In which I have a Mr Darcy moment

By Liz Jones Diary

Last updated at 8:01 PM on 2nd July 2011

For Liz's previous diary entries, click below

On Sunday, I had to speak at the Hay book festival on the subject of celebrity. I drove for three hours there, three hours back. I wore skinny jeans, a McQueen black jacket with tails, and Prada heels that meant I couldn’t walk across the grass, so had to cling to passing members of the public. I had no idea, as I staggered around, whether I was a spectacle of fun and ridicule, or someone who deserves a special, magical life, who is going to have a happy ending. Absolutely no idea.
After the talk, during which I couldn’t hear the questions from the audience, so I’m sure they thought I was either insane or rude, I sat in the tent by the books, by myself. Feeling like a prize chump among all the super-confident speakers who were braying loudly, I melted away. I had booked to see a property in the Brecon Beacons. If I sell my place, I can afford this one, and have no mortgage. After an hour of driving through lanes flanked by high hedges, I eventually found it: 90 acres of pasture, with woodland. There was no drive to it, merely a grassy track, which I negotiated in my heels.
Eventually, I found the dwelling: a group of derelict farm buildings. Inside one, a startled cow clattered away. The view was amazing, with the Black Mountains looming in the distance. I couldn’t see my BMW ever getting up here. There is no water, no electricity, no broadband, but I would be surrounded by land, so the animals would be safe. But I would have no home. I would have to build one, from scratch. I wonder if I’m up to this, if I’m strong enough. In the past three years I have found inner reserves of steel I never knew I had, but can I start all over again? It would be liberating to have no debts, but is this, to paraphrase Bridget Jones, leaping out of the frying pan and into the bottom of a dirty kettle?

I realised he’d been a light at the end of the tunnel. But I’d been too miserable to hold on to him, too busy wallowing

I drove home, dejected. I was in tears, not knowing what to do. I feel wasted, to be honest. No one appreciates me. I have always done my best, worked hard, been generous and nice to people, and here I am, almost homeless again. No friends. All the other speakers today had families with them. I, of course, had no one. I got home, and then had to feed the dogs and cats, nurse Susie, who is confined to a dog cage to keep her stitches intact, fetch Dream, Benji and Nellie, walk the dogs, feed the horses. Drag in their huge buckets of water to them. Soak Ben and Dream’s hay, which always manages to give me Wet Thigh Syndrome. This on top of six hours of driving. It is too much.
I realised how having a potential love interest on the horizon had taken my mind off all the hardship, the loneliness, the isolation. He’d been a life raft, a light at the end of the tunnel. But I’d been too miserable to hold on to him, too busy wallowing. I’d been expecting him to let me down, so he did. If I have to live in a caravan in Wales I think I’ll go into even more of a decline.
The next morning, early, after little sleep, I got up and made myself a pot of coffee. I went and sat on the stone steps that overlook the top paddock. There are nettles encroaching on the step. The place has gone to seed. I’ve gone to seed. There were pockets of mist in the bottom of my valley. It was cold, but I could tell it was going to be warm later. I could see Lizzie at the bottom of the big field, with Nic’s two horses, on the other side of the stream. Suddenly, her head went up. I wonder if she heard me grinding coffee beans, or my teeth. She always hears things before I do. Above her loomed a helicopter. It’s that man who owns The Ivy again who lives nearby. It disappeared over the trees, towards the hill field and the lakes. ‘Noisy bastards!’ I said to myself, examining Michael for ticks. I’m sure I’m harbouring Lyme disease.
And then, about half an hour later, I saw him. Trudging through the fields, which must be soaked with dew. It was a Matthew-Macfadyen-as-Mr-Darcy moment. It was Him.