Sally Farmiloe, Jeffrey Archer's ex-mistress reveals her regrets By Sally Farmiloe Looking back: Actress Sally Farmiloe talks of her regrets following her second cancer diagnosis The night shadows are closing in around me; my days on Earth are bittersweet because they are running out. I have secondary bone cancer and it is irreversible and untreatable. So this is why I lie restless and wakeful in the cruel dark hours before dawn, and look back upon my colourful life and reflect - about the moments I hold dearest; about those things I wish I could have done or left undone, and about the people I value most. I am filled with regrets. The pernicious disease took root in my left breast in May last year. After a course of chemotherapy two lumps were excised. Then I had radiotherapy. I thought I had the cancer whipped. But I had barely begun to celebrate my return to good health when, this July, the disease returned with a vengeance. Now it is running amok in my body - my doctors tell me it is also in my liver. My one hope is that the aggressive bouts of chemotherapy I am currently undergoing will prolong my life. But they cannot cure me. And so it is that for the first time that I have no excitement for the future, and I find myself perhaps inevitably dwelling unduly on the past. And when I review my regrets, my keenest ones are private and intensely personal. My affair with Jeffrey Archer - although it, to my considerable chagrin, has, to the outside world at least, defined my entire life - does not cause me guilt or remorse. On the contrary, my only regret is that I was caught, but I'll come back to Jeffrey later. No, now time is the most precious commodity I have, my abiding sorrow is that I did not always spend it judiciously. I wasted opportunities to be with those I love most. And the sadness that recurs - the one that returns to haunt me most - is that I was not with my beloved father Tom when he died. I can, of course, remember the day I lost him with stark clarity. Sunshine flooded his room; outside, beyond the terrace, bright daffodils bloomed. All around were signs of the rebirth that each new spring heralds. But he was dead. Sadness: Sally says her greatest regret is not being with her father Tom, the two pictured together in 1970 above, when he died aged 90 He lay in his bed, in the nursing home where he had lived for a decade, his sea-green eyes closed for ever, his familiar voice silenced. I stood beside him, stroked his old hand and wept. I had arrived too late to say my last goodbye to him and seven years on I still reproach myself. I could have driven faster from my home in West London to his in rural Hampshire. I could have left earlier; recognised the urgency in the voice of the care home manager. She had told me Daddy was ill, that he had barely eaten for days, but I had assumed - resilient soul that he was - that he would rally as he always did. Although he was 90, I think I almost believed he was immortal. But that was my folly and even now I cry about it, because I, his only daughter - his cherished little girl - was not there to say my last goodbye to him. I was not beside him to comfort him and pilot him from this world into the next. I did not soothe him with quiet words. I failed to tell him one last time, as he slipped away, that I loved him. And that regret will haunt me always. My mother Pam had died ten years earlier. My brother was abroad. Daddy was relying on me and I failed him. I have lived ever since with the guilt and remorse. Sometimes I even believe the stress I felt about it triggered my cancer. As a child I was my daddy's girl. We shared a passion for riding and his cure-all for every woe was to go out for a hack on our horses. "Come on old girl," he'd say, if ever I was in trouble or in the doldrums. Let's go out for a ride. And so we did, just the two of us, sharing the exhilaration of a gallop in the countryside. I was raised on my parents" farm in Hampshire - I didn't know then quite how privileged I was - but looking back now I know the greatest gift my father gave me was his companionship and unconditional love. He was a National Hunt jockey, a strong, handsome man with steel grey hair which he never lost until the day he died in March 2006. Together: Sally Farmiloe and Jeffrey Archer pictured at a ball in London. Their affair was exposed soon after this picture was taken I look back today over the rich blessings of my wonderful childhood with my dear parents. I can smile, too, at the fun I shared with Daddy in his dwindling years. Although he was diabetic, I used to smuggle his favourite tipple, Baileys, into the nursing home; I still remember his mischievous delight as he sipped it. But the vision that abides, with intractable persistence, is the one of his stick-thin arms, reduced to skin and bone, as I stroked them after he died. And in my hierarchy of my regrets, there is one other that stands above the rest and it involves my beloved daughter. Jade, 21, a model, is my only biological child, although I have an adorable stepson, Alistair, 24, a chef, and dear adopted daughter Kat, 27, a school teacher. But it was Jade who I let down badly one day when I put money before maternal duty and accepted a lucrative last-minute modelling assignment instead of going to watch her in an A-level school drama production. Affair: Sally's affair with Archer, pictured, was exposed by the press in 1999 Jade went to Bedales independent school in Hampshire; she inherited my love of performing and, as an actress, I encouraged and nurtured her talent. I would listen to her rehearsing and offer my suggestions. I loved to be involved and know how she valued my input. But that day four years ago, in her final year at school, I did not turn up to see her. I remember making my hurried excuses. Darling, I know you'll understand, but I've just got a modelling job. It pays a lot of money and I'll be able to buy you lots of treats instead of coming to watch you," I told her. Jade, bless her heart, said she understood completely; that it was quite right that I should forgo her performance and work. Since then I have realised just how hurt she was, because a friend of hers confided in me. I know, too, how she longed to scan the audience and see my face there, suffused with a proud and tearful smile. All her friends" parents were there. I was not. And only now do I recognise how wrong my priorities were. We went out to her favourite sushi restaurant in Kensington afterwards, as I'd promised we would. I even bought her a jade necklace in honour of her name. But what she really coveted was my presence at her school - my recognition of her achievement; her hard work and talent - and if I could live that day again I know where I would spend it. Because those we love, I realise now, more sharply than ever, are really all that matters. And as a stream of good, old friends come to visit me as I fight this horrid disease, I feel blessed that they have found time to give me their company. I am not strong enough - although I hope I will be - to leave my house in West London so I have ample time to think, and I don't feel I have much else to reproach myself for. Of course, I think about my affair with Jeffrey Archer - before he fell from grace and was imprisoned for perjury - and I do not regret our relationship so much as the fact that it became, for years, the one thing that shaped me. Jeffrey was a witty, kind and attentive man. He also taught me a great deal about fundraising, which has allowed me to be successful in supporting several charities. What I do regret, however, was the furore that surrounded us when our relationship was uncovered by a newspaper in 1999 and made public. Overnight I acquired a new and unwelcome persona. I was no longer known as an actress and an intelligent woman with a savvy head for business. Suddenly I was a scarlet woman. Conscience: Sally says she often thought about Jeffrey's wife, Mary pictured right, following the affair, but does not regret her actions After my success in the Eighties TV drama Howards" Way, I'd become a stalwart of the after-dinner speaking circuit. All of a sudden I was persona non grata; invitations from the WI dried up completely. I felt my reputation had been tarnished, quite unjustifiably. Some were intent on portraying me as a predatory husband-stealer. But of course the truth is far more convoluted. As so many errant husbands do, Jeffrey assured me his marriage was all but over, and I still do not feel I warranted the onslaught of vitriol that ensued after our relationship was uncovered. I've thought about Jeffrey's wife, Mary, of course, but my conscience remains clear. Jeffrey assured me she had her own life and attachments; that they had a tacit and civilised agreement to remain married while leading separate lives. I did not believe I had harmed her; neither does the fear prey on my mind now. Beauty: Sally pictured in 1979 at the height of her acting career I have had other high-profile boyfriends: Andrew Neil, the journalist and broadcaster, and Sir Clive Sinclair, the inventor, among them. I've always been attracted to intelligence rather than looks: both of them were adorable, clever men and I'm pleased I knew them. Of course, now I have my Jeremy, 60, a chartered surveyor and I love him very much. We've been married for 11 years and he has stood by me, stoic and calmly supportive, through my illness. He does not fuss over me; I've no wish that he should. But it is a solace to know he is there; that the house is busy, too, with the comings-and-goings of our children. And I do not know how those who have no families and friends - the lonely, the single; the isolated - cope when their lives are ebbing away. These days I cannot walk far and because I am confined to my home I have learned to appreciate the small pleasures around me. I watch the tree outside my window turn with the changing seasons from spring green to golden and russet. I savour the chartreuse and indigo of wonderful stippled-sky sunsets, and the rose pink and carmine of bright new dawns. I am even grateful for the dull, grey days. To me they are all golden, because I am still here. Terminal illness has little to commend it, but I think it sensitises us to small, everyday joys. I wish I had lingered over them when I was well. I wish I had taken the time just to stand and stare. What I long for now, is very little: just to walk round the park with my Jadey, to smell the fresh earth after rain, to feel the breeze on my face. But because steroids have made me bloated, I can only waddle a few feet. And as I embark on my third course of oral chemotherapy I feel uncomfortable but it is bearable, and I still manage to laugh about my travails. My skin has acquired a strange yellowy orange tinge - I think I may be jaundiced - but the colour makes me look less pallid. I'm grateful that it saves on fake tan! I am making tentative plans, too, for my recovery. My dear friend Rose-Marie, an Irish singer, came to see me yesterday. We reminisced and laughed about the fun we'd had over the years. Once we went to a film launch wearing identical silvery dresses. We both looked as if we'd been badly wrapped in cooking foil! Memories: Sally married chartered surveyor Jeremy Neville with her daughter, Jade, 10, as bridesmaid in 2002 "When you get better you must visit me in Blackpool," urged Rose-Marie, who recently moved there from London. So that is a jaunt I look forward to. Poor Rose-Marie was sobbing copiously as she hugged me goodbye. I'm relying on you to get well as soon as possible. Don't let me down," she said, and I was overwhelmed by gratitude for her kindness. Over the years I've jetted off to every glamorous place imaginable with a cast list of famous people. But nowadays it does not matter to me that I'm not skiing in Val d'Isere or gambling in Las Vegas, or idling under a palm tree on a Caribbean beach. I just want to be where my friends are and to revisit those who - because for years we have all been so bound up in our own busy-ness - have been absent from my life for far too long. I want to become strong and fit enough to be able to be a good hostess again, and to invite friends to stay. I want to clear my mind, too, of old resentments and enmities. Years ago I had a nasty jealous boyfriend - the sort of chap who'd accuse you of having an affair with the vicar if you went to church - and I regret that I ever knew him. But now I am trying not to feel badly disposed towards him because bitterness eventually consumes you. When life is short you should conserve your energy for positive thoughts. A former friend who failed, for ages, to cough up some money she'd promised me for one of the charities I support, contacted me the other day. She sent me a bouquet and a cheery greeting saying she was sorry to hear I was ill and wishing me better. For years I'd been rancorous about her and too consumed with anger about her behaviour to get in touch. Now, I feel I can forgive her. Life is too short for recriminations. It is too short, too, to work too hard. We must not make the demands of our jobs and our busy lives a reason to overlook the people we love. That is one of the salutary lessons I have learned from having a terminal illness. If you are lucky enough to have parents, daughters, sons, old friends, pick up the phone. Go and see them. And tell them how blessed you feel to have them - before it is all too late. Interview by Frances Hardy. My Left Boob: A Cancer Diary by Sally Farmiloe-Neville will be published by Book Guild Publishing on October 3 in aid of The Royal Marsden Hospital and Yes To Life! and Against Breast Cancer charities. Fighter: Sally says she's going to fight her cancer and is currently going through aggressive chemotherapy