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a week-long moment of madness. And I shall refuse to let him portray it as a sacrifice. He must have no grounds for appeal. Nothing has been sacrificed except for my own self-esteem.
    I suddenly feel strong and, what’s more, I have learnt a lesson which I could never accept from the exemplars at school: true strength lies in self-denial.
    The attendants recite the Lord’s Prayer, a sign that my allotted time is up. They raise me to face the statuette of the Virgin and I feel a dizzying sense of peace as I kiss her feet. After helping me out of the bath, the Scot unties my wrap and gives me the same scrap of privacy as before while I put on my bra and pants. Decent again – at least in the eyes of the world – I say an inadequate ‘ Merci ’ and return to the cubicle where I quickly slip into the rest of my clothes.
    I hurry out into the open. The sun’s glare makes me squint and I struggle to read my watch, but, even in the blur, I am sure that I must be due at the Grotto Mass. For the first time since the International Mass on Tuesday, I feel that I can participate with a pure heart.
    ‘Gillian!’ I hear a voice which, after a moment, I identify as Patricia’s.
    ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ I say. ‘Aren’t we meeting at the Grotto?’
    ‘Yes, but I need to speak to you. Before you make any decisions you may regret.’
    ‘They’re made. But don’t worry. I shan’t be leaving Richard. Not now, not ever.’
    ‘Oh Gillian!’
    ‘We came looking for a miracle and I’ve found one. I’m cured of my delusion; I’m ready to resume my life.’

VINCENT : Monday June 16
    Monday June 16
     

       
    ‘W hen I was fourteen, my mother asked me if I’d ever thought of becoming a priest. “No,” I replied, “isn’t it bad enough being a Catholic?”’
    ‘I bet that had them rolling in the aisles at Television Centre,’ Jewel says.
    ‘I see you’re setting out with your usual open mind,’ Sophie says.
    ‘You’ve missed your calling, chief,’ Jamie says.
    ‘That’s what my mother thought.’
    ‘Yeah, you’re wasted in broadcasting. You should be wowing them on the club circuit.’
    I sit with my crew of three at a lozenge-shaped table in a café at Stansted airport, waiting for the pilgrims to arrive. The stools, which resemble pawns on a giant chess set, have been fixed at such a distance from the table that it is impossible to relax. I have been trying out the opening line of my voice-over on an audience who, I know, will not spare me. We are a close-knit team, sufficiently respectful of each other’s talents to be able to mock them, veterans of a day in an asylum centre, a week at Hello magazine and a trip with two soap stars to a WaterAid project in Zambia. To my left is Jamie, the cameraman, whose sharp eye belies his burly physique and bluff tone. He has a bristly beard, a ring in each ear and a propensity to sweat that bothers him far more than it does the rest of us. To my right is Jewel, the sound recordist, who with characteristic rigour, has had her childhood nickname ratified by deed poll. Unlike Jamie’s beer-and-indolence belly, Jewel’s bulk is congenital and, what with her cropped hair, regulation check shirt and jeans, not to mention the Celtic tattoo which first came to my notice in Africa, it would be easy to assume that her desire to be one of the boys went beyond the professional, had not her outrageously raunchy stories in various hotel bars proved otherwise. Completing the group is our newest recruit, Sophie, the assistant producer, a tirelessly efficient media studies graduate who, unlike the rest of us, makes no secret of her longing to work on features. Petite, stylish and as studiedly accessorised as a fashion editor, she currently sports a fitted black satin waistcoat, grey pencil skirt and carmine lipstick , which exactly matches her handbag and shoes.
    Sophie’s outfit has caught the eyes of a gang of Geordies at the neighbouring table. Having worked