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Dear Sam
I’ve read the rest of Lucy’s book now and it’s wonderful. Just what I’d hoped for and exactly what I need. It’s stuffed with really fu
Anyway, I’ve copied out loads of good stuff from Lucy’s book and really feel that I can get down to finishing the script. Obviously I’ll give Lucy some kind of co-writing credit, depending on how much of her stuff I use. That’ll of course mean telling her, which clearly I shall have to do anyway in the end. Oh Christ, how am I going to do that?
Dear Pe
Sam came with me to the hospital today to pick up all the needles and drugs for the next series of injections.
The last couple of days have been uncomfortable for me, but not everything has been negative. Since the other night when he went all moody Sam has been very loving towards me. He’s really making an effort, for which I’m very grateful as IVF does make me feel low. The fact that it seems to be bringing out the best in Sam is a great help. He’s also got very enthusiastic about his work, which is a huge relief for me as his negativity had got very wearing. I must say I can’t quite see what the enthusiasm is based on. We listened to a bit of Charlie Stone’s show this morning on our way to Spa
Sam
I’m filling in the final details on the IVF part of the script now. Well not the final detail – I still can’t decide about the ending – but I’m very pleased with the way I’ve dramatized the process. Ewan is delighted, too, as are the rest of the team. We had an excellent meeting at his house this evening. His wife Morag made us a fabulous di
I really really do love Lucy. More than ever, I think. And that’s not because of how much she’s improved my script, although let’s face it she has.
Ewan laughed and laughed at the new stuff. Particularly the business about the injections. The surprising thing was how excited he was at the thought of being able to put a needle on the screen that wasn’t full of heroin. He seems to think that this in itself is an incredibly original idea.
“So liberating,” he said. “Hasn’t been done in years. Although it did cross my mind that we might be missing out on some comedy here. What if somehow the IVF drugs got mixed up with Colin’s drugs stash and Rachel injected that instead? Could be big laughs.”
Instantly I sensed some confusion. A fundamental misunderstanding, in fact. I said that the idea would be great apart from the tiny fact that my character Colin doesn’t take drugs.
Ewan was genuinely surprised at this. “He doesn’t?”
At first he thought I was joking, but I managed to persuade him that I wasn’t.
“That is fascinating,” he said. “And that business about the arse injections, about you practising on an orange, that’s actually true, is it?”
I assured him that it was. In fact Lucy and I were doing it only yesterday. Ewan turned to George and Trevor, who were attending the meeting, and commented on the extraordinary idea of grown men and women having to actually be taught how to use a hypodermic needle. George and Trevor assumed suitably sympathetic expressions of surprise that there could be such naivety. What a couple of idiots! Trevor knows about needles because of Kit’s various health crises, but both of them would run a mile from hard drugs. Trevor may have had an E at some point and he and Kit certainly smoke grass, but that’s it. George is strictly a Scotch and beer man. What suburban souls we must be.
Dear Pe
Well, Sam administered his first injection into my bum this evening. He had his last practice try on an orange and then prepared to go for the real thing. All I could say was what I had been saying ever since we first saw the bloody things at the hospital, which was, “That fucking needle is four inches long.” I mean honestly the damn things are not needles at all, not in any normal sense. More like spears or lances. They belong in a museum of military history. The doctor explained that they have to be like that because the purpose is to administer an inter-muscular injection. I said, “That fucking needle is four inches long.”
Ewan is anxious to know all the details about the process, which I think is healthy. I explained to him that the inter-muscular injection introduces a hormonal drug, which provokes the female subject into a sort of hyper-ovulation, producing far more eggs than is natural. It is, of course, physically intrusive and rather upsetting. Quite aside from having a four-inch-long needle stuck into your arse.
Ewan was sympathetic about this and Morag, who was sitting in on the meeting, nodded vigorously.
“Exactly,” said Ewan. “This is a crucial scene, a crucial image. Actually, I think we should call the picture My Arse Is an Orange.”
To my dismay there was a lot of enthusiastic nodding at this from Nigel, Justin and Petra. Even Morag (whom I had thought seemed sensible) murmured that it was a “brilliant idea”. I felt rather alone but nonetheless tried to fight my corner.
“Yes, brilliant idea, except that the film is called Inconceivable.”
“Oh, aye, at the moment,” said Ewan casually.
I turned to George and Trevor for support, but they just stared at the bowl of Kettle Chips.
Anyway, the deed had to be done. Sam looked as nervous as I was as he filled up the ghastly weapon with the ampoules of hormone solution, tapping the damn thing to make sure all the air was out. If you don’t get rid of the air, apparently it can kill you. How nice.
“Are you ready?” he said.
“That fucking needle is four inches long.”
“And it’s not going to get any shorter,” Sam said. “Drop ’em.”