Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll
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his kids, she figured, I must look like the mid-life equivalent of a Porsche. Lucy had been around the block enough to know how utterly shite it must have been for the twins, and had genuinely bent over backwards trying to blend them all into one big happy family.
But in spite of all her proffered kindness and numerous olive branches, their rudeness back to her knew no bounds and it was honestly like the more of a superhuman effort she made with them, the more they despised her for it.
On countless occasions, she’d gone out of her way to invite Alannah to fashion shows that she was working on, or else to highly exclusive sample sales most girls would have sold a kidney to get into, mainly because fabulous designer gear straight off a catwalk was usually flogged off for half nothing. Not only that, but Lucy had regularly made a point of inviting Josh along to the flashy fashionista cocktail dos she was always getting plus ones for, where he could spend the whole night surrounded by beautiful women. Sure, what normal fella his age wouldn’t kill for that?
Out of the goodness of her heart, Lucy had genuinely meant well. In spite of everything that had happened since and in spite of all the pain that had been caused, she’d desperately wanted them all to get along, but Alannah and Josh only sneered at her and dismissed her because she was a ‘just a model’. And of course, the two of them had her pigeon-holed as some kind of brainless, vapid party girl who’d been lucky enough to meet this older, wealthy, distinguished guy and somehow cajole him down the aisle.
Heather Mills, they’d nicknamed her behind her back (she knew for a fact; she’d accidentally overheard), and it bloody well stung.
But then, that was the thing about Lucy. People were always reading about her in the papers or else seeing her on photo shoots in glossy magazine ads and had her down as tough and flinty, a girl well able to take care of herself. And yet, underneath all that, she might as well have been a big, soft marshmallow. So Josh and Alannah and their never-ending petty little slights got to her on a daily basis. How could they not?
And they never, not for one millisecond, seemed to let up. They’d never forgive her for what had happened to their family and by God, from day one they’d been determined to make Lucy pay with her heart’s blood. Whether it was her fault or not.
Back at the bar, Bianca was now rummaging round the bottom of her handbag.
‘Oh … by the way, I’ve got something here you probably should see, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be best to show you after a couple of drinks, to … well, to lessen the impact a bit.’
‘Ehh … I’m guessing it’s a decree nisi that Alannah and Josh made Andrew sign, with a gun pointed to his head?’
‘Not quite that bad, but …’
Apologetically, Bianca held up a copy of that evening’s Chronicle. And there it was in glorious Technicolor for all the world to see.
LUCY BELTER AND HER SUGAR DADDY HIT THE ROCKS! EXCLUSIVE.
‘Oh, you’re kidding me,’ Lucy groaned, head in her hands.
‘Sorry. Thought you’d be better off seeing it with a few drinks on you.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m way too sober for this. Where’s the barman with our refills?’
Bianca looked at her worriedly. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea, love? It’s just you’ve got that huge photo shoot first thing in the morning and you really need to look the biz.’
‘Just one for the road then,’ said Lucy, though she wasn’t even sure she meant it. Alcohol was just about the only thing getting her through this whole nightmare.
‘Right then, if you insist,’ said Bianca doubtfully. ‘Though I’m warning you, I’m making you drink buckets of water with it too. You need your beauty sleep.’
Bianca was a stylist and acutely aware of how important it was for models to look fresh and camera-ready at all times. As she headed off to the bar, Lucy smiled fondly after her and silently blessed the girl for being such a stalwart. God knows, she needed her mates around her now. Then her eye fell on the headline and in spite of herself, she winced again.
There was a downside of living your life in the public eye and Lucy was very well-known, not only as a model, but thanks to a regular slot she had on Good Morning Ireland! as a ‘fashionista and trend commentator’. In other words, after any major red carpet event, Lucy was your go-to personality to sit in a hot TV studio and pass comments like, ‘If you ask me, all Angelina Jolie needs is a nice, light spray tan and a Supersize Big Mac meal in that order.’
And amazingly, TV gigs really started to take off for her. Producers told her she was a born natural and audiences seemed to relish her gutsy, down-to-earth, no-nonsense approach.
Lucy loved what she did and most of the time was happy to see stories about herself in the papers; after all, it was part and parcel of her job, she reckoned. A job she’d worked bloody hard at since she’d first been ‘discovered’ at the tender age of fifteen. Her family wasn’t wealthy and privileged like Andrew’s; she’d had to graft for everything that came her way in life. But amazingly, right from day one, her career seemed to just take off. Six feet tall, with Nordic good looks and cheekbones you could nearly slice ham on, she was a natural. In next to no time, she was earning some serious money for herself, between catwalk shows and magazine shoots.
But Lucy was shrewd and streetwise and took absolutely nothing for granted, knowing that a model’s sell-by date was short and a dole queue was potentially just a heartbeat away from her. So she took on every single modelling gig that was offered to her, slogging, slaving and grafting for everything that came her way.
You need a model to stand shivering in a bikini in the middle of Grafton Street in February to advertise sun holidays? Lucy was your first port of call. Or you need a glamour gal to climb naked into a giant vat of cold beans, just so you could promote some new reduced fat range? She was your gal. No job too big, too small or too mortifying. And recession or no, miraculously the money kept rolling in.
Of course the downside of having a public profile was that for months now, all sorts of sleazy tabloids were running features speculating on the state of her marriage. As far as possible, she did her level best to avoid reading any of that crap, but still. Hard not to feel like your nerve endings were lying jangled and exposed every time you glanced at a byline that screeched into your face,
THEY WERE A MISMATCH FROM THE WORD GO!
Alannah and Josh, she thought bitterly, must be having a bloody field day with all this.
Just then, a song came on the bar’s music system. ‘True Love’ by Cole Porter. And completely unbidden, a memory surfaced, something Lucy thought she’d buried deep inside and worked bloody hard at keeping there. But in spite of her best efforts, the recollection still bubbled to the surface.
No, she warned herself, feeling her bottom lip start to wobble. Don’t sink under. It’s just a silly love song; DO NOT let it get to you. You’re doing so well. All you’ve got to do is stay strong.
But it was no use.
Because the fact was, the last time Lucy heard that song had been on her wedding day. At the tiny little reception dinner afterwards, to be exact. She and Andrew had got married barefoot on the beach, at sunset in Cancun, and it was initially supposed to have been just the two of them and no one else. After all, getting married abroad seemed like the most elegant way of side-stepping all the attendant drama that they’d have had to deal with, had they got married quickly and quietly in the registry office at home, as had been their original plan. After all, Alannah and Josh wouldn’t have liked it and the last thing Lucy wanted to do was cause any offence on her wedding day.
No doubt about it; the best way to avoid being accused of insensitivity around his first family was just as Andrew rightly said, ‘to get married miles away from everyone on the beach of some tropical island, at sunset. Just you and me, darling, and not another