Summary
M y friend E came to stay the other weekend. As I dropped her off at the station she said, 'Do you regret anything you've written?' 'Yes, of course I do.' 'Because you've lost so many friends through writing about them.' 'You mean J?' 'Yes.' 'Well, I admit I wrote about him once, and only once. I was moaning about never having had any children, and he was trying to be nice, saying that having kids is really hard. He was being honest. It doesn't mean he's not a good father, and doesn't love his children.' I said that it's a bit rich, if that is why he dropped me, because he'd done far worse to me. When I was editor of Marie Claire, a government minister gave me a piece of paper at a press conference. Written on it was what she wanted me to say. I told J this, and he told a Sunday newspaper, who rang me as I was leaving for Jamaica, which spoiled my holiday, and published a news story saying I was just a Labour lackey and did whatever they told me. But I never reproached him for doing this. He's a hack, the same as me.
'But his wife took offence. And he hated your husband.' 'Well, I hated his wife, but I didn't let it affect my friendship with him. I was nice, did her huge favours, publicised her bloody book by buying an extract when my editor was against it, because I loved him, really loved him. I miss him.' She told me another friend, L, is also not speaking to me.See the full content of this document
Extract
In Which I Feel Very Alone
This is because I'd written about the day she and her family invaded my garden, and how she had wondered why I need so much ...
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