Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  But I couldn’t ignore the fact that, slowly and steadily, I was beginning to lose control of my life, and that drink was taking over. I look back over the years just before and after my divorce, and a good deal of the time I was not sober. I wasn’t drunk but I wasn’t sober. I am sure that anyone who supports Alcoholics Anonymous would say I was in denial, but I don’t think so. I knew I was going wrong.

  I can remember, absolutely crystal clearly, moments when I knew I was out of control, but couldn’t, or didn’t want to, stop myself. It was as if I was going to push it as far as I could and see what happened: the moment I left my parents’ house to return to London when I was married to Greg and I was in my car, driving with a bottle of cheap sherry; a morning with Norman Eshley, when we got up and drank vodka and orange juice instead of a cup of tea; the time I tried to kill myself after Greg; but perhaps one of the most humiliating moments in my life was after a night out with Sally and the gang, and I took a bloke home with me that I had met that evening; he was some City type, complete with red braces. He started to make love to me and suddenly said, ‘I can’t believe I’m going to fuck the Oxo mum.’ I was mortified. I got up immediately and told him to leave.

  Writing this now, it makes me want to weep. Some people are going to question why I have confessed this to all and sundry, but I think it is important that you know just how far down the line I was going. Where was my guardian angel now?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THESE THINGS ARE SENT TO TRY US, BUT WHY ME?

  WHEN JULIA SAWALHA moved out of the flat above me in 1998, I had various tenants moving in and out from then on. I hated having to deal with it all but it was necessary. I had a master plan that the man who lived in the middle would one day sell to me and then I would be the owner of a huge house in Highgate and be set for the rest of my life (but that would have been far too simple for my life; surely I knew that!)

  In 2000, I interviewed the girl who cleaned for Dill, the man in the middle flat, to take over my top-floor flat with her new boyfriend. Julie explained that she and George had only been together a few weeks but this was the real thing, and they wanted to live together. Fine with me. They both came to see me to discuss rent and the terms, and during the meeting I found George to be a bit reserved and very cautious. He felt they could not really afford the council tax on top of the rent so, being the big-hearted, stupid woman I am, I said I would pay the council tax for the first year and they could see how they got on.

  They moved in and alarm bells first rang when I went up with the gas man to sort out the boiler and I realised they had made the flat into two separate bed-sitters. I found this rather strange for a young couple in this day and age, but when I was talking to Dill about it he told me that Julie was very religious.

  All was quiet until a month later, when they both came down to talk to me. George did the talking and told me that my eldest son, Michael, had been harassing Julie and shouting at her from the window. They said he and his friends were making life very uncomfortable for them. It sounded very unlike my son. Don’t get me wrong, he could be a pain in the arse about some things, like all teenage boys, but he wasn’t a hooligan. I talked to him about it and he had no idea what the problem was. We decided to let it go.

  Then a few days later, a police poster appeared by the front door in the communal hall. ‘Rat on a Rat’ was the message, referring to drug abuse. This really annoyed me; I took it down and rang Julie.

  ‘Did you put that poster up?’ I asked her.

  ‘Well, George thinks there’s drug dealing going on in the road and your son may be involved,’ was her reply.

  I was livid. ‘That is absolutely not true! And please tell George that if he has any more concerns to come directly to me next time.’

  A few days later Michael and I were having a row, as you do, and there was a knock on my door. It was George, saying that some boys had been shouting at Julie again. I turned to Michael and asked him if he had any idea who it was. He categorically denied any knowledge and stomped off. After he had gone there was an awkward silence and George suddenly moved towards me. He was so close I honestly thought he was going to kiss me. I stepped back, a bit flustered. He tried to offer me a word of comfort saying, ‘Don’t worry about your son. Teenage boys are all difficult. I was awful to my mum but I loved her really.’ And then he left.

  I heard no more for a couple of months. Then, one Sunday, I was giving a Sunday lunch and we were all sitting round enjoying ourselves when the phone rang. It was George complaining that Michael was shouting obscenities out of the window again. This was a downright lie because the poor boy was sitting with us! I told George that and hung up. But he rang again and started complaining. That was enough for me. I told him I thought he and Julie should leave and gave them two months’ notice. They left. I found it strange, though, that Julie didn’t come to say goodbye, and I never saw her again.

  I forgot all about them until we had a phone call in the summer from Tottenham police station, saying there had been a complaint made against Michael, from a George Millar. Apparently Michael had been shooting at him with a pellet gun. Fortunately, we were able to prove that Michael was in Italy with his dad when this incident was supposed to have taken place, so no further action was taken. It was all very odd. Then, one morning, I noticed the tyres on my car had been slashed. A few weeks later, a window was broken. I thought it might be Nunzio but decided to put it down to ‘normal’ life in London. These things happen.

  In November, however, I received a solicitor’s letter saying that if I and my son did not stop stalking and harassing Mr George Millar, he would be forced to take out an injunction against us. What?! I decided to ring the Tottenham police station for advice. I was lucky enough to speak to the policeman who had dealt with George’s complaint about the pellet gun. I told him about the solicitor’s letter, and I told him about all the complaints George had made when he was living above us. The policeman agreed that he had seemed a bit flaky and suggested we take no notice, but I decided to write a response. I informed the solicitor that there was no foundation for any of these accusations and that I had spoken to the police about the matter. I went on to say that if their client continued with these ridiculous claims I would counter-sue for harassment. That was the end of it. We heard no more.

  Then one night in the following February, I was woken by Michael and his friend, Martin, shouting to tell me that there was a smell of petrol in the front room. The window had been smashed in and there was a rock in the middle of the living-room carpet: a rock with a white T-shirt tied round it, soaked in petrol. Attached to this was a firecracker.

  I called the police and they arrived very quickly (they knew exactly where we lived, thanks to Nunzio’s escapades). Three detectives sat in the kitchen, all having a cup of tea, and regarded me with interest. They, of course, thought this is the work of the ex. Michael and I tried to explain that while Nunzio may have hated me, he would never harm his kids. They took some details and, as we were talking, I suddenly thought of George Millar. I told the detectives about how he had accused Michael of all sorts of things and that I had thrown them out of the flat, and I knew he lived somewhere in the area. Thank God one of the detectives listened to me. The other two just thought I was a sad, victimised ex-wife who was in denial.

  The police rang the next day and said they had arrested George Millar. I then had to wait for details. Finally, the detective who had believed me came round to take my statement and filled me in. When they had gone round to George’s flat they had found ripped T-shirts all over the floor and a petrol canister and printouts, from the internet, on how to make a bomb. On his screen saver was the message: REVENGE LIKE OXO IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD.

  I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t understand it. What had I or Michael ever done to this guy? I had done nothing but try to help him and Julie. The detective explained to me that George was a paranoid schizophrenic with a history of not taking his medication. Julie had gone back to
her parents even before they left my flat, which explains why I never saw her again. I just wish she’d told me of the problem.

  When you’re in the public eye, it makes you very nervous about people knowing where you live. In fact, I sometimes get letters addressed to Lynda Bellingham, Actress, North London. Who said the Royal Mail is inefficient? It was very scary, though, because after what happened to Jill Dando, you just never knew. We were so lucky the firework went out when it hit my curtains, because all the bedrooms in the flat were downstairs. We might not have woken up in time.

  The case took a year to come to court and when it finally came to trial, the judge ruled that George was obviously mad, so there was no point in bringing the case before a jury. George was accused of attempted arson, with intent to harm, or something like that. The judge suggested we drop the case and he would section the man for a long time. So that was that. Until two days later, when I was visited at home by a policeman who had come to inform me that because George had been in the hospital all the time before the trial, it had now been decided by the doctors that he was fit to leave! The policeman apologised and said he would send a patrol round from time to time to check we were OK. Great.

  The boys and I stayed up all night expecting a visit from him. Then I got a call to tell me that George had been taken into hospital again because he was not taking his medication. This time, Julie, who had stood by him through all this, had reported him to the authorities.

  But, a few days after that, the police were at my door again, saying they were so sorry but George Millar had broken out of the secure unit. He had bashed someone over the head with a chair. They told me again they would drive by from time to time to check on us.

  You couldn’t make it up!

  It took a week for them to find him sleeping rough in the woods nearby. He was then safely locked up, but a few days later he hung himself. I would be a liar if I did not admit I was relieved. But my condolences go out to Julie and his family. It is a terrible illness and affects so many families.

  I WAS STARTING TO struggle to make ends meet. Television work was scarce, and when I did do an episode of something, it was so badly paid, it hardly touched the debts. I always knew it was going to be tough once I got to a certain age, but I reckoned after a career spanning thirty years I would survive. After all, it wasn’t as though I had had to rely on my looks. Quite the opposite, in fact – I had been waiting to grow into my face! I was a character actress. What I had not taken into account was just how many actresses, like me, were still hanging around at fifty-something, waiting for the odd role. And as the roles are so few and far between, it means the likes of Dames Judi Dench and Helen Mirren get all the jobs going! The only way a job was ever going to come my way was if everyone else had either turned it down or were not available. And it would be offered to so many other ladies before it even got to me.

  I recently did a test voice-over for Vodafone. I was very excited because it was for the TV and would be well paid. After I did the test everybody seemed really pleased and I went away thinking the job was mine. About two weeks later I was in the kitchen, and I heard the music from the advert. I called to Michael to come and listen to ‘my’ ad. To my horror, the voice-over was in the dulcet tones of Judi Dench. I am her number one fan, but she doesn’t need the money like I do! If a Dame is happy to do a voice-over, what chance do the rest of us, mere mortals, have of earning a crust?

  Ageism has always been around in show business. It is the nature of the beast. Gone are the days where longevity counts for anything. The television and film industries are run by Youth, who only want to see youth and beauty. Their idea of someone’s mother is Demi Moore or Sharon Stone. The only acceptable face of a grandmother is Jane Fonda. These women look fantastic but they are not representative of the average woman; they represent an unrealistic ideal that can only be achieved with help. British television is not quite as bad as US television, but the problem is that writers do not write parts for anyone over fifty because the youthful Powers That Be are rarely interested in anyone not of their demographic.

  I DECIDED TO SELL the flat upstairs. I hated it after all the business with the stalker and as it was highly unlikely that my neighbour in the middle was ever going to move, I reckoned my dream of being a property tycoon was well and truly scuppered. Around this time, I did an episode of Dalziel and Pascoe and met an actress called Katy Cavanagh, who was trying to buy a flat. My guardian angel was back as she loved it, and bought it. Thankfully, it meant I had a bit of money now to keep us going.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MORTGAGE OR MARRIAGE, MY LOVER?

  MORAIRA IS A lovely fishing village between Alicante and Valencia on the Costa Blanca. I had gone there for a long weekend with Pat. She was going to look at a little villa that was for sale near her sister in Moraira. Her sister, Alma, and her husband, Robert, had been going there for eighteen years. I knew absolutely nothing about Spain and had no expectations of it.

  This proved to be just as well because the drive from Alicante to Moraira along the motorway was pretty grim. Coming out of Alicante airport, which was just a seething mass of humanity, even in November, we were met by a flat brown landscape. Pat was sitting in the car chatting away to Alma, and I was staring out of the window, thinking there was no way I’d want to live here. I was looking at the area as a potential resting place for my twilight years and, so far, it was not encouraging.

  We arrived at Alma’s flat and unpacked our few bits and pieces. It was a nice flat but a bit dark in the way so many places are where the sun shines hot. We went round the corner for a meal and, again, I can’t honestly say I was very impressed. As we walked home I turned to Pat and remarked that it was all a bit wrinkly.

  ‘Bellie, we’ll be wrinkly by the time we live here,’ was her frank reply. I was horrified by the thought. I was fine about getting old but I wanted to do it disgracefully and with style. I wanted a balcony, or a café in the sunshine, where I would sit wearing an elegant hat, with a large glass of vino tinto, and watch the world go by. Beautiful young men would come and flirt with me, and beautiful young girls would ask for my advice about their lovers…

  The next day was more encouraging. We went into the town and I discovered that although there were quite a lot of older people, Moraira was really rather nice. The sea was great and there were some nice shops and restaurants. We had a coffee and then set off to see Pat’s possible pad. It was in a communidad of about twelve small villas that were two up, two down, but Spanish style. Actually, Pat’s had three bedrooms, a bathroom, a living/kitchen area and out of her back door there was a patio that you could sit on, by a communal pool. It was perfect. Three houses up from there, was another one with a ‘For Sale’ sign.

  ‘I should go and look at that,’ I said. ‘Can you imagine how perfect it would be if we were next door to each other?’ The more we thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. So I made a viewing appointment and we went to see it in the early evening.

  The apartment was the top half of one of the villas, so it was tiny but perfect for me. Living room/kitchen, bedroom and tiny bathroom. The owners were offering it fully furnished, with a car! Yes, a Renault Megane thrown in. I put in an offer straight away, which galvanised Pat into action (she would have taken years to decide otherwise), and we went to dinner to celebrate. I ordered a drink and experienced the shock of a Spanish vodka tonic. Half a pint of vodka and a tablespoon of tonic. No wonder everyone was pissed all the time! After three of those I was plastered. But very happy!

  The next morning, however, I was very ill. Feeling like death, I ordered a fry-up at the local café (very Spanish, I know), and we sat and discussed a plan of action. We had been told by a guy in the local bar that if we needed a mortgage, the man to call was Mickey Pattemore. While I was slowly working my way through the large greasy sausages, Pat rang his number. The conversation was short and sweet and she announced he was on his way. Five minutes later, a red sports car roared to a halt
and out stepped Mickey Pattemore.

  ‘Oh my God, look at him. He’s been round the block a few times. He looks like a right Jack the Lad!’ I said, sotto voce to Pat.

  ‘Yes, Bellie, and you’ll probably have had him by Christmas!’ was her tart reply. Not what you’d call an auspicious start, perhaps.

  Mickey Pattemore was like a whirlwind. His handshake would have cracked a walnut. He had a broad Somerset accent and a nose that suggested he had had one too many beers. But I have to say that when I looked into his brown eyes and broad charming smile, despite my hangover haze, I was a little bit smitten.

  He asked all sorts of questions about Pat’s finances and then, before you could ask, ‘fixed rate or interest only?’, he whisked her off in his car to the bank. Alma and Robert sat there, stunned for a few moments before Robert remarked in his broad Scottish accent: ‘I do hope Pat will be OK. For all we know he’s taken her for the white slave trade.’

  ‘In her wildest dreams,’ I said.

  She was back within twenty minutes.

  ‘All sorted,’ said Mr Mortgage Man. ‘Now what can I do for you, Miss Bellingham?’ So he recognised me. I was rather chuffed! I didn’t think I was going to need a mortgage, but we agreed it might be better to have one.

  ‘OK, fine with me. But I need to ring Richard, my accountant.’

  ‘Not a problem. Ring me later,’ and he was gone in a roar of petrol fumes.

  We were all sat looking at each other for a good few moments: ‘Well, he doesn’t waste any time, does he?’ said Alma.