The newspapers were my friends; they didn’t disappoint. Our story was in all of the ‘populars’. The four main tabloids had a small picture of me on the front page. It was one taken at the press conference and thankfully I looked quite startled as if I had had a shock, not as if I had been taken by surprise by the cameras, which was the reality. Although most of it was taken up with the latest government scandal, there was still a small bit dedicated to my story. And more inside. I looked at Cordelia, unable to stop smiling as I read each one twice.
Daily News
WHO’S THE FATHER?
Poor spurned George Conway was given another shock yesterday when fickle Holly Miller told him she was four-and-a-half months pregnant and had no idea if he was the father or if it was Joe McClaren (31). George bravely told us that he was delighted with the news, and believed in his heart that the baby was his. He also said he would give Holly his full support during her pregnancy. Does he care too much? Opinion on page 13 looks at the whole picture.
Herald
A TALE OF TWO DADS
George Conway (30) yesterday discovered his marriage-pact girl and love of his life was up the duff with no idea who the father was. Joe McClaren (31), is the other contender for paternity. If it wasn’t enough to break his heart, Holly Miller (30), has gone too far. We think George should insist on a paternity test, and clear up any misunderstanding. Full story, page 7.
Daily Informer
MARRIAGE PACT GIRL PREGNANT!
Holly Miller, the girl involved in the marriage-pact scandal has announced she is over four months pregnant. The problem is that she has also admitted she has no idea if the father is George Conway, her childhood sweetheart, or Joe McClaren with whom she was having an affair. George called a press conference last night, keen to give Holly his love and support and to say that he would be overjoyed to be the father. Full story, page 3.
Post
UP THE DUFF WITHOUT A FATHER
George Conway, the man rejected by the girl he was set to marry has been shocked to discover that he may be the father of her baby. Holly Miller is heavily pregnant and has announced she doesn’t know who the father is. She says it could be George, or someone else, but sources say that it could be any of a number of people. For full story see page 6.
‘George, this is amazing. We’ve really hit a nerve. Do you know how difficult it is to get this sort of coverage?’
‘I know, it’s unbelievable,’ I concurred.
‘I hope that you know how lucky you are.’ Cordelia licked her lips. I knew what was coming next. She got incredibly horny when we got good coverage.
It was intoxicating. I could almost smell it. Powerful. An aphrodisiac greater than the freshest of oysters and the finest of champagnes. Julia flitted across my mind. If only she could see me now. I was irresistible; I felt irresistible. Life looked, smelt and tasted so sweet. The sweet smell of success.
It was so different now. Just a month ago, the greyness encompassed my very soul. The look, the taste and the smell of life was rank, weak, empty. Now life was aromatic.
I explained this to Cordelia. She was an incredible woman. Not only sexually alluring, but also synchronised to my every thought, my innermost feelings. When the transformation was complete, I felt as if I could look at Cordelia and see something of myself. The lost and found. That was how I felt when I looked at her and I think she knew that.
Holly’s refusal to see me that way was irritating. There was nothing I could do to change that, but allow her to slowly realise what she was missing. I knew that she needed me, she had always needed me, and now I was so strong, she needed me more than ever. I could afford to be patient now, generous with my time. Because I had a new chance, a new life and I had to make decisions about my future. Holly was my future, but I could wait.
I had to decide what I was going to do about my career. Law was fine, but I had never felt quite as satisfied by winning a case as I did by appearing on television. I knew about my personal future, but not my professional one. Did I stay with law, or did I go into the world of media, or could I combine the two? I know I wanted to keep the buzz, and therefore didn’t feel my future lay in the courtroom. If I were going to stay in London, I needed to build on my current fame. The idea of a future in London coupled with a glittering TV career was appealing.
‘Cordelia, how easy would it be for me to make a career out of this?’ I pulled up her skirt.
‘You can’t make a career out of the pact story, it’ll be old news fairly soon, you know that.’ I started stroking her crotch through her knickers.
‘But television, radio, I like the feeling, I love the whole business.’
‘Well, you come across well, you certainly look good...faster George...so I don’t see why you can’t pursue a successful career. I’ve watched people build long careers with far less going for them than you...harder mmm...I’ll put out some feelers.’ I started stroking the inside of her thighs, then I moved her hand down to my throbbing bulge.
‘When?’
‘I’ll get on to it straight away...ah...yes squeeze it there...Trust me George.’
‘I want to...long strokes, mmm...get this sorted as soon as...ahhhhh...possible.’ I nipped her and rubbed her.
‘OK. Oh God, George, oh fucking hell.’
‘Straight away Cordelia. Faster, you’re losing it, keep going.’
‘Sorry, yes of course.’ She moved her hand faster along my throbbing penis. I started using my fingers at the same speed. ‘You’re the best ever, George, oh hell, yes. Yesss, you’re the best!’
‘I know Cordelia, I know,’ I whispered breathlessly, moving faster and more urgently. She did the same. We orgasmed.
Cordelia pulled down her skirt and went to the phone. She returned about fifteen minutes later with the news that she had arranged a meeting with one of the producers of This Afternoon. ‘I think I should reward your efficiency,’ I said, and led her to the bedroom.
I knew our relationship had a shelf life. Much like the Marriage Pact story. More than ever we had to exercise discretion, it was paramount that we were never discovered. I knew that as my fame increased, so would the scrutiny. There would be no more risks. There would be no more Cordelia. Or not in the biblical sense anyway.
*
The following day we set off to see Charles Wright, the producer of This Afternoon. We took a cab to the now familiar TV studios and I decided that as an office, it would be OK by me. I smiled at Cordelia; she delivered in more ways than one.
We waited in the reception area which was decorated with framed portraits of people I barely recognised (I hadn’t been in the country long enough to familiarise myself with its celebrities). Cordelia filled me in. Ten minutes later, Charles came out. He was tall, about as tall as me, with thick, greying dark hair. He was wearing chinos and a shirt, I guessed that celebrity was less formal than law. He introduced himself. He led us into his office, which wasn’t massive, nor was it ostentatious. It was functional. He was a man after my own heart.
We sat down and made small talk while he got his assistant to organise coffee, then he cut to the chase.
‘What exactly is it you want? I know the story, I know that at the moment you have the sympathy of most of the nation, but that’s for your current situation. But that can’t go on for ever.’
‘As I said on the phone, we’re looking for a regular TV slot,’ Cordelia explained. ‘And as George started on your programme it seemed natural to approach you first.’ I smiled but kept quiet.
‘What exactly do you suggest? We’re not looking for a main presenter.’
‘What about a legal expert? Imagine how the housewives would be jamming the phone lines just for the opportunity to ask George for legal advice. Divorce, wills, you name it, he can do it.’ I wasn’t exactly enamoured by being a TV lawyer but Cordelia had assured me that it was the easiest way to get a foot in the door. They may not be looking for a main presenter, but they’d found one.
We chatt
ed some more, and finally Charles said he’d talk to his production team. He didn’t seem to be giving anything away as to whether I’d be hired or not. He stood up; the meeting was over. I was slightly perplexed as to how short it had been, but Cordelia seemed happy.
‘It went well,’ she said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Fame. It makes you feel as if you’ll live for ever right?’ She laughed, but I didn’t see the joke.
‘It does, yes.’
As we left, we talked further about what sort of appearances I’d be willing to do. I said I would do anything as long as Cordelia felt it was the right thing. She urged caution and promised she’d take care of weaning out the good opportunities from the bad. But there would be opportunities, she promised that much.
I was going to be a father. I was going to be a television star. Once fame is established, if you are canny you can use it for all sorts of things. That was exactly what I intended to do. Adoration would become the norm, and Holly would be my wife. We’d be a family, and my child would be proud of his dad. And my parents would be proud of me, once more. Everything made sense, clear as crystal. It had all clicked. Thirty years old and my life was heading the way I wanted it. That was a comforting thought.
‘Cordelia, are you going back to the office?’ I asked, looking at her in a way I knew she couldn’t resist.
‘I’ve got a pile of work, honey, but I suppose we could make a quick detour.’ I stuck out my hand to hail a cab, then I put my hand on her bottom as I instructed it to take us to her flat. As soon as we opened the door, I undid her trousers and pulled them down.
‘You should wear a skirt when you see me,’ I told her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sounding contrite, just as I liked.
‘I’m going to punish you now,’ I said, slipping my hand into her knickers.
‘How, how are you going to punish me?’ she asked. I looked into her eyes, they were looking into mine, waiting for me to get her to do exactly what I wanted. I squeezed her between the legs.
‘I’m going to make you wait for what you want, and give me what I want.’ I took my hand out, and I pushed her head to my crotch.
Half an hour later, as I lit a cigarette, Cordelia left to go back to the office.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Media Circus
Imogen and I decided to go shopping, because I couldn’t fit into anything hanging in my wardrobe. I felt fat and miserable.
‘I still want to look sexy,’ I lamented, as I looked at my stomach poking proudly out of the loosest trousers I owned. I wondered if I would ever look sexy again.
‘Pregnant women are sexy,’ Imogen said.
‘Yeah, but not in tent dresses.’ It might have been hormones, it might have been George, but my moods were swinging more unpredictably than my grandfather’s old pendulum. It was a good job that my grandparents were no longer around, although I loved them very much, I am not sure they were the sort of people who would cope well with the news that their granddaughter was a slut.
‘Why are you crying?’ Imogen asked.
‘Fucking hormones,’ I replied, and grabbed my coat. My moods were rather like my footwear. I went from being Manolo Blahnik (feeling gorgeous and special), to a pair of smelly trainers (disgusting and unloved), in the space of a few seconds. I had no control and even in my worst PMT ridden moments I had never felt so unhinged. I reapplied my mascara in the mirror by the front door and blew my nose.
‘Do I look a mess?’ I asked.
‘Honestly? A bit, but we’re only shopping,’ Imogen replied, not entirely helpfully. I shrugged. Tomorrow, I’d have clothes that fitted and I’d look lovely. Or lovelier at least. I charged on and half opened the door. I stood, rooted behind my front door as I heard the noise and saw the cameras.
‘Holy shit Hol, get back in.’ Imogen grabbed me and pulled me back in. Then she shut the door and shut out the noise. I started breathing quickly, panic rose up through me like bile. I blinked, finally able to see again and then I began to wonder if it had been an apparition. I looked questioningly at Imogen, everything was in slow motion.
Imogen didn’t speak, but grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs and into my flat. Then she ran to the window at the front and looked out. Cameras went off and people shouted, it sounded monumentally loud.
‘Keep back,’ she shouted, a little too forcefully, as if I was being attacked. I was superglued to the floor by the door of the sitting room. Imogen was behaving like a madwoman. She wrapped herself in the blind and peeked out of the window again. I caught the tail end of another flash. She turned around with her knees slightly bent, she looked as if she was about to launch herself. She gazed around the room, then suddenly sprang into action. She pulled the blinds fully closed (actually we hadn’t opened any of them that day otherwise we might have noticed the activity outside), then she ran to the telephone.
‘What’s Freddie’s number?’ she asked, breathing heavily as if she had just been out jogging. I reeled off the number and kept still as if I was playing a game of musical statues and really, really wanted the prize.
‘Freddie, thank God. Oh thank God, you have to help us.’ I wondered what Freddie’s reaction was, he probably thought I had been attacked or something.
‘I can’t be calm. There’s fourteen photographers and journalists outside the flat.’ I couldn’t believe she’d counted them.
‘Exactly fourteen. We opened the front door and it was like this big shower of light. All the cameras went off and they used flash even though it’s daytime, why would you use flash in the daytime?’ Now I knew she was getting a bit too hysterical but still I couldn’t move.
‘What are we going to do? We can’t go out?’ There was a longer pause this time.
‘I can’t pass the phone over to Holly, she’s immobilised. I think it’s the shock.’ I could hear the words but I couldn’t do anything about them.
‘Thank God, see you soon.’ Imogen put down the phone, she looked marginally calmer.
‘Freddie’s coming round. Come on we have to go into the spare room, either that or the bathroom.’ She steered me to the room and then sat me down on the bed.
‘Holly, please don’t cry?’ she begged.
I didn’t know I was crying. I couldn’t feel the tears. She hugged me then she started crying as well. Did I ever mention that Imogen is not the best person in a crisis?
There are a number of good things about my mother. An infinite number. One being that when all this first started she made me get spare sets of keys cut and distributed to Freddie and Lisa. For emergencies, she said, although I hardly think she had ever imagined this kind of emergency. I didn’t hear anything until I heard the flat door open and then I saw Freddie, standing in the doorway.
‘Thank God,’ Imogen screamed, launching herself at him.
‘Calm down,’ Freddie commanded, and pulled out his phone. He dialled a number, I had no idea whose.
‘Francesca, it’s me.’
Silence.
‘I know, well I’m here now, and I know Imogen was hysterical but she’s not exaggerating. When I tried to get in they went mad. They wanted to know who I was, and if I knew Holly and if I could get her to come out. They want photos and comments. They said they got a glimpse of her when she opened the door but they couldn’t see her bump. That’s what they’re after. I have no idea how the story got this big but there is one thing, there’s no way I can let her near the door. They’re like animals. Shall I release a statement?’
Silence.
‘I’ll write it here, but there is no way that I’m going to get any sense out of these two. I think Holly’s in shock.’
Silence.
‘OK, I’ll call Lisa, she’s normally quite good in a crisis and at least she’s used to photographers.’
Freddie put his mobile in his pocket then he crouched down in front of me. He took my hands, but I couldn’t feel them.
‘Holly,’ he said in a voice designed to s
oothe a child. I looked at him. I heard him. ‘Holly, are you all right?’ he asked. I continued to look at him. ‘Of course you’re not, you’ve got a shit load of journalists outside. Holly, I am going to give them a statement and try to get them to leave, OK?’ I just stared. I wasn’t sure if I knew how to nod. He stood up and looked at Imogen who had calmed down now there was someone else here. ‘Imogen, can you call Lisa and get her to come over?’ Imogen bolted for the phone. He then left the room.
I have no idea how long I was alone but it felt like ages until they both returned. Imogen had a glass of brandy in her hands. She shoved the glass towards me. I stared at the amber liquid as if I had never seen it before, then Imogen changed her mind and drank it herself.
‘Lisa is on her way,’ Imogen said. ‘Do you think she needs a doctor?’
‘Wait for Lisa to come, maybe she’ll be able to do something.’ Freddie looked at me. ‘In the meantime, maybe you can make us all some tea.’
‘Oh, good idea, lots of sugar.’ Obviously she had seen too many TV programmes that responded to crises with sweet tea, or maybe the brandy had gone to her head.
‘I don’t have sugar, it’s bad for the baby,’ I said, and then I fell into Freddie’s arms.
We moved to the sitting room, because it felt strange being in the spare room, but the blinds were firmly down. Imogen couldn’t help but peek out of them, and give us a commentary, but nothing had changed. There was a plethora of journalists and photographers on the street outside my flat. How on earth were you supposed to deal with that? Imogen told us that one journalist had gone and got four coffees to distribute while the others looked on enviously. One photographer steamed into action when someone left my building, it was someone from the downstairs flat. Apparently they looked stunned and Imogen heard them ask the woman a question, to which she replied by running away. From Imogen’s description I deduced it was the cleaner who worked for the couple whom I had nodded to a million times, who shared a mailbox with me (names were Jacquie and Dave Hooper), but whom I had never had more than a one-line conversation with.
Deranged Marriage Page 28