On Wednesday, I drove to London again. I had to get to a theatre by midday – I left home at 6am – and be in hair and make-up for four hours, then do a shoot all afternoon, where I had to learn to tango. That evening, I had to go to the theatre to watch a performance.
I got back to the cupboard at 11pm, to sit down and write the piece because the office wanted it first thing. My phone had died, so I plugged it in in the bedroom, and sat down to write. At 3am, having pressed ‘send’, I finally staggered to bed.
There were six missed calls on my mobile. I hadn’t thought anyone would phone so late, so hadn’t worried that it was switched off. I had scrolls and scrolls of texts from my assistant Nic. I read through them, panic rising in my chest.
‘Liz. Tried calling you but your phone must be off. I went to check the horses in the barn at 11pm, and Lizzie was lame on that left front foot again. She had hobbled a bit when I got her in, but it seemed to be a stone, which I picked out, and then she was fine. She was only out in the sun for a few hours, as I didn’t want her to overdo it.
But at the last check, she seemed strange, she kept lying down, then getting up again, so I went indoors to call the vet. When I went out again, barely five minutes, I noticed she was looking round at her belly, which means she has colic. I am sitting with her now waiting for the vet to come.’
The next one read: ‘Vet has been. She gave her an internal exam, but couldn’t find anything serious. She has had painkillers, and I’m going to sleep in the barn with her. She seems a bit quieter now. I keep staring at her, thinking she has stopped breathing, and a rat just ran over my leg! I don’t know who jumped more, me or the rat! Will try you again in the morning.’
I called her, but it went to voicemail. The next morning, having barely slept, I called again. Nic picked up. ‘Why did she get colic? She has never, ever had colic before!’
‘The vet thinks she was in pain, and so didn’t eat or drink, which can bring on a tummy ache. She seems fine now, but is still lame.’
I couldn’t understand it. The day before I left for the shoot, I had walked Lizzie out, to help condition her feet as she has only just got over her previous abscess.
She had been so interested in her surroundings, ears pricked, not bothered by a tractor rattling past.
I had walked her on to the bridle path, and through a raging stream, and she had not hesitated, which is amazing for a horse with bad eyesight. I really felt we had turned a corner.
And now this.
There were six missed calls. I hadn’t thought anyone would phone so late
I went to work. Later that morning, I got another text from Nic. ‘Went in to give her lunch, and an abscess had burst through her coronet band! [This is the circular seal between hoof and leg.] So it was an infection, and it must have been unable to burst through the sole, and had come out there! No wonder she was in so much pain. She is looking much brighter now, eating small meals every two hours!’
Thank God, but why does she keep getting these painful episodes? Why is it always one disaster after another?
I didn’t tell you that when I got home from the abortive drink with the Rock Star in a really awful corporate hotel, I emptied my small Prada bag (ten years old), and noticed the bottom was full of strange white stuff.
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I’d been at a fashion show before going to meet him, and at the end of the show, fake snow had rained down on the models’ heads. I went into the bathroom, and tipped it over the sink. As I did so, more snow rained down from my head. I glanced up.
Oh dear God! No wonder he was content to leave me at the side of the road, while he sped off in his brand new car.
My scalp and my shoulders were covered in what looked like the worst case of dandruff in the world.