Chapter Forty-Nine Soundtrack: Turn Me On by Norah Jones

Maybe the award entries aren't so bad. I keep this thought to myself, because I know I am being fickle and hypocritical. But if we hadn't entered our shows for awards then I wouldn't have a chance, tonight, of winning a BAFTA.

And tonight, I might win a BAFTA.

Well, Pendleton might. But no matter what Barry says, I made that show. So it's practically my nomination, too.

I know it's cliche, but I've dreamed of winning a BAFTA for as long as I've dreamed of making TV. I used to watch them curled up under my covers because my mum rolled her eyes and called the awards a flashy display of wealth. And yes, of course, the evening is. But I loved seeing the faces I'd watched onscreen appear from their cars and vie for those awards: it reminded me that beyond the fame and the glitz, they were all artists.

That's how I see TV: as art. It can change lives, in small ways and big, and because it enters people's homes we don't get to see them watch it. Nights like tonight are the only celebration we get.

Whenever I walk past Piccadilly, I see the grand BAFTA building and know that inside, ideas are being crafted which will one day become stories on a screen, and go on to inspire another writer or director or editor to pursue their ambitions, too.

Plus it's nice to have a trophy.

I'm already fluttering around with excitement. I baked myself a pie, trying to calm down, but the whole day still stretches ahead of me before the ceremony tonight.

I've been to them before, but tonight feels different. Momentous.

Tonight feels like something is going to change.

Maybe I'm still feeling a little raw from Mei's tough love: I imagine my heart like a squishy slice of courgette, leaking and tender, inside of me. Clearly I need to work on my resilience. But I still think I've made good progress. Hell, in Finland I almost had sex.

And I think to get over this block of guilt still weighing me down, I need to actually have sex.

With Nas, obviously.

I can't deny the warmth in my core as I imagine his hands on me. I want Nas: I want him so much that my body reacts to the thought of him.

But I have only loved one man, in my entire life, and if I hadn't been so careless I would be wearing his wedding band right now. I can't jettison the guilt from that, even though I'm trying.

And Nas, for all his charm and his laughter, has only flirted with me and kissed me a few times. That's hardly a declaration of serious interest. By anyone's standards, we have only been friendly for a few months, and we're barely friends now. Will he come over to have sex with me? Without hesitation. I know that. But what will he say the next morning?

So can I have casual sex with him? The pounding of my heart begs me to. God, I want to. But I have worked so hard to rebuild myself. I have shaped a new life from the fragments of my grief, and if he shatters it without thinking... I can't do it a second time. I'm not strong enough.

But I want him, and that isn't going away.

Okay. So. Casual sex.

Nas does it all the time. It's nearly a running joke in the office. I'll just have to do what I do best, and learn from his example. And above all, I cannot let it be more than that. Not if I want to maintain this fragile almost-friendship of ours.

I really want to remain his friend. Everything else is a distraction.

When I saw Paul again, I realised: losing Nas would ruin anyone. I've already been ruined once. I can't risk it again.

I just can't.

Am I overthinking things?

Am I just nervous about the BAFTAs?

Or is this actually the best idea I've ever had?

Only one way to find out.

So, before I talk myself out of it, I text him: BAFTAs tonight

And then I go shave my legs. This takes a really long time. An embarrassingly long time.

By the time I emerge, with a little less blood still inside me, he's replied: Who are you betting on? I've got £10 on Pendleton but I heard the producer is a diva.

can't face it. might play hookie. I hold my breath, then add, join me?

£800/seat—that's a very expensive evening off

i'll make it worth your time.

Three dots appear, then vanish. Then reappear.

OK

Okay.

Win a BAFTA and have sex. That's only two things.

How hard can that be?

*

how hard will it be? only one way to find out...