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from me – and as the series went into production, I found it impossible to see her more than once a month. That bothered me to the point where, on those frequent nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d pace the floors of the large West Hollywood loft that Sally and I rented and ponder why I had fractured my family. I knew all the reasons: a marriage that had become inanimate . . . the dazzling style and brilliance of MsBirmingham . . . the seductive momentum that accompanies success (and the desire to slam the door on all those past years of failure). But in those four-in-the-morning moments of private despair, I couldn’t help but think: I shouldn’t have fallen so easily when pushed. Surely I could have talked Lucy into taking me back. Surely we could have made a go of it again.
    But then, come morning, there would be a script to finish, a meeting to take, a deal to ink, an opening to attend with Sally on my arm – in short, the relentless forward momentum of success. It was a momentum which would allow me to temporarily dodge the lingering guilt; the silent, ever-present uncertainty about everything in this new life of mine.
    Of course, news of my changed domestic set-up was on the Hollywood bush telegraph within moments of my departure from the family home. Everyone said all the right solicitous things (to my face, anyway) about the difficulties of ending a marriage. The fact that I had ‘run off’ (to use that meretricious expression) with one of the most high-profile young television executives in town didn’t do my standing any harm. I had traded upwards – and, as Brad Bruce told me, ‘Everyone knew you were a smart guy, David. Now everyone’s going to think you’re a really smart guy.’
    My agent’s reaction, however, was typically caustic. Alison knew and liked Lucy – and in the wake of the deal for the first series of
Selling You
, she had warned me to dodge all home-wrecking temptations. So, when I broke the news that I was about to start a new life with Sally, she fell silent. Finally she said, ‘I guess I should congratulate you for waiting over a year before doing something like this. Thenagain, it’s what always happens out here when somebody has the big breakthrough.’
    ‘I am in love, Alison.’
    ‘Congratulations. Love is a wonderful thing.’
    ‘I knew you were going to react this way.’
    ‘Sweetheart – don’t you know that there are only ten stories in the world . . . and, right now, you’re acting out one of them. But I will say this – at least your story has a different twist to it.’
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘In your case, the writer’s fucking the producer. In my jaded experience, it’s always the other way around. So bravo – you’re defying the laws of Hollywood gravity.’
    ‘But Alison – it was you who got us together in the first place.’
    ‘Tell me about it. But don’t worry – I’m not going to demand my fifteen per cent on your future joint earnings.’
    Alison did point out, however, that as Sally and I were now an item, it was best if we let the proposed Fox pilot (which I still hadn’t written) lapse.
    ‘Face fact, it’s going to look like her wedding gift to you – and I can just imagine some Peter Bart wannabee making a big issue out of it in
Daily Variety
.’
    ‘Sally and I have discussed this already. We agreed that it’s best if we forget the pilot for Fox.’
    ‘What charming pillow talk you must have together.’
    ‘It was over breakfast.’
    ‘Before or after working out?’
    ‘Why do I put up with you?’
    ‘Because, “as a friend” I really am your friend. And also because I watch your back . . . to the point where the adviceI have just given you is going to cost me almost forty grand in commission.’
    ‘You’re such an altruist, Alison.’
    ‘No – just plain stupid. Still, here’s one final piece of counsel from your fifteen per cent big sister: Keep your head down in the coming months. You’ve had it too