Oh my God, London, you would not believe what happened.

Monday 28th June 2004.

Wow! I've got so much to tell you and don't really know where to start.
I don't want to miss anything out. So, first things first a fag and a
drink of orange juice (too many latt?'s and hot chocolates last week!)
while I scrawl down a quick list of things and the order they should be
told in.

Would this be a Soozie diary without a disaster? You remember Dear
diary the trouble and expense I've had recently with my animals? Well,
on Monday, the day before we were due to leave for London, Max (cat,
common or garden moggie, not polie) came limping downstairs. He was in
a terrible state. He held his right foreleg high in the air and I could
see immediately that it was very swollen. I had a look at him and
thought that his foot may well have been broken. It was very hot to the
touch and causing him a lot of pain. It couldn't have happened at a
worse time. What should I have done at this point? That one's easy. If
I had been a good and responsible animal owner, I'd have taken him
straight off to frosty britches, the vet. If he needed an operation,
pinning, setting it would have taken all my London money. I rang Martha
to ask her advice. Now, Martha is a wonderful woman but she isn't very
sympathetic to an animal's plight. "Sooz, it's a fiucking cat, my
friend. He'll probably be fine tomorrow. Leave instructions with Sian
that if he gets any worse to take him to the vets after we've gone."
Against my better judgement, I listened to her and did as she
suggested. She must have been pretty pissed off and worried. She knows
what I'm like when it comes to animals and realised that I was inches
from calling the whole London trip off.

Tuesday, day of departure, Max deteriorated throughout the day. By the
time we left for the train his leg was four times the size it should
have been, it was boiling hot and he was depressed and wouldn't leave
the little nest he'd made for himself on my bed. I had to literally
carry him downstairs to put him out for his business. There was no way
he was going to be able to negotiate my window, the flat roof, the yard
wall and the back gate to get out. Make no mistake, he should have gone
straight to the vets. Normally, I wouldn't have given it a second's
thought and would have taken him the night before when I first saw that
he'd injured himself. At this point, I thought he'd been hit by a car
or kicked by something human.

Martha, decided days ago that we were going to share a suitcase. A
decision she later came to regret many times over. Monday night, I
hauled my stuff round in five trips from my house to hers. She used
less than a quarter of the massive suitcase for herself
. "You're taking the piss aren't you? No way Sooz, we're going for five
days not five years." There was no chance that everything I wanted to
take would fit in, so, as I tried to ram more stuff in, Martha took it
out again and we bickered constantly throughout the day. Still, this
early on in the week, the bickering was good natured and only mildly
serious.

Leaving instruction with Sian to keep a close eye on Max, we left.
Sitting on the station, I worried constantly about the cat. Should I be
going? What kind of person was I leaving a sick cat without medical
attention while I swanned off to enjoy myself. In fairness, I did worry
about the cat now and again throughout the week but there were long
hours where sick cats animals in general and my kids ceased to exist. I
forgot to take my phone charger much to Martha's disgust, "Sooz, don't
forget your charger mate." She'd reminded me several times but if I'd
taken my charger one of my four pairs of jeans would have to have been
sacrificed. Priorities! The phone died and refused to play ball on
Wednesday morning. All my contact numbers were in the dead phone, Col,
Marty, Sian. Dalton and all who reside here, faded into the mists of
'elsewhere'.

The journey down was uneventful. The time flew. We were Thelma and
Louise again, off on adventure, happy and buoyant. To pass the time we
talked about how I was going to kill Marc, and then about how best to
dispose of the body. I want to electrocute him, no mess you see. I also
needed it to be accidental but wanted Beth to feel responsible and
carry the burden. The problem I have, is that Marc's house is ultra
modern an there is no way that a man like him would have exposed live
wires anywhere. We were discussing this quite animatedly when a voice,
followed by a pair of animated eyes, popped up from the seat behind.
"Why don't you use one of those electric water feature ornaments that
are made of fibreglass? It could quite easily be smashed in a scuffle
leaving the element exposed." From there, Chris (I'm not allowed to
change his name, he wants full credit for this), the man on the train,
came to sit with us and for the rest of the journey we brainstormed and
problem solved, not only this book, but one other that has been asking
to be written, but was not without its problems, and he helped come up
with the ideas for not one, but two more thrillers.

We alighted at Euston in good humour and a happy frame of mind but we
had to lug Godzilla the suitcase, two handbags and several assorted
other bags a long way. We bought week passes for the tube. They cost me
forty pounds, I balked at the price, but in retrospect they were worth
every single penny and we more than got our money's worth from them.
The journey to Maurizio's flat was a nightmare not only did we have to
negotiate stairs, escalators and changes on the tube, but we had a fair
old hike at the other end. Mauri, lives in Knightsbridge, just around
the corner from Harrods. Martha has told me often about her ex-husband
and his fifteen restaurants and various other business enterprises, but
I had no idea just how loaded, famous and influential this bloke
is.

We arrived at the apartment and I tried very hard not to look too
impressed. Mauri's place is a mis-match of style, elegance, taste,
opulence, extreme distaste and vanity. It doesn't merely scream money,
it hollers it like a wailing banshee. The faces of a thousand famous
people, all personal friends of Mauri, looked down from every inch of
wall space.

The first people we met were Madonna and Nonna. Mauri, has a huge
Italian family, he is very family orientated and his folks mean
everything to him. Every summer he brings his mother and sister over
from Naples to stay for several months. Martha had already instructed
me to address Nonna formally as 'Senora'. This is the recognised mark
of respect, but also due to the fact that her name is bloody
unpronounceable. The first evening I called her 'Senora' after that he
was just Nonna to me and everyone else. There was another lady there
called, Donnatella, she was an aunt I think. It was so beautiful
watching Martha with her family after a couple of years absence. She
has been divorced from Mauritzio for over thirty years but she is, and
always will be, family. She was his first wife, the mother of his only
child and the only one out of several wives who still has the title of
'family' She instantly launched into Italian, with many flamboyant hand
gestures. Every few minutes another round of face holding, kissing and
hugging would ensue. I wasn't excluded from any of this. I understood
in seconds why Martha has such fondness for these people, especially
Madonna. I did feel awkward, but not because I felt intrusive or
unwelcome. The only reason I felt like an idiot was because of the
language barrier. The ladies don't speak a word of English and prattled
away to me while I stood there saying 'Si' repeatedly, grinning
inanely, and hopping from foot to aching foot. I instantly liked
Madonna, she is a big no-nonsense Italian mamma. She is used to a
constant stream of strange faces parading, in various degrees of
nakedness, through the apartment. Sometimes, Maurio has over twenty
people, all rich and famous, staying there. Madonna makes everyone feel
welcome but is unimpressed with Lennox Lewis or her famous namesake who
failed to wipe the bath out after use.

Nonna, is an elderly lady suffering poor health. She is going senile
and becomes confused easily. Every morning she would gaze boldly at me
with such an expression of, 'who the fuck are you?' on her face that
you couldn't help but love her. Nonna sees dead people and can often be
heard saying, 'Scuzi Senor,' in the corridors and talking to people who
appear in the hundreds of mirrors hung about the place. Whether this is
due to her condition or something else is anybody's guess. Nobody can
really hold a conversation with Nonna, even the Italians and family
struggle so she pretty much sits her days out talking to her
ghosts.

The entrance halls, corridors and bedroom were impressive, the entire
family sleep in one massive room, but finally we were taken into the
lounge to meet the great man himself.

My first, and only, thought on meeting Maurio was, 'Don't look down
Sooz, whatever you do, don't look down.' He was naked apart from a raw
silk kimono that had been left to gape from neck to knees. He looked
like an Indian, of the Native American variety, with very long black
hair. He continued to ramble on to the room full of people in
Mauritzio-English. The hugs and kiss kiss began again. I didn't
recognise any of the people in the room but amongst them was Barry,
somebody or other (from then on I saw him lots and was on first name
terms with him so never did learn his surname) He is a movie producer
and has just finished filming in Hungary, or some such country with
Antonio Banderras and Sly Stallone. Maurio had a small part in the film
too apparently and had the mosquito bites to prove it but I didn't
look, honest I didn't

We did the Italian kiss, kiss thing and I shyly muttered, "Thank you
for having us." He looked around the room to make sure his audience
were listening and he replied.

"I haven't `ad you yet, babeee, later eh? I have you later, fuckee,
fuckee."

I moved away from his embrace, looked him square in the eye, winked at
him, and said,

"Maybe, but at least wait until after a cup of coffee, eh?"

He fell about laughing. He's used to socialising with twenty year old
air heads and I don't suppose many of his girlies have a comeback ready
for him. I knew we were going to get along okay.

After everybody had gone and the ladies were in bed, things got weird.
We were sitting on his three acres of sofa, Martha and Maurio were
catching up and I was pretty much just taking in the ambiance of the
place.

"So, Sooz, tell me about your books."

I told him about them, mainly Devil. Martha dutifully trotted off to
the suitcase to fetch them and I had to relate the synopsis of Devil to
him in detail. He read a couple of pages nodding occasionally and
muttering in Italian.

He seemed to come to some decision and crossed the room to the
telephone.

"Armand, my brother, listen up man. I ave a friend here, Sooz. She's
family, man. She's staying in my home for a week. She's one of us, man.
Thing is, she's an author. She writes books. This one, Better The Devil
You Know, is shitty hot man, It's perfect for your next project. It's
good, like Dot Kill, man. Here is Sooz. She tells you."

The phone was thrust into my hand and I was speaking to Armand Assante
in Hollywood. He's only one of the biggest movie producers in America.
I babbled and we chatted like old mates for half an hour. I kept
thinking about Maurio's phone bill and whether I should offer to pay
for the call.

He explained that he was currently working on a movie called Dot Kill.
It's topical and controversial and it's tipped to be huge when it comes
out. He's been looking for something just has 'sensational' (his word)
to follow it. After explaining the synopsis again, he asked that I DHDL
the book to him first thing the next morning. He said he was excited
about it and it could be just the thing he's been looking for.

Needless to say, we didn't get much sleep. We were up until almost four
talking, composing letters to Armand and getting a package ready for
him the following morning. He asked for all of my books because his
production company does different genres of movies and he said he'd
like to look at the Leap series too.

Maurio hadn't finished with me yet. He had another idea. His friend,
Chris Owen, runs the biggest model agency in London. Naomi Campbell and
Claudia Schiffer are just two of the fillies in his stable. Maurio said
he was going to set up a meeting with him for me.

Um ? why?

I didn't find out why until very much later and finally settled on the
sofa confused and with a million and one questions. In three hours this
amazing man had done more for me than all my so called publishers put
together. If nothing else came from the trip, Armand Assante was going
to read my work and acted as though it was me doing him the favour for
sending them. The evening had taken on a surreal glow, nothing felt
real anymore.

I went to sleep wanting to tell Rick about my good fortune but of
course I didn't He was supposed to be in London with me. If I had gone
with Rick I'd have booked us into my usual grotty little B&;amp;B on
Gower Street. Instead, I was sleeping in a grand apartment, one corner
on from Harrods in the heart of Knightsbridge with movie deals and
contracts running through me head.

Mary and I were queuing outside the post office at nine the following
morning when it opened.