Read Online Celebrity Bride by Alison Kervin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alison Kervin
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complete lies about me. I went like a train? I hardly know Greg. He's just a barman who I went out for a drink with once. I never even kissed him, let alone slept with him, so I don't know how he knows that I 'go' like a train. Bloody hell. I'm no virgin but I definitely never slept with him!
And boob job? I mean – hello – of all the people in the world, I really don't need a boob job. I'm 34E for crying out loud, what would I inflate them to? I'd look like I had two footballs stuffed down the front of my shirt.
Rufus glances at the page I'm reading and raises his thick, black eyebrows. He looks like a man who's seen this sort of thing time and time again; which, to be fair, is exactly what he is.
'I've got people looking at them,' he says rather enigmatically.
'Looking at what? My boobs – the ones that I've apparently had inflated?'
'No, silly. I've got my lawyer looking at the allegations in the piece. Don't worry. There's nothing we can do now; the lawyers will act if there's anything to act on, if not, we'll put in measures to limit the chances of this sort of thing happening again. We'll try and stop them from printing the interview with your ex-boyfriend on Sunday.'
'He's not my ex.'
'Well, whoever he is . . . train man . . . we'll stop him talking about having sex with you.'
'I didn't have sex with him. Can we get this really clear, Rufus: he's not my ex-boyfriend and I didn't have sex with him.'
This is the thing with me and Rufus; he's polished, professional, never flustered, always calm and in control whereas I feel like squealing and running out and buying every single copy of the paper to make sure that no one else can see the lies they've written about us.
'I just don't believe it,' I say, largely to myself, but Rufus hears and ruffles my hair affectionately.
'Don't you?' he says. 'Did you think we'd be left alone to develop our relationship in peace? I'm afraid I've had a working lifetime of this. They don't let up; they're always after stories, always wanting to hear more gossip. That's why we have to be careful who we trust.'
'I just didn't think it would be like this,' I say. And that's what I mean. I'm not stupid; I knew the journalists would want to write stories but it didn't occur to me that the newspapers would be this interested in the minutiae of our relationship until we appeared in public. I imagined that once we started going to events and parties together, the journalists would spy us and want to write about us but I just didn't expect this . . . I didn't imagine for a minute that if they couldn't find a story, they'd make one up!
I guess I thought I could control things; I thought that by not going out and not doing anything wrong, I'd be OK. I always realised that if I was caught falling out of a nightclub, taking drugs, or working in the slave trade, the story would hold extra interest because of my link to a film star, but I didn't think that by doing nothing, I'd still end up in the papers. As it is, I seem to be even more of a target for the media by not doing anything. Heat magazine announced that I was 'oops . . . too fat by far' this week, after they got a picture of me clambering out of the car. I nearly cried and realised, perhaps for the first time, that when you're looking at these pictures as a non-celebrity they seem harmless and fun. But when you're the target of the pictures, they feel like a real attack and very difficult to take. It's all so personal. I've never realised before how undermining and cruel so many of the jibes are in magazines.
As Rufus and I sit in the sitting room, looking at the latest missive from bloody Katie, my phone bleeps again.
'I no that's not true,' reads the text from Sophie. 'You've got the massive-ist knockers in the world.'
There's another bleep minutes later. It's Mandy texting on Sophie's mobile. She hates texting and, on the rare occasions when she does it, using someone else's phone, her messages are always spelt out in full
And boob job? I mean – hello – of all the people in the world, I really don't need a boob job. I'm 34E for crying out loud, what would I inflate them to? I'd look like I had two footballs stuffed down the front of my shirt.
Rufus glances at the page I'm reading and raises his thick, black eyebrows. He looks like a man who's seen this sort of thing time and time again; which, to be fair, is exactly what he is.
'I've got people looking at them,' he says rather enigmatically.
'Looking at what? My boobs – the ones that I've apparently had inflated?'
'No, silly. I've got my lawyer looking at the allegations in the piece. Don't worry. There's nothing we can do now; the lawyers will act if there's anything to act on, if not, we'll put in measures to limit the chances of this sort of thing happening again. We'll try and stop them from printing the interview with your ex-boyfriend on Sunday.'
'He's not my ex.'
'Well, whoever he is . . . train man . . . we'll stop him talking about having sex with you.'
'I didn't have sex with him. Can we get this really clear, Rufus: he's not my ex-boyfriend and I didn't have sex with him.'
This is the thing with me and Rufus; he's polished, professional, never flustered, always calm and in control whereas I feel like squealing and running out and buying every single copy of the paper to make sure that no one else can see the lies they've written about us.
'I just don't believe it,' I say, largely to myself, but Rufus hears and ruffles my hair affectionately.
'Don't you?' he says. 'Did you think we'd be left alone to develop our relationship in peace? I'm afraid I've had a working lifetime of this. They don't let up; they're always after stories, always wanting to hear more gossip. That's why we have to be careful who we trust.'
'I just didn't think it would be like this,' I say. And that's what I mean. I'm not stupid; I knew the journalists would want to write stories but it didn't occur to me that the newspapers would be this interested in the minutiae of our relationship until we appeared in public. I imagined that once we started going to events and parties together, the journalists would spy us and want to write about us but I just didn't expect this . . . I didn't imagine for a minute that if they couldn't find a story, they'd make one up!
I guess I thought I could control things; I thought that by not going out and not doing anything wrong, I'd be OK. I always realised that if I was caught falling out of a nightclub, taking drugs, or working in the slave trade, the story would hold extra interest because of my link to a film star, but I didn't think that by doing nothing, I'd still end up in the papers. As it is, I seem to be even more of a target for the media by not doing anything. Heat magazine announced that I was 'oops . . . too fat by far' this week, after they got a picture of me clambering out of the car. I nearly cried and realised, perhaps for the first time, that when you're looking at these pictures as a non-celebrity they seem harmless and fun. But when you're the target of the pictures, they feel like a real attack and very difficult to take. It's all so personal. I've never realised before how undermining and cruel so many of the jibes are in magazines.
As Rufus and I sit in the sitting room, looking at the latest missive from bloody Katie, my phone bleeps again.
'I no that's not true,' reads the text from Sophie. 'You've got the massive-ist knockers in the world.'
There's another bleep minutes later. It's Mandy texting on Sophie's mobile. She hates texting and, on the rare occasions when she does it, using someone else's phone, her messages are always spelt out in full
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