MONDAY
“Of course, I don’t take my clothes off in this film,” I tell the man from the newspaper. “And I imagine that’s all you’ll be interested in.” We’re in a hotel lobby in Venice. I am promoting my new film, The Queen, at the film festival.
The man from the newspaper freezes, with his pen above his pad. “Well, no,” he says, sounding surprised. “I was actually going to ask you about your character, this sort of stiff, matronly figure who is actually a perplexed, frightened . . .”
“It’s all you people ever seem to care about,” I say. “It’s tedious. And it simply wouldn’t be right in a film about Her Majesty. The Queen is never naked.”
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“Fine,” says the man from the newspaper. “I understand. Which is why I was going to ask you about the complex symbolism which manifests . . .”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“But I’m not interested in . . .”
“Oh, go on then,” I snap. “Ask away. You dirty little man.”
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TUESDAY
All the critics adore the film. My agent is very pleased. He thinks that this could send my career off in a new and exciting direction. Apparently the scripts are already flooding in.
“Oh God, don’t tell me,” I say. “Basic Instinct III. Eyes Wide Shut II. Haven’t these people had enough of my breasts?” “Actually, there’s the next Harry Potter film. Something about a girl and her wise grandmother. And Spielberg wants you to play Mother Teresa.”
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“Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” I mutter. “Something horrid with Romans having orgies. What am I? A piece of meat?”
WEDNESDAY
“She is the Queen!” I tell the chat-show host. “I find the suggestion highly offensive!”
“Um, sorry?” says the chat-show host. “What suggestion?”
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()I lean forward in my swivel studio chair. “The Queen is never naked! How dare you?”
The chat-show host checks his notes. “Weren’t we talking about the inherent synergies between Diana-worship and the rise of Blairism?”
“As if I would play the Queen naked! Listen to me, young man: the Queen does not do naked. She washes in a swimming costume. She changes her underwear behind a screen. She makes love in a dressing gown!”
“But I . . .” The chat-show host frowns. “Hold on. How do you know all this?”
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THURSDAY
“Of course, that’s all they’re ever interested in,” I remark, drily, to the chap steering my gondola. “I’ve been plagued by this sort of thing ever since Age of Consent in 1969. Of course, I suppose it was to be expected after Calendar Girls. But I have an Emmy! I am a Dame! Yet all anybody ever wants to talk about is how often I take my clothes off. Really, I’m not surprised you brought it up.”
“Non capisco,” says the gondola man.“Feefty euro.”
FRIDAY
My telephone rings, early.
“Hello?” I say.
“One is naked sometimes, you know,” says a voice. “It wouldn’t be hygienic otherwise.”
“Who is this?” I say, but they have hung up. I rub my eyes. It can’t have been. Can it?