To: Judith Metcalf

From: Lana Lloyd

Date: 21.08.2005

Subject: Thank you

Dear Jude

I cannot begin to tell you how overflowing with joy my heart is, having received your email. I’m here ready and waiting whenever you want to meet. But I know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now so let’s get in touch when you’re back from visiting George.

My love ALWAYS

Lana x

Once she’d pressed Send, she threw on some joggers, grabbed some change and headed out to buy milk.

As soon as she was out in the fresh(ish) Islington air, she became aware of how heavily the separation from Judith had been weighing her down. For eighteen years. She’d done a bloody good job of pretending it didn’t bother her, but obviously, from the magnitude of her reaction, she’d been kidding herself. And she felt this huge longing to see Judith again: to have her lost friend back in her life. This whole thing had been ridiculous, and it made her laugh out loud to think it was finally over.

She was still smiling as she went through the door of Mr Jamali’s 24-hour store. He was unpacking the papers.

‘Bright and early this mornin’, love,’ he said, fag in his mouth as he cut through the bundle tape.

Lana headed to the fridge and pulled out a pint of semi-skimmed. ‘Well, best time of the day, don’t you think?’ she chirped back cheerily. ‘I’ll take one of those, thanks.’

As Mr Jamali pulled out a copy of the Sunday Edition, its magazine supplement fell to the floor. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said and went to pick it up.

But Lana got there first. And staring back at her from the grimy shop floor was her own face: glossy, heavy make-up, hair blowing in the wind machine, dressed in an outfit she’d never normally wear. And the headline beneath it shouted out:

LANA LLOYD – SEX, RELIGION AND AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR RIFT WITH AN OLD FRIEND

Interview inside by Ryan Pearman

She froze. Fortunately Mr Jamali didn’t notice. Hiding the magazine inside the paper, Lana grabbed the milk and left the money, before rushing out again.

Back in the flat, she threw down the magazine and eyed it with fear and contempt. It stared back at her. Lana’s face. Lana’s name. And no doubt Ryan Pearman’s lies. Lighting up a cigarette for courage, she took a deep drag before opening to the centre pages. She couldn’t take it all in, scanning the interview and processing single words and phrases, trying to find some cohesion between them.

… two failed marriages …sleeping her way to the top … alleged affair with an executive producer … avoids question about sex then immediately makes lewd comment about her breasts …

What an absolute wanker, she thought, breathing at a rate of knots. But the torture was far from over.

Describes her hometown as full of ‘ordinary’ people – though she clearly thinks she’s something special herself … attending the christening of her god-daughter, even though she doesn’t believe in all that ‘happy clappy stuff’ …