Read Online Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined by Nikki Stern - Free Book Online
Authors: Nikki Stern
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Chaimie to some soccer hooligans as we were crossing the Channel.
‘Are you nuts?’ I said. ‘Just chuck the bloody thing overboard.’ I told him in no uncertain terms that if he got caught, he was on his own. He laughed it off, telling me that I worried too much, probably as a result of my Jewish upbringing.
Paul was cool as a cucumber as he carried the rat, concealed in his coat, through customs. We found a hotel in Earl’s Court and set about organising our wedding. We would have to wait a week before we could marry, and we needed a residential address, which would zone us to a particular registry office.
‘You’ll just have to call someone on that list of Dory’s friends and ask if we can use their address.’
I was aghast—I couldn’t just call up people I barely knew, asking to borrow their address so we could get married. But Paul’s powers of persuasion had me perusing the list under ‘E’ for England. There were several London addresses, notably Dr Arthur Fleischmann, a sculptor friend of Dory’s. He was renowned for his official portrait busts: the Queen—for her Silver Jubilee—and, remarkably, the last four popes, all from live sittings. I’d seen photos of the unveilings he’d sent to Dory, showing him with Queen Elizabeth and with Pope John Paul II.
I called and spoke to Arthur’s wife, requesting the use of her address for our marriage. Naturally she was puzzled by my call.
‘I can’t believe I did that,’ I said afterwards, shocked at my own behaviour.
Still, it was all arranged and we had an address. It meant we would be zoned to the Marylebone registry office in Westminster. ‘That’s where Paul McCartney got married,’ said Paul cheerfully. I remembered seeing footage of it swamped by Beatles fans.
All that was left to do was buy the rings; Paul suggested Oxford Street.
I was dreading calling Dory to invite her to the wedding. I knew she wouldn’t accept, but I wanted to do the right thing. When I finally phoned to tell her of our nuptials, she’d already been informed by Arthur’s wife. Needless to say, Dory was horrified: ‘Paul’s much too young for you. It’ll never work.’
I countered by saying that his mother thought me too old for him, but that we happened to think age didn’t matter. Since he was old for his age and I was immature for mine, we were in fact a perfect match.
‘Oy . . . What would your father say? Nikki-le, Nikki-le, I’m sick with worry.’ When she was emotional, my mother would add the German diminutive ‘le’ to my name as a sign of affection. I told her it didn’t matter what he’d say; what was important was what I wanted to do: ‘I love Paul and he loves me. That’s all that matters—so stop worrying.’
In a depressed voice, she wished me luck and promised she’d be thinking of me.
Paul wore jeans and his lumber jacket; I donned my Phantom T-shirt, my black-and-white-check jumper and black pants. We took the Tube to Marylebone Station, joining the morning rush hour; Paul bought the wedding bouquet—six limp carnations— en route from a flower vendor.
The celebrant plucked two witnesses out of the typing pool. They guessed we were eloping; one commented on how lovely it was to see two people ‘so in love’. As it happened, our marriage day fell on 11 November, Remembrance Day; so at 11 am precisely, we walked out as Mr and Mrs Van Eyk. We were ecstatic and took photos outside, posing with the lion statues on the steps.
Our reception was in a hot-potato takeaway called Spudulike. We had eaten there several times before and the food was excellent. Paul proudly showed our marriage certificate, with the ink barely dry, to the disbelieving manager. Immediately and generously, he offered to put our meal on the house and threw in a bottle of champagne—no-one had ever had their wedding reception in his Spudulike before. So we ate our hot potatoes and drank champagne through straws from polystyrene cups while sitting on
‘Are you nuts?’ I said. ‘Just chuck the bloody thing overboard.’ I told him in no uncertain terms that if he got caught, he was on his own. He laughed it off, telling me that I worried too much, probably as a result of my Jewish upbringing.
Paul was cool as a cucumber as he carried the rat, concealed in his coat, through customs. We found a hotel in Earl’s Court and set about organising our wedding. We would have to wait a week before we could marry, and we needed a residential address, which would zone us to a particular registry office.
‘You’ll just have to call someone on that list of Dory’s friends and ask if we can use their address.’
I was aghast—I couldn’t just call up people I barely knew, asking to borrow their address so we could get married. But Paul’s powers of persuasion had me perusing the list under ‘E’ for England. There were several London addresses, notably Dr Arthur Fleischmann, a sculptor friend of Dory’s. He was renowned for his official portrait busts: the Queen—for her Silver Jubilee—and, remarkably, the last four popes, all from live sittings. I’d seen photos of the unveilings he’d sent to Dory, showing him with Queen Elizabeth and with Pope John Paul II.
I called and spoke to Arthur’s wife, requesting the use of her address for our marriage. Naturally she was puzzled by my call.
‘I can’t believe I did that,’ I said afterwards, shocked at my own behaviour.
Still, it was all arranged and we had an address. It meant we would be zoned to the Marylebone registry office in Westminster. ‘That’s where Paul McCartney got married,’ said Paul cheerfully. I remembered seeing footage of it swamped by Beatles fans.
All that was left to do was buy the rings; Paul suggested Oxford Street.
I was dreading calling Dory to invite her to the wedding. I knew she wouldn’t accept, but I wanted to do the right thing. When I finally phoned to tell her of our nuptials, she’d already been informed by Arthur’s wife. Needless to say, Dory was horrified: ‘Paul’s much too young for you. It’ll never work.’
I countered by saying that his mother thought me too old for him, but that we happened to think age didn’t matter. Since he was old for his age and I was immature for mine, we were in fact a perfect match.
‘Oy . . . What would your father say? Nikki-le, Nikki-le, I’m sick with worry.’ When she was emotional, my mother would add the German diminutive ‘le’ to my name as a sign of affection. I told her it didn’t matter what he’d say; what was important was what I wanted to do: ‘I love Paul and he loves me. That’s all that matters—so stop worrying.’
In a depressed voice, she wished me luck and promised she’d be thinking of me.
Paul wore jeans and his lumber jacket; I donned my Phantom T-shirt, my black-and-white-check jumper and black pants. We took the Tube to Marylebone Station, joining the morning rush hour; Paul bought the wedding bouquet—six limp carnations— en route from a flower vendor.
The celebrant plucked two witnesses out of the typing pool. They guessed we were eloping; one commented on how lovely it was to see two people ‘so in love’. As it happened, our marriage day fell on 11 November, Remembrance Day; so at 11 am precisely, we walked out as Mr and Mrs Van Eyk. We were ecstatic and took photos outside, posing with the lion statues on the steps.
Our reception was in a hot-potato takeaway called Spudulike. We had eaten there several times before and the food was excellent. Paul proudly showed our marriage certificate, with the ink barely dry, to the disbelieving manager. Immediately and generously, he offered to put our meal on the house and threw in a bottle of champagne—no-one had ever had their wedding reception in his Spudulike before. So we ate our hot potatoes and drank champagne through straws from polystyrene cups while sitting on
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