Saturday July 12th, 2003

Daisy couldn’t decide what to wear this morning and ended up with her entire wardrobe discarded on the floor.

I asked her what was wrong.

‘It’s that bitch, Pandora Braithwaite,’ she said tearfully.  ‘She’s so elegant and beautiful and thin.’
I told Daisy that, to my sure knowledge, Pandora wore a padded bra and paid a personal consultant and Selfridges to choose her clothes. ‘And,’ I said, ‘she’s only thin because she’s had at least half of her body liposuctioned away.’

The last bit was not true but I needed us to get out of the apartment and down to the bookshop.  There was a lot to do before Pandora’s book signing at 1 p.m.

Daisy was not entirely eclipsed by Pandora’s appearance, but it was a near thing.

After I had introduced the two most important women in my life, they looked each other up and down forensically.  It was like introducing Maigret to Inspector Morse.  Every detail of dress and nuance of expression was noted.

Then Daisy said, ‘Is that suit Yves St Laurent?’

Pandora said, ‘Yes, I must be bloody crazy wearing white linen in a dusty old bookshop.’

Daisy bridled a bit and said, ‘There is no dust! I’ve been cleaning since nine this morning.  That’s why I’m in jeans and this old Gucci jacket.’

Pandora looked at Daisy’s black leather jacket and said, ‘Yes, I almost bought that jacket but . . .’ The implied insult was left hanging in the air.

Daisy showed her nervousness by taking a lipstick out of her jacket pocket and daubing her lips.

Pandora lit a cigarette and said, ‘Adrian tells me you’re in PR. Do you know Max Clifford?’

Daisy said, ‘Of course. Max is the master, he taught me everything I know. I’m afraid I haven’t believed anything a politician tells me since.’

Pandora said, ‘Quite right, we’re all liars, but most of us mean well.’

Daisy said, ‘I love your shoes. I’ve got them in pink.’

And I relaxed. I think I am beginning to understand women.

I had taken the precaution of ringing the police station earlier in the week to ask if they could provide a constable to help with crowd control. The policeman they sent was Aaron Drinkwater and he didn’t look too happy when he turned up at 12.45 to find only three people queuing at the table stacked with 750 hardback copies of Out of the Box. He came into the back room and said to Pandora, ‘We had to call the riot squad out last week when Nicholas Parsons opened the new Kwik Save in Peatling Parva.’

At 1 p.m. Pandora was escorted to the signing table by Mr Carlton-Hayes, who made a gracious short speech of welcome.

The three people in the queue had been joined by a fourth. But this person was under the impression that Pandora was a bookshop assistant and asked her to help him find a copy of Ann Widdecombe’s The Clematis Tree.

Sunday 11th November

My mother has rung the Jeremy Kyle Show to say that she, her husband, her daughter and her ex-lover have agreed to appear on the show, which will be recorded on Tuesday 20th of this month.  Rosie is spending her birthday with her possible new father, Lucas.

My mother has made her plans.  She has booked a manicure at Top Tips, a hair appointment in the village and a stylist at Debenhams to help her choose a suitable outfit for the show.  I pointed out to her that she was going to an unnecessary expense as the dress code for women over sixty on the Jeremy Kyle Show was a skimpy vest, sagging cleavage, pale pedal pushers and trainers with no socks; hair is either lank or parted in the middle, or a tight pulled-back ponytail (otherwise known as a Croydon facelift). She said that she didn’t want the audience at home (about three and a half million people) to think that she was any old slapper.

Once again I begged her to change her mind and cancel her appearance.

She said, ‘It’s all right for you, you’ve been on telly.  I might never get the chance again.’