Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  I went to see Joshua at his house in Golders Green. It was rather out of the ordinary, I must say: people just seemed to wander in off the streets. Joshua was quite elderly, at least in his late sixties, but his wife could not have been more than thirty and had a new baby.

  I was in a dreadful state. I poured out my story and he was very charming, listened very attentively and seemed to understand the situation perfectly. He would be able to help me, he said, but not for several weeks, as he was going to Israel to visit family and the Kibbutz he had founded just outside Netanya. But I was desperate now. Could he do nothing for me? Just speak to Greg, at least? He agreed and did so. Then he told me that in cases like ours, he advised the couple to separate for a while and not have any contact with each other.

  Joshua then suggested I come to Israel with him and his brother, who was a doctor and also founder member of the Kibbutz, and he would take me through things, away from Greg. I had no money to go trolling off to Israel, and told him so. Joshua suggested that that was not a problem; Greg would pay. I was doubtful about that but agreed in principle.

  I went to see my parents, who were very upset to see me so distressed. My dad thought Joshua sounded like a complete fraudster and I should leave well alone. I remember going into the pantry at the farm and taking a bottle of sherry, which was about all my parents drank in those days. I put it in my handbag and set off to drive back to London, despite the fact I had already drunk quite a lot already.

  I arrived home to an empty flat and opened the sherry. I was in despair but really too drunk to care. Then Greg rang to say he was paying for me to go to Israel with Joshua.

  Now he had money, he could afford to be magnanimous. The caring husband helping his wife out in her hour of need (all the support she had given him was not mentioned). He was probably delighted to get rid of me for two weeks, so he could romp away to his heart’s delight.

  The plan was that I would fly out with Joshua and his brother, and his nineteen-year-old daughter and her friend would be joining us later on. I was concerned that his daughter could be discreet because I did not want the press getting hold of all my private details. Joshua said she was used to her dad having patients to stay, and all would be fine. I asked if I would have my own room. Naturally, was the reply. So, I packed a case, and also all my diaries that I had been keeping, detailing my ups and downs.

  It was crazy travelling with these two old boys. They were both as deaf as doorposts. It was a long and tiring trip. I kept up the drinking and everything was in a haze. Looking back on parts of my life, I am ashamed to admit that there were quite a few times when I was functioning well enough to fool the outside world, but I really wasn’t sober. The drinking went with a kind of relentless energy that just took me over. The adrenaline enabled me to grit my teeth and keep going, but it was like hanging over a cliff by my fingernails.

  When we finally arrived in Israel, Joshua informed me that I was sleeping on the sofa.

  ‘But you told me I was to have my own room,’ I wailed. ‘Please, I must have my own space.’

  ‘Now, my dear, calm down,’ soothed Joshua. ‘You are irate and disorientated. Tomorrow you will feel better and we can make a plan. There is not enough space for you to have your own room now because my daughter is bringing her friend and they will have to sleep in that room.’

  I was actually too tired to argue with him. He went off into the other room to join his brother and I shut the door and fell asleep on the sofa, in my clothes.

  I was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of a door knob being turned and I looked up to see a shape moving behind the glass door of the living room. I was terrified. I hardly knew where I was, as I was still half asleep and the drink had made my brain fuzzy. Before I could get myself up and off the sofa, there was Joshua, stark bollock naked, coming towards me with his arms outstretched, sporting an enormous hard-on. Clasping me in his arms, he tried to kiss me while I shrank away, screaming at him to get off me. He tried to quieten me, and when I wouldn’t shut up, he grabbed me again, not quite so pleasantly this time, and pushed me more deeply into the sofa.

  ‘Get off me, you dirty old man!’ I was sobbing now. ‘Let go of me or I’ll wake your brother.’

  Joshua went into full manipulation mode: ‘Now, now, my dear, calm down. What are you saying? You’re hysterical. You’re just having a bad dream. Go to sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning.’ All this while he was sitting on the edge of the sofa, stark naked with an erection. It was, indeed, a nightmare!

  I lay awake for the rest of the night trying to decide what to do. Just leave, I reckoned. Over breakfast, the crafty old sod made a suggestion. If I kept quiet about last night he would leave me alone.

  ‘But I want to go home,’ I said.

  ‘That is not possible,’ came the reply. ‘There are no flights this weekend because it is Independence weekend. You will have to stay until Monday, at least, by which time my daughter will be here and you will have calmed down.’

  Thanks to the airplane schedules I had no choice but to stay; besides which, Joshua had taken my passport and locked it in his safe.

  I went out for a walk and to buy some wine. I sat on the beach and tried to assess my situation. However, within minutes, I was surrounded by young Israeli men all trying to vie for my attention. Normally this would have been a dream come true, but I was in no fit state and just got hysterical. I tried to run away but they were all round me, hemming me in.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted and walking towards me was an angel. Tall, athletic, with a brown body topped by a mop of long shaggy hair. He pushed the boys aside, took my hand and led me away down the beach.

  We walked for a long time, in silence, until finally I begged him to stop and let me rest. He hardly spoke a word of English but he could see I was very upset and just held me. I calmed down and tried to explain that I had to return to the apartment. He walked me to the front door and we managed to agree that I would be there tomorrow at ten.

  Joshua was waiting for me. Unbelievably, all he said was, ‘You didn’t waste any time, did you? I wonder what you husband will say, if I tell him you are picking up young men on the beach.’

  ‘I wonder what he would say,’ I replied, ‘if he knew the man whom he had trusted with his wife had tried to rape her.’ Touché! From then on he left me well alone.

  The next day I met Davide again. We went to a café and sat and tried to understand each other. He was gorgeous but very arrogant. He suggested we went to a hotel. Did I have money? Hang on a minute, this was all happening a bit fast! But I was extremely unhappy and didn’t want to be alone with Joshua. I would do anything not to go back.

  I did have some money but now I was frightened Davide was going to rob me. I must have looked a sorry sight because the next thing I knew he was walking me up the road, saying something about mother. His mother? I followed helplessly, with no other choice, really, except to run. But run where? It was the first time I had been in a country where I not only didn’t speak the language, but the alphabet was different as well.

  Davide took me to a shack halfway up a hill, where a family was just sitting down to eat. I have no idea who they all were. But they were friendly and one lady could have been his mum. She pointed at my wedding ring and I nodded. Yes, I was married. She said something to her son, who looked glum.

  They gave me a glass of something disgusting to drink, but it was alcoholic so I threw it down. By now I was becoming quietly hysterical again and just wanted to go home. What the hell was going on here? Davide got me a chair and we sat and had something to eat. As the alcohol took over I perked up a bit, and even managed to make myself understood a bit, with some French and lots of gesturing. Afterwards, Davide walked me back to the apartment, and we parted with a long kiss. He was delicious but very overpowering.

  When I went into the flat, I was greeted by Joshua and his daughter. She was a big Jewish princess, full of confidence and wisecracking humour. Her friend was a timi
d little girl from Wales. We all went out for a meal and got on well.

  When we got back, the two old boys went to bed and the other two girls and I stayed up drinking wine. I was trying to fathom what Joshua’s daughter was all about. She was very open and suddenly said, ‘So, my dad’s sorting you out, is he?’

  I was a bit taken aback that she knew about me at all.

  ‘Well, yes, in a way, but I hope you’ll be discreet.’

  ‘Ha, there’s nothing discreet about Dad,’ came her reply, which really worried me as he had all my diaries about me and Greg. ‘Has he tried to rape you yet?’

  It was surreal. A nineteen-year-old girl asking me if her father had tried to molest me. I told her what had happened. She found it all very amusing and explained to her friend that she should be careful to make sure she was never alone with Joshua for the same reason.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,’ this gob-smacking girl continued. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I want to leave here as soon as I can,’ I said, ‘but your father has my passport, and there are no flights for another two days.’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ she replied. ‘We’re all going to the Kibbutz tomorrow and will be away for a week. I’ll get your passport for you and you can leave as soon as there’s a flight.’

  I heard her go into her father’s room and start screaming at him. She must have woken him up. Five minutes later she reappeared with my passport.

  The next day they all left, and I was free. I met up with Davide and he took me to the airport to sort out my flight. I had to stay one more night. I spent it with him. He was kind and aggressive in equal measure, but I was beyond logic or fear or anything. I just wanted to get home.

  At the airport the next day, Davide presented me with a Star of David with a tiny diamond in it. He explained that one of his family, who worked in a diamond mine, had got it for him to give to me. I was touched and felt quite guilty that I had his motives wrong until, just as I was leaving, he pointed to the gold chain round my neck and gestured that he would like it. I tried to explain it was a present from my parents, and that’s when he got very grumpy with me. I just saw red. So that was it. All this was about trying to get something out of me. The Star of David was probably a fake. I had been conned again. I was a very stupid woman who had learned nothing about life. I deserved to be unhappy. I pulled the gold chain from my neck and hurled it at him, turned and ran to the plane.

  There, I was greeted by a lovely English air stewardess who recognised me, and upgraded me to Club class. As the plane took off, I sank back in my comfy seat, clutching a glass of champagne, and looked down on Tel Aviv with tears coursing down my cheeks. I wanted to go home so badly. But where was home, and what awaited me?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DIVORCE, AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

  WHEN I GOT home Greg seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I told him everything, including sleeping with the Israeli. He had the nerve to judge me, and give me a hard time. I couldn’t believe it. He was so pompous about it. We had a big row and I told him that it was pointless our going on like this, and maybe we should call it day. He then went into classic male-under-pressure mode, threatening to throw me out without a penny.

  ‘What happened to the promise you made my parents to look after me?’ I asked.

  I went down to see my parents, and told them everything that had gone on. My father was livid about Joshua and threatened to go round and deal with him. I persuaded him there was no point. I really wanted to get my diaries back, but I could get Richard La Plante to do that for me. I just wanted to forget the whole thing.

  I felt so ashamed of myself. Let Greg break our marriage vows, ten times over, but I should not have done so. I was as bad as him. My confidence in my abilities to make decisions was so shattered that I basically asked my parents’ permission to leave the marriage. Of course, they gave it to me.

  But even then, I didn’t leave straight away because I was still trying not to accept defeat. I was so low, though, and thought I was the ugliest woman in Christendom.

  The problem with sex is that if it is right one takes it for granted, but if there is a problem it takes over your every waking thought. Once I had stared failure in the face, it was so hard to carry on with my life with Greg. To lie in bed with someone who cannot bear to touch you is a nightmare. He couldn’t even give me a hug or any kind of affection. He wouldn’t talk about it and sometimes I would have a stomach ache I wanted him so much. If he had even kept the problem between us, it might have been a little more bearable. But to see him go off at night, knowing he was going to screw another woman, was torment.

  THERE ARE MOMENTOUS decisions in your life that have to be taken and, once I had made up my mind, I became quite cool and collected. I had my parents’ support, and I finally told Greg I was leaving him. His initial reaction was typical, and the same as last time: ‘Don’t think you are going to get a penny from me. And if you try and take me to court I will destroy you. Remember I have the might of Columbia Pictures behind me.’

  I told him I wanted nothing, but I did remind him that he had made a promise to my parents that he would never see me homeless. Eventually, he agreed to give me £2,500 as a deposit on a flat. Which was very generous of him considering he was now a millionaire, and that I had kept him for three years.

  Mum came to help me move my stuff and pack up. I was all for leaving everything, but good old Mum was not going to let him have anything more than she could help. We even took the Wedgwood dinner service that my parents had given us for a wedding present.

  ‘He’ll never use it,’ she scoffed. ‘What does he know about giving dinner parties? You were the class in the relationship.’

  I WENT TO STAY with Lynda La Plante, and hid away in her flat for a couple of months until the press interest had died down. Greg was already seeing an actress called Mary Tamm, so any doubts I may have had were confirmed. It’s strange, isn’t it, how when we don’t want to see the obvious, we don’t? In my case I had always seen the obvious but just did not want to admit defeat.

  My dear mum had always said, ‘If you give a person enough love, they will return it.’ That thought has haunted me all my life, as I just wish someone else had pointed out that sometimes you also have just to learn to let things go, and that some people will never be able to respond to you, even if they want to. Everyone has to go their own way in the end.

  I felt a complete failure. I thought the problems in my marriage were all down to me, that I wasn’t pretty or sexy enough … the list just went on and on. But enough was enough. I was going to take myself off and lick my wounds, and find out who I wanted to be in the future.

  ONE OF THE things that came out of this disastrous liaison was that I confronted another major issue in my life – my nose.

  Since day one of leaving drama school, all I had heard was, ‘You must be Jewish with that nose.’ A casting director, very early on, looked at my profile, and pronounced that I would never work until I was forty. When I had photos done, the photographer would try and get me to stand at certain angles so that my nose didn’t look so big.

  I decided that if I was going to start a new life, the nose had to go. I could not risk becoming known as Cyrano de Bellingham.

  When I had been working on General Hospital, I had met an actress called Anna Barry. She had told me her amazing story about how she had been in a car accident and lost an eye. Her surgeon, Roy Sanders, had reconstructed the side of her face and that no one was aware she had a glass eye. It was a fantastic piece of work. After the operation, she had moved in with Roy, and they were still very happy.

  Roy’s main area of expertise in plastic surgery was with his work on burn victims and harelips and such like, but he was not averse to performing the odd bit of cosmetic surgery. I gave Anna a call saying that I’d like to see him as I wanted his professional opinion about my nose. I told her I was embarrassed to ask Roy because it seemed so petty compared to the kind of
work he did normally, but she was great about it, and said he loved doing stuff like that because it meant he could practise!

  I made an appointment and went to see him. I started to explain that as an actress I was very conscious, on camera, that my nose was too big. Not so bad on the stage, but on camera I felt it was the difference between playing just character parts, and getting the chance to play the leading role.

  I was under no illusions about my looks. I was attractive, but not pretty, and my nose was definitely a problem. Roy listened to my spiel, took loads of photos and measured my nose. I told him I didn’t want him to think it was just vanity. I realised there were people with terrible problems, and that I shouldn’t really be making a fuss, but my career was everything to me. As I started to talk about these more personal things, I found myself starting to sob, and it all came out. Poor Roy had to listen to a crazy woman blubbing on about her troubles!

  He let me finish and then he said, ‘Lynda, first of all, you have every right to get your nose made smaller. It is, indeed, too big for the proportions of your face. And as a man who lives with an actress, I can completely understand where you are coming from. The other problem you have is much more complex, but I feel honour-bound to tell you that having a nose job is not going to help your marriage.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I know that,’ I replied. ‘But it will sure as hell make me feel better about myself as an actress, and that is the first step to getting my act together and surviving this mess.’

  That must have been the answer he was looking for, because he agreed to do the operation. It was going to cost me £1,000 for his contribution and then there would be the anaesthetist’s fee of £50, and two nights in a clinic, another £50 (this was 1976). I agreed.

  A few days later I went in for the operation. I had just been offered a lovely part on TV in a play called Cottage to Let starring opposite Timothy West. I told Roy I had to be on camera in three weeks, and would there be a problem with bruising? None whatsoever, he informed me, as he would insist that, after the operation, I would have to sit up all night to ensure there was only minimal bruising.