London Diary – The Beach House – June 2008

London Diary

Monday June 9

I arrive in London from the red-eye from Virgin, which I think is a wonderful idea as the kids and I will all sleep. I slept wonderfully, but every time I – briefly – came to, I turned to find the eldest son and the good twin glued to the television screen. Have decided not to worry too much as they are staying with my parents while I work, and my parents will have to deal with the fall-out. BUT, bringing just two kids (and the two good ones at that) seems to be a brilliant idea – mothering has never been so easy.

Make myself look glamorous and hop in the car to pre-record a show called Loose Women, the UK equivalent of The View. A hundred years ago, when they were casting Loose Women, I got a phone call asking me to screen test. I remember sitting on the sofa, the cameras starting to roll, and someone turning to me and asking what did I think of Paul and Sheryl Gascoigne’s marriage. I stared at them like a bunny caught in the headlights, because I had no opinion. Still don’t. Despite being seriously addicted to celebrity gossip, I remain entirely indifferent to footballers and their wives, and I knew there and then my career as a Loose Woman was over.

But, nice to be back as a guest, and found myself in make-up with Penny Smith, who is a TV presenter in the UK, and is spectacularly grounded and funny, plus she has great hair. It made me want to instantly run out and chop all mine off, but I have learned that whenever I do that I live to regret it.

So on I went, first discussing infidelity after a new book has come out saying infidelity can be a great thing for a relationship. I happen to think that whilst it’s not usually a great thing, if you have children, a life, have spent years building a family unit, an affair, whilst painful and awful, doesn’t necessarily have to mean the end, but does require looking at the reasons why you strayed in the first place.

Ultimately I said it wasn’t the worst thing that can happen. Then I looked straight at the camera and said very sternly, ‘Ian (beloved), if you’re watching this, it doesn’t apply to you.’

I had such a good time I completely forgot I was on to promote The Beach House. I gossiped, told stories, and thought what a shame it was I didn’t have an opinion on footballers wives (particularly because the whole country seems to be obsessed with them – the entire BBC news team has been sent out to Portofino in Italy to cover the wedding of Wayne Rooney and Coleen Mcsomething, who are both very young, and extremely famous. And no, I don’t know why.) because I would have made a very good member of the team. And then one of them held up my book and said, ‘The Beach House, out today, etc etc’, and I thought, bugger. I’ve just wasted ten minutes having fun when I should have been promoting my book.

Children with Grandparents update: Today they went on the London Eye, to Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace where they watched the guards change, and the Science museum.

Tuesday June 9th

Off to BBC radio to do numerous phone interviews around the country. Forget how weird it is to do continuous ten-minute interviews, answering the same questions and trying to keep your answers fresh, but good fun. Took stupid photo in lobby of me with dalek. Had no idea Doctor Who and Daleks were still around, but remember it being a highlight of my day when I was a kid. That and Hector’s House.

Stole Natalie off to Selfridges, favourite London shopping spot, to find something to wear for tomorrow as realize I have no clothes. Pride myself on being the lightest packer in the world, but realize, as I unpack, that there is a difference between packing cleverly with brilliant ‘capsule wardrobes’ that can take you from day to night, and packing two linen – read, crumpled – shirts that are supposed to last five days.

Wonder what has happened to England as I walk round Selfridges. Everyone looks the same – the women walking round Selfridges all have bleached blonde hair, orange suntans, small tight clothes, lots of jewellery and bling, and serious designer shoes and handbags. A couple of them passed me yelling, ‘Oi! Caffy! Sylv!’ and it seems they now have a name: WAG’s, or Chavs. WAGS it seems are the Wives and Girlfriends of footballers (Victoria Beckham being Queen WAG), and Chavs…well…I’m still not entirely sure what a Chav is, so I looked it up.

This definition is from a website called World Wide Words.

The press in Britain has recently been having fun mocking a group for which pejorative descriptions have been created such as “non-educated delinquents” and “the burgeoning peasant underclass”. The subjects of these derogatory descriptions are said to be set apart by ignorance, fecklessness, mindless violence and bad taste.

To illustrate the last of these, critics point to their style of dress: a love of flashy gold jewellery (hooped earrings, thick neck chains, sovereign rings and heavy bangles, which all may be lumped together under the term bling-bling); the wearing of white trainers (in what is called “prison white”, so clean that they look new); clothes in fashionable brands with very prominent logos; and baseball caps, frequently in Burberry check, a favourite style.

I’m not quite sure how these people appear to be everywhere, but they’re certainly all over Selfridges. A little disconcerting, only because I grew up going to Selfridges, and it was mostly old ladies with frighteningly posh accents.

Buy gorgeous stuff for tomorrow from Joseph, plus excellent sunglasses. For past few years have only bought ten dollar sunglasses because I always lose them. Six weeks ago I couldn’t resist delicious and very expensive Tom Ford sunglasses. They are now lost. I compromised with Ray Bans that are not cheap, but not Tom Ford prices either.
Children with Grandparents update: Today they went to Legoland, and went on every ride, including the famous Princess Diana with her kids one where they shoot down an almost vertical water slide.

Wednesday June 10th

Beloved flies in tonight – Hooray! Whisked off to Whiteleys this morning to do live show of The Wright Stuff with Matthew Wright. Have known Matthew since I was around twenty one, doing shifts at The Sun and covering showbiz when he was working on Bizarre with Piers Morgan. Always thought he was wonderful, and looking forward to seeing him. Also on show is Jane Moore, columnist and author – v. clever, v. outspoken, little scary, and Anton Du Beke. Never heard of him, but my publicist – the gorgeous Natalie - is all aflutter, and it seems he’s a big star on Strictly Come Dancing (UK version of Dancing with the Stars). I instantly spot him in the Green Room due to his posture. He has the straightest back I’ve ever seen, and it makes me sit up straight all day. He’s also fantastically funny and charming, and he takes me for a spin around the reception, which should be mortifying, but I leave understanding why Natalie is all aflutter. Jane Moore, by the way, very nice. We talk books and America, and why she should be coming over here and doing tours.

Think I am a bit rubbish on the show. I’m given four headlines on petrol prices to talk about, and realize, as I read headlines, I forgot to read story prior to show as was having such a good time talking to Jane. Whoops. Do point out sentence in one of the stories that I am fascinated by: ‘the ministers will be using special powers…’ Harry Potter has clearly ruined newspaper reading for me, as immediately picture wizards from ministry of magic waving wands. Thankfully, I may know nothing, but at least I get a laugh.

Truthfully though, hard to be well-versed on what’s going on in the UK when you don’t live in the UK and wouldn’t know Wayne Rooney or Coleen Mcsomething if they came up and smacked you in the face.

Spend afternoon at The Grove in Hertfordshire filming for Bookzone on their man-made beach. Don’t quite understand why you would have a man-made beach with no water, and if the owners are reading this (Stuart, haven’t seen you for years, but you’re welcome to email me for my creative input), do think a wave pool would work phenomenally well.

The Grove is set in beautiful grounds, but it's a bit…well…chavvy. My new favourite word, so forgive me for over-using it, but I couldn’t help feel that although The Grove is lovely, it feels very footballers wives. It’s no surprise to discover this is, in fact, where the English football team stay. With their WAGS.

In evening go off to old, old friends for dinner. Lost touch for a while during my marriage – was terrifically hard to stay in touch with my friends from before as the ex-husband didn’t get on with anyone – and glorious to reconnect. So drinks with Sam and Mark at their gorgeous house in Islington, then off to beloved’s aunts exhibition opening, then back to S & M’s for fresh mozzarella from Puglia, poached salmon, and salads. Beloved arrived between the mozzarella and the salmon, and I dashed down the stairs to fling open the door like a lovestruck teenager, which is how I feel a lot of the time.

Go back to the Charlotte Street Hotel which is my most favourite hotel in London, and we stay in room 500, my most favourite room yet, and sleep fantastically.

Children with Grandparents update: Today they went to Paris. On the Eurostar. They went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Musee d’Orsay, and other places too numerous to mention. I am starting to think my parents are officially mad, and whilst it may be possible to fit a year's worth of grandparenting into four days, that doesn't necessarily mean it is advisable...

Thursday June 11th

Publication Day!

Penguin, as always, send me stunning flowers from Paula Pryke, which makes me feel thoroughly spoiled. Do Classic FM in the morning, then film some podcasts at Penguin, and attempt to stalk Lauren Child (author of Charlie and Lola) who is currently working in the building and who I am desperate to meet. She has clearly heard about me and has, wisely, scarpered.

Do quick signing in Waterstones in Oxford Street, and meet Des who has come to meet me all the way from Australia. There is a big poster in Waterstones that describes me as ‘the popular American author…’ Am hugely amused and wondering whether I should affect my utterly rubbish American accent so as not to embarrass Waterstones.

Then have completely bizarre thing happen on way out of the Penguin building. Building doorman person asks for my pass, and I don’t have one. Entered building with the lovely Natalie, who signed me in. Doorman starts shouting at Natalie and I for not having pass. Normally, when people shout at me, I shout back, but am so stunned and shocked, just stare at him in amazement. He refuses to open turnstile to let me out the building, effectively trapping me behind the bloody thing, and I ask whether that means he’s not going to let me out the building, as he is clearly not letting me out the building. He opens turnstile, I go through and then he shouts, ‘Don’t you speak to me like that.’ No idea what he’s talking about, so say, calmly, ‘I really think this attitude is entirely unnecessary.’ He then shouts, ‘I saw you roll your eyes. Don’t you roll your eyes at me.’ I tell him I wasn’t rolling my eyes, then very politely step up and ask for his name. He gives me his, then grabs a pen, and sneers, ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m not going to give you my name,’ I say, in amazement, as I turn and walk out the building, leaving him shouting at me, and I get in the car with Natalie, in utter shock.

We are both shaking, and we sit in silence for about twenty minutes, because if we speak there seems to be a very good chance one, if not both, of us, will burst into tears.

Have no idea who owns the Penguin building and therefore employs the security doormen type people, but am truly stunned that this beautiful building in the Strand has this type of doorman, for of course it transpires that this is one of many, many nasty encounters Penguin authors have had with this man.

Thankfully recover most of my equilibrium by time I get back to hotel, where boxes of yummy smelling stuff from Jo Malone are waiting in my room. Have a quick nap, oversleep massively, and have about twenty minutes to get ready for my launch party. Realize my legs are scarily white, and cover myself with fake tan spray. I now look very chavvy, and worse, I no longer smell of Jo Malone grapefruit and mint, but of a herd of camels after a particularly long and hot day. I realize my mistake too late, and then rush out the door forgetting to apply deoderant. Oh GOD.

I may smell like a peasant, but I feel like a queen. The party is at the Jo Malone store in Brook Street, I am wearing a Tory Burch dress that was a birthday gift from my editor and publisher – Louise and Tom, you are truly the best editor and publisher in the world, and I’m not just saying that because of the spectacular presents… - and I am thrilled at the number of people who are here, including family and old friends I haven’t seen for much too long.

Louise makes wonderful speech, I make speech in return, then my team, beloved and I troop off to Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester where we have the Lumiere table, and celebrate twelve years of being a Penguin, and my tenth novel.

Grandparents and children update: Don’t know. My parents now officially catatonic with exhaustion.

Friday 13th June

Back home on Virgin, not before noting I am number eight on WH Smiths chart, and have only been out one day!

Have no attention span so only manage to watch one movie, and few episodes of Gavin and Stacey and Little Britain. Also fascinated by documentary about KT Tunstall turning her flat green. Am planning on building a green house, so watch and make notes. Drive back to Connecticut wondering why American roads are filled with potholes, and thinking about Frank Sinatra song:

It’s very nice to go traveling, to Paris, London and Rome…but it’s so much nicer, yes it’s so much nicer to come home…