Having a baby lay somewhere in the future. Until suddenly, after a night in a Hollywood hotel, it didn’t
I hadn’t meant to have a baby at all. I hadn’t meant not to have a baby either, by which I mean I always thought I’d have children one day. I just thought those children would grow up with me and their yet-to-materialise father in a lovely farmhouse, hugged by the hills, with an Aga and a dog and long, invigorating walks through the fields. This was not how I had grown up in Yorkshire, but it wasn’t a million miles from it either. It was an idealised version of home, and it lived somewhere vaguely in my future as an unspecified certainty.
Exactly how I thought La Vida Farmhouse was going to appear when I was, in fact, living in a one-bedroom rented apartment in West Hollywood in 2010 isn’t clear. My apartment was just behind the Sunset Strip part of Sunset Boulevard. The Strip is the glamorously cheesy bit, full of rooftop pools and famous people, and it was a place that encouraged in me a relationship with reality that could at best be described as negligible. I was working as a journalist, interviewing Hollywood celebrities for newspapers and magazines back home.
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