Nunzio had to leave on his ship the same morning I was to get my flight home. However, he had to leave really early so he had arranged for Ciro to take me to the airport. We said our goodbyes on the dock and I begged him again to forgive me if I had in any way behaved badly. He just shrugged and said to forget it. He promised to ring, and so did I, and we kissed each other, and he left. I had such mixed feelings. I still loved him so much but it just seemed impossible for us to find a level playing field for our relationship. Ciro took me to the airport and I flew home.
For the next three or four months, Nunzio and I spoke regularly on the phone. My bill was huge! But our phone calls were not the loving billing and cooing of lovers apart. It was mostly Nunzio ringing me and accusing me of having men next to me in my bed. It was ridiculous. We wasted so much time and money on the phone having massive rows. I would bore my friends about it, but most of them just thought it was sweet that Nunzio cared so much to be that jealous. My parents felt differently and I knew they were not happy about things, but what could they do?
Nunzio finally responded to my pleadings to come back to London and appeared on my birthday in 1981, when I was thirty-three. We talked and talked about all the problems and recriminations. He still went on a great deal about Ciro, and kept asking me if I had slept with him after he left. I begged him to ask Ciro. I had tried to explain to Ciro and his wife at the time that I was worried about what Nunzio thought, and would they please explain to him and put his mind at rest. But as I was to learn over the years, whatever went on in Nunzio’s head was impossible to change.
Nunzio’s mother became very ill and he was going to go to Italy to see her. I wanted to go with him. I wanted her to know I was there for Nunzio. He went on his own first and when he came back he was very upset because he knew she didn’t have long to live. We were very close now and I really felt that he needed me. So I proposed to him. Yes, I did. I wanted him to know he was loved and that I would always be there for him. We decided his mother would be happy if she could see us married, so we set a date for July that year. We would get married in London and then try and go and visit her afterwards. In fact, all our friends clubbed together and bought us tickets to go to Naples for a long weekend as a wedding present.
We had very little time to prepare, but in any event we wanted a low-key affair. After the circus of my wedding to Greg I did not want the press to find out. Because I had been married before we had to have a civil ceremony at Camden registry office. But then I wanted a blessing. Nunzio’s family were Catholic and I wanted his mother to know I was taking this marriage very seriously. I had a dear friend called Peter Delaney, whom I had met through Chris Biggins, who was the vicar at All Hallows by the Tower, a very old church next to the Tower of London. He was someone that Nunzio liked very much, so it was appropriate he should perform the blessing. Peter was to become a very important influence in my life.
The other person that Nunzio had formed a close friendship with was Jack Tinker, the Daily Mail theatre critic. Jack was an extraordinary figure in the theatre world. He was tiny in stature but huge in personality. He had such style, which Nunzio loved because he was always saying the British have no style. Jack was to prove a dear and trusted friend over the coming years. He was the only person Nunzio would ever listen to, and when times were desperate, I would turn to Jack. He died very suddenly in 1997 from an asthma attack. It was such a shock and a devastating blow to everyone who knew and loved him. He left a partner, Adrian, and two lovely daughters. He was a one-off and I still miss him now.
Jack was to be the best man at the wedding and Lynda La Plante was my bridesmaid. We were to have the reception at my flat, and Mum and I were going to do the catering. Richard Polo, the owner of Joe Allen restaurant, very generously gave us crates of champagne, which we put in the bath with tons of ice. On the morning of the wedding, Mum and I were up at five making smoked salmon sandwiches. I had gone to bed quite late because Jack and I had both been appearing on a quiz show at London Weekend Television called Tell The Truth. Everyone had been sworn to secrecy about the up and coming event, because of the press, but suddenly, on camera, Jack let slip he was off to my wedding the next day. Never trust a journalist! Thankfully no one picked up on the information and we were left in peace.
It poured with rain all morning but Nunzio assured me that was regarded as good luck in Italy. I wanted to believe him. I had spent rather a lot of money on my wedding outfit, which was peach silk and lace. Hand-made, it was the nearest thing I could find that looked like a wedding dress for someone who had been married before. It was so important to me that when Nunzio’s mother saw me, she knew I was serious about my intentions towards her son. I did not want her to think I was some flighty actress. The venerable Peter Delaney performed the blessing with all the right mixture of seriousness and joy. Then it was back to our place for a knees-up.
The next morning Nunzio and I flew to Naples. We wore our wedding outfits and when we got to Naples we drove round Torre del Greco, the town on the outskirts of Naples where he lived, on a scooter. People threw flowers at us and shouted their congratulations. His mum had made a huge cake and her living room was packed with friends and family, most of whom I had never met. In the manner of the wedding culture in Italy, people pinned money on us; Nunzio actually gave it all to his brother who was hard up at the time: I had no say in the matter. It was family! But it did not spoil a perfect day.
We rode to the hotel up the road to spend our wedding night in splendour. Our room had a balcony from where we could look up at Vesuvius towering above us. The volcano was like a giant shadow over the town. It had last erupted in 1948, the year I was born, and was still active. To understand the power of the devastation it could wreak you only had to visit Pompeii up the road. It is amazing to me how people ignore Nature when it suits them. The people of Naples and the surrounding towns all know the dangers of living in the foothills of a live volcano, yet buildings are still built illegally – then abandoned when the council find out – and all along the road that climbs and winds its way to the top of Vesuvius one can see the ruins of half-built houses. I have been to the top a couple of times and stared down into the vast crater with its hot steaming geezers. It is wondrous. The enormity of its power is thrilling. At New Year the Neapolitans go crazy. They love fireworks and, unlike the UK, they do not seem to have any qualms about the danger of fireworks. They even make their own! It is a seriously dangerous night in the town. I used to stand on the balcony of Nunzio’s sister’s flat and watch it all kick off at midnight. Hundreds and thousands of fireworks going off all over the city. The noise was deafening but I always enjoyed the irony that the biggest bloody firework of all was right there, above us in the darkness. Just waiting.
On our wedding night in Italy, another shadow fell on us. Nunzio’s temper. I do not even remember what set him off, but he had a go at me, and stormed out of the hotel and left me for most of the night. I was confused and tired and bewildered – no change there then, but this was my wedding night. I should be in the arms of my husband. I could feel the knot of uncertainty growing in my stomach. Please, not again! But the next day we made up and I forgot about it as we were feted like heroes by all and sundry.
We returned to the UK high on our love. But it was not to last; all too quickly my dream was shattered. Within six weeks my nose was broken.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘TO KNOW THINGS AS THEY ARE IS BETTER THAN TO BELIEVE THINGS AS THEY SEEM’
(TOM WICKER)
THE SILENCE WAS absolute. Like the first few seconds after a car crash. Complete shock. Complete panic. How had this happened? How could this have happened to me? I felt no pain, just the numbness of disbelief. I felt like I was caught in a bubble of stillness, an aching silence that seemed to stretch out forever. Neither of us moved. Neither of us said a word. My breath had literally gone from me.
The bubble broke only when I became aware of blood dripping on to my skirt. Droplets of pain, puncturi
ng the silence.
My marriage was only six weeks old and my nose was halfway across my face. My beautiful nose, which had been created for me five years ago, in another life. A nose that had played such a significant role in my life and in shaping my identity. Now it was broken and my future in tatters. The enormity of what had happened just did not sink in. I just felt numb physically and emotionally.
Nunzio drove me to the nearest A&E, which was at Great Ormond Street. It was after closing time in the pubs and all the usual suspects were lined up in the waiting room. Anyone who has found themselves sitting under the harsh, cold lights of Accident and Emergency will know that feeling of unreality. The screaming of a child and the outbursts of a drunk all seem to come from a long way away. It echoes all around you and rings in your ears.
I was finally put in a cubicle, and a young doctor came and examined my nose and took my details. I tried to explain that I needed to be sorted out pretty quickly as I was due to film on Monday and I was worried about losing my contract with the TV company. This just seemed to irritate him and he dismissed me, saying there was nothing they could do for me until the swelling went down. I spent a long weekend with a throbbing face. It hurt too much to cry, so I just sat and fretted. I decided the only person who could help me was Roy Sanders, the wonderful surgeon who had done my original nose job.
On Monday morning I rang his secretary and, by a stroke of luck, he was able to see me that afternoon. Nunzio drove me to Roy’s consulting rooms in Portland Place. We sat in silence in front of the surgeon as he scribbled his notes down. I can still hear the scratching of his pen across the paper as we waited for him to finish writing. Finally he sat back and studied me.
‘How did you break your nose, Lynda?’ There was a pause and I glanced at Nunzio.
‘On the steering wheel of my car,’ I replied.
‘What make of car do you drive?’ Roy continued.
‘A VW Beetle,’ I said.
‘And you’re sure you broke your nose on that steering wheel?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Because you see, Lynda,’ he looked at me carefully, ‘whatever I write down now cannot be changed at a later date. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
Roy was still looking at me, his gaze unwavering. After another pause, he continued: ‘OK, fine. If that’s what you’re saying. You can come into hospital tonight and I will operate tomorrow morning. You should be back on camera by Friday.’
Twenty or so years later, in February 2000, Nunzio told Lester Middlehurst in the Daily Mail:
I have heard that I am supposed to have broken her nose a few weeks after we were married. What actually happened was that Lynda had gone to a function at about 10 a.m. in the morning and had said she would be coming home at 4 p.m. By the time I went to work at 6 p.m. she still hadn’t come home. I was quite worried about her. Then, at 11 p.m. she came to pick me up at the restaurant where I was working and she was fairly drunk. We rowed in the car going home and when we got back I called her a bitch and a slut. She was furious and jumped on top of me and I had to push her back on the bed. That was when she broke her nose. I certainly didn’t punch her.
My version of that night varies somewhat from that. Yes, I did leave in the morning to drive up north to a gig for charity. It was at lunchtime, and other celebrities involved included Bernie Winters and Gareth Hunt, both guys I had worked with before. We didn’t finish up in Leicester until about 4 p.m. and then we had a two-hour journey back to London. I rang Nunzio when we stopped on the way home because I would be later than I thought. When we got to London the driver was going to drop me off at home but I decided to come into the West End with Gareth, who was sharing the car with me, and have a drink with him and then go and meet Nunzio from work.
We went to a club/restaurant called Legends, where the manager was a friend of ours and where Nunzio had previously worked (he’d left under a bit of a cloud). I was pleased to be able to see Paul, and spent some time talking to him. I then left and went to meet Nunzio. Yes, I had had a few drinks too many but I was happy to be meeting my hubby, pleased with the outcome of my chat with Paul, and was looking forward to sharing all this with Nunzio over a late supper. How naive of me to imagine Nunzio would greet me with open arms. Instead, I was met by a torrent of abuse and accusations. Apparently I had been out with all and sundry. Screwing Gareth Hunt and probably Bernie Winters and the whole club (fortunately not Paul Macbeth, who was gay).
As Nunzio drove us home we rowed all the way. He called me all sorts of horrid names and I ended up with a broken nose. But as it went on to say in the Daily Mail article, who knows what goes on between a husband and wife? Only Nunzio and I know the truth. I will leave you to reach your own conclusions.
It’s so hard looking back now to understand my actions. Why did I just not leave then and there? Nunzio is quoted in the same article as saying he never loved me. That he only married me because he was in an emotional state about his mother dying and because I offered him a house. I have no idea how much truth there is in that, but if it is true, I really wish we had never wed. We could have saved ourselves years of pain and grief. All I knew at the time was that my entire life had changed overnight, and I just wasn’t sure what to do next, or how to get my thoughts in order.
At the time, I was in the middle of filming a children’s series called Murphy’s Mob. This had come with its own set of problems. I was playing the wife of a man who ran a football club for kids. The main character was played by Ken Hutchison, who was not easy to work with at all and was known to be a notorious drunk and womaniser. Actually he was a lovely man, I discovered, as long as the lines were clearly drawn. When we first started the job I knew I would have to decide whether I would drink with Ken, ignore him, or sleep with him. The third option was not even on the table because I had just got married to Nunzio, but if I ignored him I set myself up for weeks of grief.
Ken was a bit like Dennis Waterman, in that he was one of the lads. You went to the pub and held your own and bought the drinks and took the schtick or they would crucify you. But here was the problem. I couldn’t drink with them because Nunzio would go mad if I stayed late in the bar after work. I completely understand that a newly wedded bride does not go to the pub after work with her mates every night, but this was once a week, after the recording, and all the cast and crew were expected to stay behind, even for a quick drink. Not me. I tried to keep it all sweet, but I would get grief from the other actors, especially Ken, and so I would try and stay for a quick one without Nunzio finding out, arriving back at home just before he left the restaurant. Of course, it was not an ideal situation, but I didn’t want anybody to know that I had a husband who was a bit difficult.
Of course, it was bound to go wrong and one time, when I had rung Nunzio and said I was on my way home, I stayed in the bar too long so that when he rang home to check I had got back, I wasn’t there. By the time I got home, Nunzio had left goodness knows how many messages, screaming at me down the phone. I was so frightened that I left and went to see my friend, Catharine. Her brother, John Hales, had been in the year below me at drama school and we had been friends ever since. He lived with Catharine, who worked in the City, and they were both part of the Marilyn Johnson gang. I arrived at their house in a terrible state and they were just tremendous. John went off to my flat to meet Nunzio and try and calm him down. He succeeded, to the extent that I was able to go back home, but he couldn’t save me from the barrage of abuse I got all that night.
I had to face this kind of behaviour on an almost daily basis and it became the norm in my marriage. But in between the bouts, I had a husband who loved me passionately, or so I thought. I would discuss the problem with close girlfriends like Pat and Catharine and, in the early days, we all came to the same conclusion: that Nunzio was very insecure and I would have to work very hard to make him feel secure. All very well in theory, but I was not a therapist and I had issues of my own to deal with in respect of ins
ecurity. Unfortunately, I still needed the approval and praise of my colleagues. And I was still suffering from the effects of my last marriage. I needed Nunzio to show me love and security, not mistrust and jealousy.
I WAS ALSO QUESTIONING my heritage. As I had grown older, I would often talk to my parents about my background. Did they think my mother was still alive? All my faults, I attributed to my birth mother. It had become a sort of family joke with me and Mum that my drinking and carrying-on must come from my genes. My real mother must have been a drunken nymphomaniac! We laughed about it but Mum would always defend my birth mother and say she was sure she must have been a lovely woman who had to give me up for many other reasons besides not wanting me in her life. I used to try and talk to Nunzio about all these issues because, by coincidence, his mother had been adopted, too.
I honestly think that although Nunzio was not stupid by any means, he was not used to discussing things from an intellectual standpoint. I love talking things out till the cows came home, but for Nunzio, it was all much more black and white: your wife stayed at home and looked after you, and the husband went to work. Respect was the byword. Do not disrespect me or else. But respect is earned, on both sides. Of course, he accepted we did not live in Naples and I went to work. The problem for him was that my work was, and still is, more than a job. It reflected my whole attitude to life. It had been my life up until now. It had saved me from going under. My work was people, and that involved dealing with men.
Men. God Almighty, men, especially Italian men, do have a problem with their egos. It’s all about them. The number of plays and films that are based on men being cuckolded or deceived… ‘Cuckolded’ is a word you don’t hear a lot, nowadays, except in southern Italy, and there I heard it all the time. I was forever being accused of making Nunzio a cuckold: a ‘cornu’ in Italian. I would try sometimes to explain to his sister Anna the problems we had but I just did not speak Italian well enough to make myself understood. She was such a lovely woman and I am sure she knew the kind of problems I was having, but her loyalty to Nunzio made our friendship impossible. But it seemed to me that he was not upset at the thought that I might be unfaithful because I no longer cared for him, but because another man may have got one over on him.
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