Deranged Marriage

by Faith Bleasdale

  ‘We’re fine, darling. Some of the hacks have made a trip here but your mother and I always say “no comment”, like on TV. George’s parents are having a hard time of it too. They didn’t ask for any of this. We went to see them, they’re devastated.’

  ‘Daddy, do you think George is mad? I mean really mad. He is hurting so many people and the George we knew wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Who knows love. How’s my grandson?’

  ‘Grandson? How do you know it’s going to be a boy?’

  ‘Too many women in the family. We need a male.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Give my love to Mum.’

  ‘Will do. Call tomorrow.’ I promised I would and I hung up.

  ‘Shall I make some coffee, or tea in my case? Then you should think about going, I’m sure you have things to do.’

  ‘Not really. Anyway, I am not going until Imogen and Lisa get back.’

  ‘Freddie, you’re all heart.’ I went to the kitchen, pausing on the way to have a bit of a curtain twitch. ‘I think some of them have gone.’ Freddie came to join me.

  ‘Yes, but there’s still a fair few. I wonder if they’re going to camp overnight.’ Just then the buzzer went. I looked at Freddie, we had told Lisa to use her key.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Pizza.’

  ‘I didn’t order pizza. Freddie, it’s pizza.’

  ‘Whatever you do don’t let them in, it’s just a ploy.’

  ‘Piss off,’ I said and put down the intercom. For the next hour the buzzer went every few seconds. Taxis, pizza, flowers, the journalists angry at me for ignoring them all day were now doing their best to extract their revenge. As if camping on my doorstep wasn’t enough. Freddie took the helm and showed a very broad vocabulary of expletives while he dealt with each one. Then the phone rang.

  ‘It’s Lisa.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re outside, but there is some bloke at the buzzer.’

  ‘Just push him out of the way, because if he sets foot inside I’m calling the police.’

  ‘OK, there’s just one other thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve got Jacquie and Dave with us.’

  ‘Who the hell are Jacquie and Dave?’

  ‘Your downstairs neighbours.’ London is a very unfriendly place.

  ‘Of course. Apologise to them will you?’ I had seen Jacquie and Dave, only a few times. They were probably a few years older than me and had lived downstairs for a year. I hadn’t had time to get to know them yet.

  ‘Oh they’re fine, they think it’s exciting living downstairs from a celebrity. Actually they wondered if they could come up and say hello.’

  Oh God. ‘Fine, but Lisa if I find out they’re journalists in disguise I’m killing you.’

  ‘I promise they’re genuine neighbours.’

  Freddie went to the window and gave me a running commentary.

  ‘Lisa’s leading them up towards the door, she’s elbowing everyone out the way...go girl. Oh, Imogen is next and she’s got a million shopping bags, and it looks as if your neighbours are carrying some of them. They are the downstairs couple, I recognise them. Lisa has just slapped the man standing near the buzzer and he’s swearing at her, and the cameras caught it all. That’ll make a nice picture in tomorrow’s paper. She’s just unlocked the door and is ushering everyone in. The press have moved forward. Oh, brilliant, the man from downstairs has just slammed the door and someone’s fingers got caught.’ Freddie laughed.

  ‘Knowing my luck they’ll probably sue.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody dramatic.’ We stopped then and watched the door open. In trooped Lisa, Imogen and the neighbours.

  ‘I really am very, very sorry about this,’ I said.

  ‘Oh that’s fine. It’s probably the most exciting thing to happen since we’ve lived here.’ Dave shook my hand, then gestured for Jacquie to do the same.

  ‘We think you’re great, no matter what they say,’ she said.

  I thanked them and then we all stood around unsure of what to do next. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I said, but I didn’t want to, I wanted them to go.

  ‘No, no, thank you. Imagine, Holly Miller offered us a drink. No, we must go we’ve got to make dinner. Cheerio.’ After I showed them out I looked at Lisa.

  ‘This is quite a funky, trendy district, so why did they choose to live here?’

  ‘Ah, well they must have thought it was a nice, quiet neighbourhood. Poor things.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘Loss adjusters. Both of them.’ Well that was a profession to avoid.

  ‘So then, what did you buy for me?’ I asked, excited at the prospect of what lay in the carrier bags.

  ‘You are going to be so pleased with us, isn’t she Immi?’

  ‘You certainly are, look.’

  Imogen began emptying the carrier bags and passing items to me. Firstly there were some pyjama-type black trousers which were nice; plain and not too frumpy. Then some tunics, actually quite a lot of tunics and some shirts. Then a black shift dress, and a red shift dress. Some evening tops, some maternity trousers that were almost jean-like, and some bras.

  ‘You bought me bras?’

  ‘Well the sales lady said your tits are probably about to take over. They get really big apparently and as they’re not very big now we got these.’ Both Lisa and Imogen looked really proud.

  ‘It’s all fantastic, in fact I’m going to try it all on now.’ I stood up.

  ‘OK, how about I make dinner while you all get really giggly and girly,’ Freddie said, grimacing at the sight of the bras. ‘Christ real passion-killers they are,’ he added, before heading out into the kitchen.

  Everything they bought made me feel human again. I slipped on the red dress.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said, as I went to show the dress to Freddie.

  ‘Wow, it looks fantastic,’ he said.

  ‘You sound shocked?’

  ‘Well I’d never thought of pregnancy as sexy before, but you do look sexy.’

  ‘Freddie, I think you’ll find you’ve never thought of me as sexy.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Anyway, come and taste this, it’s a sort of curry.’

  ‘How can it be a sort of curry?’

  ‘Well I found some chicken, and loads of veggies, so I put them all in this pot and added stock and curry powder.’ I leaned in close to the spoon and sipped.

  ‘Umm, that’s nice. Don’t make it too spicy, I don’t want to give birth yet.’

  ‘Isn’t that an old wives’ tale?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ I wondered if Dr Miriam would know. After we ate Freddie’s curry, I decided it was time for everyone to go home.

  ‘Come on, Lisa, Max will be expecting you; and Freddie you’ve been here long enough.’

  ‘Oh before I leave, we did get something else,’ Lisa said.

  ‘We weren’t entirely sure how you would feel,’ Imogen finished. Lisa went over and pulled a number of bags from behind the sofa. I looked at her as she presented me with some tiny leather booties, a baby denim jacket and a cashmere blanket.

  ‘Oh my God, I don’t know what to say.’ I felt the blanket, it was so soft, I held it up against my face. This would have my baby in it. It would keep it warm and make it feel safe. My baby.

  ‘I told you it would make her cry,’ Lisa said.

  ‘Everything makes her cry,’ Freddie added.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby,’ I said through my tears. They all looked at me. ‘Don’t you see, I’m really going to have a baby.’ And at that moment, despite the fact that the press were still camped outside my flat; and that George was mad; and that Joe had left me, I was the happiest person in the world.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The press proved more resilient than any of us imagined. When, on the following Wednesday I had to go for a check-up they were still there. Admittedly the numbers had diminished, but not by many. There was
a lot of money at stake for the first shot of me looking pregnant. And pregnant I sure looked, especially in my new maternity wear.

  The day after the press first arrived on my doorstep the papers all carried the picture of Lisa slapping the journalist. Of course, the story ran that I was a complete cow and had sent my bitch friend down to hurt the poor innocent journalist who had done nothing to deserve it. And the press agreed with me when it came to my relationship with George. They didn’t think we should get back together. Only because I was no way near good enough for him. My favourite line read: ‘Holly might have the looks and she might be carrying George’s child but we advise George, save yourself from a life of misery with her, save yourself for someone who deserves you.’ Then they quoted George as saying (with a sigh no doubt), ‘You don’t choose who you fall in love with.’ Cheers. Another newspaper ran an opinion poll: ‘Holly’s Baby—who should be the father, Joe or George?’ Well, although in this paper I wasn’t being made out to be a complete harlot, I didn’t like the way they involved Joe. Oh, and by the way, Joe got three per cent of the votes (thanks to Lisa who phoned up quite a few times), and George got the rest.

  At least something positive came out of it: Joe and I talked briefly on the phone. He was no longer being followed by the press, they already had a few shots of him, but when asked about me and the baby, he regretted saying ‘George is a nutter and should be locked up and made to stay away from small children of any origin.’ This did not make him popular. But I was just happy to hear his voice again.

  I resented this invasion into my private life, any person would. George commanded his army—the press—to march on my life, to take no prisoners, to show no mercy and like the devoted army they were, they obeyed.

  The mental torture I endured was gruesome. I lost a part of myself in those days and I didn’t know if I would ever recover. I would sit in bed and wonder how many people had talked about me that day; how many passed judgement.

  ‘Oh, it’s dreadful, that marriage-pact girl is a complete slut.’ ‘How she can live with herself after what she’s done to that poor man is beyond me and now she thinks she is capable of being a mum.’ ‘Imagine, sleeping with two men, getting pregnant and not having an idea who the father is.’ ‘She says it is one of only two people...makes you wonder doesn’t it?’

  Then the tears would roll down my cheeks because I knew that I would probably have judged my story in much the same way, were I reading it, and what thought did I ever give to strangers who were condemned for doing something wrong. Affairs, betrayal, it is easy, so easy to criticise. Now, I was being judged and although I didn’t doubt that some people were guiltier than others, I believed that there were definitely some people who were probably victims in much the same way I was. Of course I had to take my fair share of blame. We all make mistakes and we all have to live with the consequences, but they are normally things we have to deal with in private, like losing Joe. But on top of that, everything was public and the people reading the paper would be judging me the way that I had judged others in the past and that pained me to the core. The story had some sort of mention every day. Mainly they focused around me being in hiding and George being distraught at my continued rejection of him. The good news was that my clients were getting coverage on the back of me, but Imogen accused me of being no better than George for that. She was right. This is where confusion seeps in. Working in PR I rejoiced whenever I got any press editorial for my clients. Well, now I was getting it by the bucketful. They had managed to track down some of my clients.

  ‘She made a mistake but she’s a great account director,’ Phil from Zoom.

  ‘We have a good working relationship and her private life has nothing to do with it,’ Sarah from Jet. (The most effective household cleaner in the land).

  ‘I admire Holly professionally and none of this has any bearing on that,’ Helen from Final Mile Shoes.

  ‘The team is a team and Francesca Williams PR is not just Holly Miller. They are an effective company and Holly is an effective leader. We have no plans to review our representation,’ Michael from Software Store.

  ‘I should be so lucky as to be in her shoes,’ Brenda from Stop! (spot cream). I think she was a bit confused as to the situation.

  Flattered as I was by their words (apart from Brenda’s), they were excited only about the free coverage they were getting, not about the fact they’d supported me.

  I was using my predicament to promote my clients, albeit indirectly, my company were reaping the benefits. Not only had we received a record number of new business enquiries but we’d won two new clients in as many weeks. Far from being a liability I was an asset thanks to this crazy situation. So, although I hated it (I really did hate it), I also felt guilty for benefiting from it. On top of everything else I was prone to moments of guilt about that, as well as everything else, but also happy that I was speaking with Joe, even though our conversations revolved around the bloody press. He didn’t say how he felt about me and I didn’t ask. The time wasn’t right, I was just grateful that he was still talking to me. It was more than I deserved.

  I had developed the habit of talking to myself, in an attempt to maintain my sanity. I was working really hard. Imogen was fully ensconced and refusing to go home. The good news was that she had become friendly with the loss adjusters from downstairs so she spent a bit of time with them. Actually, I loved having her, especially as she had got used to the press and was really quite impressively blasé about them. We were becoming close friends as well as sisters. It felt quite special. Jack had been up a couple of times to see her but because of the press siege and the fact he was a ‘bit famous’, I didn’t get to see him. Imogen came back smiling though and I tried to persuade her to go home, but she said that Jack appreciated her so much more now. Absence did make the heart grow fonder. She missed him like crazy and he missed her like crazy and that was fantastic. There was even a positive side for her. She was also keeping my parents updated as to the developments, which meant that I didn’t have to talk about it too much. I thought about it all the time but thoughts are thoughts and talking about it was different, and it upset me too much.

  I gave myself pep talks, something I’d practised since childhood but now they were so much more important. I was keeping the misery away from my door more successfully than I was keeping the press away.

  My pep talks: You have a lovely flat (spending so much time in it was making me appreciate it more). You have great friends and a great family. You have a baby on the way. You’ve got your health. It could be a lot worse...You won’t be fat forever (please God). You have known love. Your skin is looking fantastic. It could be a lot worse...You still have a career.

  The photos in the paper have shown your good side.

  It will all blow over shortly and then everyone will forget.

  You will be able to go where you want, when you want.

  It could be a lot worse...My final pep talk was verging on the desperate: Your hair hasn’t fallen out.

  You can afford nappies and Baby Gap. Just.

  There are so many nice names you can choose from for the baby.

  Sleep is overrated.

  It could be a lot worse.

  Well, it worked for me anyway. I used them when I woke up in the morning with a sinking feeling or a mild panic. I used them when I looked at the daily papers and saw my story still there. I used them when George made his ever-increasing television appearances, (Ready Steady Cook, BBC Breakfast, Blankety Blank, London Today to name a few). I used them before I called Joe, or before I spoke to anyone. I used them all the damn time.

  I was using them today for two reasons. One, I was going out and the press would at last get that elusive shot of me. I was wearing my black trousers (the pyjama-type ones) and a cream tunic top. I even put on high heels. I was only going to the hospital but as I had to face the press I decided to make sure I looked my best. I took ages over my hair and make-up. The other reason was that George had managed t
o get an Aloha! magazine feature, that was due out that day. A mixture of OK! and Hello! magazines, Aloha! was a British publication, that was growing in popularity. Mainly because it always seemed to have chocolate attached to its cover.

  ‘Imogen, it’s time to go.’ She was standing at her sentry post by the window. I had tried to get her to move a few times at the beginning, but I gave up. You would almost think she was enjoying herself, but I knew better. Apparently the loss adjusters liked staring at the press as well, they had got to know each one of them by sight and they got very excited when a new one appeared. Together, with Imogen, they had become the paparazzi equivalent of trainspotters minus the anoraks.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she asked, moving away. ‘There’re ten there today, which isn’t bad really, well not as bad as some days, but most of them have cameras and well they’re going to get overexcited when they see you aren’t they?’ The touch of hysteria in her voice worried me.

  ‘Keep calm Immi. I spoke to Freddie and Francesca about this and all I have to do is go out, let them snap their cameras, say a few words...I’ll be fine.’ Actually the bravado was completely false. Francesca had told me that biting the bullet and going out was the best thing. There had been so much speculation. Some papers claimed I had gone into hiding, others claimed sightings of me staring out of the window (it was Immi in the blurred photos), some said I was too humiliated to leave the flat, others said I should be too ashamed of myself to leave it. They were having a field day with my life. Only it wasn’t my life any more. I was a bystander; they were in charge. Freddie had wanted to come and get me and do the male thing by escorting me, but I wouldn’t hear of it. We had an important presentation the following day and he needed to work on that. So I pretended to everyone that I was fine about going out, even to Lisa, who also wanted to come over, but I knew that that particular situation would probably end in violence and that wasn’t something we needed.

  Also there had been two more ‘kiss and tell’ stories, but unlike ginger Justin, they were both made up. One guy called Bruce claimed that I had promised to marry him too but in the end just used him for sex. I promise I have never met a Bruce. And Clint said that he was also a contender for being the father of my child. I knew no one called Clint. Francesca gave those particular papers hell for printing the lies, and in all fairness they both printed retractions. But no one reads retractions do they? Especially when they are positioned at the bottom corner on an inside page. I didn’t even try to discover if I could sue, there seemed no point in antagonising them any further. George did leap to my defence over Clint, saying there was no way that the baby could be his. But that was because he didn’t want to share the limelight. For once his selfishness worked in my favour.