Sparkling rose gold and new black leather strap, the small gold button that had popped off for no reason last year was finally repaired, the scratches erased.
I bought the watch with the money I was paid by The News of the World when I sold my Elizabeth Hurley ‘tell all’ story after the making of my film, The Method. My sweet revenge for her appalling behaviour, the treatment of me and others and general vileness.
Most of all I sold that story because it galled me daily that a talentless witch like Hurley could steal a paying job from a real actress.
Going into that project I rather stupidly thought that I could give her the benefit of the doubt and coerce a performance out of her. When she told me rather grandly the first day of shooting not to direct her because she was a ‘a celebrity, not an actress’ I really had nowhere to go.
A grueling 3 months followed.
The keystone cop like producers Brad Wyman and Donald Kushner were not interested in making a film, rather they were busily conning money out of the British tax system, which at the time had an incentive designed to help the British Film industry but had been so bastardized that films made in Romania with American producers armed with dodgy budgets..qualified as BRITISH. The BUDGET for The Method that the government saw was no way translated into what the local Romanian crew were paid..about $100 a week.
I told Will Self about this terrible con which, during the time it was operational, must have funneled as much tax payers money out of the country into American bank accounts as it would have cost to pay for several new British hospitals.
Will was appalled. Deborah Orr was appalled. everyone I mentioned it to was appalled but nobody did anything about it.
Thankfully Gordon Brown finally put an end to this theft overseen by the worst kind of British film producers.
If you think I have been nasty to Jake..read what I wrote about Elizabeth.
The Architect stayed over last night. It’s not happening again. I am waiting for him to leave as I write. No sex. I cooked dinner. He smokes really hard. He makes a kind of gay purring ‘ah ha’ when he means to say yes and his perfume and shoes are CHEAP. His hands on me in the night caused pain in my skin his attention was so unwelcome. He was all over me like a rash.
He just left.
I may be a perfectionist, as Jake said, but when I loved him..Jake was my perfection. I simply loved touching him, kissing him, rubbing his head. I loved him laying beside me. I loved his smell and his eyes and soft mouth.
Which makes his treachery that much worse.
I hate him perfectly like I loved him perfectly. For a short while the search for my illusive man was over. For all his miserable flaws and inappropriateness and unavailability I loved him. I really loved him.
They ask me privately: How then, if you say you love him, can you treat him like that?
Anyone who asks that audacious question has never truly been in love and I pity you.
My perfect hatred for him is built like a leaden, black as night, tar wall between what is and what was. A black tar wall erected between me and him so I never yearn for him, never cry for him, never love him ever again.
It is the only way I know how.
When I think of all the arguments I have heard for why he was not right for me I am dumb-founded by how pedestrian they are. LOVE, love when it comes should be fought for! I tried every thing I knew to keep him and when I failed, when I failed I couldn’t be his friend. Listening to him tell me about other men. Listening to him reveal in every sordid detail of who fucked who, how many times they came. The rides home to Washington Heights. Those despicable stories are etched into my brain.
I really loved him and he tormented me with what he did with others. He tormented me because he saw that love weakens me.
This morning, after the architect left I opened all the windows and doors. I stripped the bed and I wept because I miss the familiarity of my lover. I miss you so much and I never get to tell you. Instead, I have to tell you that I hate you. That I want my money back. That you betrayed me. I don’t want to tell you any of those things. I want you to know that I miss you, that you left something indelible that I try every single day like an idiot savant scrubbing a tattoo out of his skin…to forget.