m constantly astonished at the skill with which he seems able to bring the most unlikely topics back to the subject of Carl Phipps. Mention metaphysics and Carl will tell you that he has for a number of years been working on a verse play about John Donne; mention Schleswig Holstein and Carl has made a toothpaste commercial in Flensburg. It’s his work, really It possesses him. Basically Carl is and always will be a very very dedicated actor. His art means everything to him, and that is as it should be. It’s just that occasionally I do want to say to him that there might be tougher and more emotionally draining jobs than acting fireman, for example, or paramedic. In fact I did say that to him quite recently and he told me that in fact it has been scientifically proven that the amount of adrenalin released into the body when an actor tackles a lead Shakespearean role is equivalent to that experienced by the victim of a car crash.

  Perhaps I just attract men who are obsessed with their work. At least Carl is enthusiastic about his, unlike gloomy old Sam. At least Carl believes in himself.

  I’m writing this at Carl’s flat. I have a key and of course I want to tell him the wonderful news as soon as I possibly can. I tried his mobile but he’s on set and mobiles are banned. Not the Inconceivable set. That was finished months ago. He’s guesting on an ITV detective thing, playing a charming killer. I’m sure he’s wonderful in it (he says he isn’t but I can see he knows he is). Inconceivable is about to be released and there seems to be rather a lot of excitement about it. In fact, I’
ve agreed to go to the première, which is the day after tomorrow. At first I was adamant that I wouldn’t, but in the end I was persuaded. The whole thing is still sort of unfinished business, and I think that seeing the film might finally draw a line beneath it all.

  Also I do want to see Sam again and perhaps at his moment of triumph (our moment of triumph; I’m a credited and paid-up writer, ha!) will be a good time. I can hear Carl letting himself in. Time to tell him the news.

  I’ve told Carl and he’s absolutely thrilled. He went all misty-eyed and talked a lot about fatherhood and his own father and the circle of time and the scheme of things and replacing himself on earth. Then he put on his big coat and went for a very long walk, returning looking windswept and very serious. I suggested that we should go out and celebrate but he didn’t want to. He says that creating a life is a huge responsibility and he wants to spend some time in meditation. Each to their own, of course, but nonetheless it would have been nice to chink glasses for a moment even if I can only drink water.

  Perhaps he’ll be more fun at the première. I know there’s to be quite a party.

  Dear Sam,

  I’m writing this on the evening of the première of Inconceivable.

  I should be tying my bow tie because it’s all going to be rather a posh do, but I can’t find it. I can’t find my trousers either. I can never find anything in the house any more. This is because everything is on the floor, which also happens to be where I keep my pizza boxes and my empty bottles and cans. Therefore there’s much confusion. George is in the other room waiting for me. He’s kindly agreed to be my date for the night but only if I wash my hair and trim my beard. This I’ve done. I’m also wearing the brand new underwear that Melinda kindly sent round. I must presume that I was beginning to smell.