In Which My Bread and Butter could turn to Toast
So. I've burned my bridges and dumped the Rock Star. What now? How can I sustain my readership now my goose that laid the golden egg has been kicked from the nest?
Maybe, just maybe, I had been a little impetuous by finishing with him over the space of just two diary entries; maybe I could have got more mileage if I'd injected some clandestine subterfuge into his infidelity and concocted a full-blown affair, rather than hastily binning him off after just the one dalliance? Whatever, but earlier I received a testy call from my agent. 'Liz. We need to meet up. Soon.' Oh dear. There was an ominous tone in his voice, rather like that of a headteacher who would summon a naughty child to his office over a misdemeanour.
Oh-kaaaay. Knowing I must be in the dog house, I would dress to kill and knock his socks off with my choice of a pre-loved Biba mini-dress (my legs are, of course, fabulous), a purple feather boa and my favourite Jimmy Choo heels.
Driving across London, from my Kensington penthouse, to my meeting, I mulled over how the conversation would go.
'So you've decided to pull the plug on the RS, hmmm? Are we now going to have to endure Nirps, the sequel, for the next several years? It's all worn gossamer thin, Liz.'
Oh yes. I could hear these words as clearly as if he was sitting in my car with me. Well I've got an ace up my sleeve and he'd soon know about it.
After reaching his building, I parked up and tottered into reception. 'Oh, Miss Jones,' the silly young floosie on the desk gasped. 'You're expected. Please go through.' After giving her a withering glance, I went into my agent's office. As expected, he looked p***ed off.
'Great.' he began. 'Just f***ing great! We've been here before, haven't we Liz? So next Sunday we can expect to be regaled with sob-stories about knackered horses and cancer-ridden chickens again, eh? NOT what our readership wants!' He looked so smug as he sank back into the soft folds of his expensive leather swivel chair, propping his tanned fingers into a teepee shape through which he peered, gimlet eyed, at me.
Here goes. 'You know better than anyone what I've been through over this last five years, so I don't know why you're being so nasty to me.' I crossed and uncrossed my perfect pins. Did I mention I wasn't wearing any knickers, as I wanted to create a Sharon Stone moment that would shake him to the core? 'I've temporarily ditched the Rock Star as no-one believes he's real anyway.' I purred. My agent's eyes bulged and a film of sweat formed on his brow. I've got him, I thought triumphantly. Now to play my trump card - nay, a whole deck of them.
'I'm pregnant.' I announced. My agent jolted forward in his chair. 'Whaaat?!!!' 'Yes, pregnant.' I waited for him to regain his composure. 'But what . . . how . . . you said menopause? You said . . .' 'I know what I said.' I interjected. 'But I was wrong. I'm four months gone and no, I didn't steal his sperm from a used condom as I thought I was safe, barren if you like. But I've done a pregnancy test and it was positive.'
My agent reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of 100-year-old cognac before slopping a large measure into a Waterford crystal glass. He coughed and choked on a swig and then spoke to me again, his florid face now beaming. 'Liz! this is column gold! This means RS's giant children will have a sibling younger than his grandchildren! Not only that, you'll be entitled to his riches and we can spin decades of column inches out of this. Superb!'
Leaving my agent topping himself up on huge glugs of cognac, I left the building and congratulated myself on my industry.
Now, the only possible problems will be how to get measured for a fake pregnancy belly without it getting in the papers and getting hold of loads of free designer preggers outfits. Oh, and how to adopt a new-born, ginger-headed infant from a tenement in the Gorbals who supports Celtic. Or is it Rangers?