David appears at the bedroom door (all these staff wandering around the place are taking a lot of getting used to), and hands a tray to Rufus who puts my cup of coffee onto the lovely cream bedside table, which was imported from France at great cost. Every time I look round this amazing house it strikes me that there are pieces of furniture in here that are worth more than my parents' home.
When I arrived last week, struggling along with my suitcases and carrier bags brimming with clothes, the staff came out to greet me at the main gate and took me through to the elegant brown leather and wood filled sitting room. There's a sitting room and drawing room at the front of the house, then a library, backed with those really old books you see in stately homes, and a games room with a cinema screen in it as you go back through the house. There's also a high-tech gym and a lovely, cosy snug with a breakfast table in it. At the back, there's a terribly elegant dining room, with modern-looking kitchens at either end. The staff who live in (four of them, including David) are based in the outhouses on the land at the back. And this is Rufus's casual London place. His main house is in Los Angeles, then there's the ski lodge he owns in Aspen and the flat in New York, not to mention the villa nestling in the Tuscan hills. He took me there early in our courtship and I've never seen anywhere so stunning.
I did used to worry about the disparity in wealth between Rufus and me – I don't have anything of value while he is surrounded by things of value – but what difference does it make? Actually, that's not true anyway; I do have something of value: a gorgeous little jewellery pot that has been passed down through the generations of my family. It's porcelain (I think) and tiny and I adore it. On its lid there are three simple diamonds in a row. I keep my grandmother's wedding ring in there, and it means more to me than any other possession. I haven't even had it valued because that seems disrespectful somehow. Why do I care what it costs?
I was given the jewellery pot by my grandmother; 'pot' is such an inelegant and insufficient word to describe my beautiful nineteenth-century porcelain jewellery box, but that's what it's always been called. Granny Edith said that the round porcelain box with its azure blue, enamel-tiled interior and beautiful tiny diamonds on the top would be mine. It's been in the family for generations, and we're really not the sort of family that has heirlooms or anything like that 'handed down' through the family. We're a make-do-and-mend sort of family – full of people who remember the war with great affection because it was a time when people looked after each other. My family's origins are in the East End of London.
They moved out of the area when I was ten years old. I think they realised that if they were going to make the move, they'd better do it before I went to senior school and got settled in. We moved down to Hastings where Dad was working. I remember it being just as rough as where we'd come from but somehow so much nicer with a blast of sea air drifting through it. It's amazing how nothing's quite as bad when the beach is round the corner.
The newspaper's still spread across the bed in front of me. I see Rufus looking over at it as he sips his coffee.
'And what's all this about me quitting my job?' I rant. 'I haven't given up my job! I've taken a few days off.'
'You could you know . . .' he says with a lazy smile.
'Give up work and do what?'
'Anything you want. You don't need to work. You could be around here, help me out.'
'What? Turn into a housewife?'
I may not have pictured myself as a madly focused career woman but I'd certainly never seen myself as a housewife at the age of twenty-eight. Sophie would beat me to a pulp if I left the theatre and turned into a domestic goddess.
Rufus just shrugs.
'We need to take stock of things,' I say, looking up at him sternly as he places his cup next to mine. I want him to know that I'm taking all this seriously, and that there won't be any leaks.
'Mmmm . . .' He lies down on the bed next to me, leans in close and stares at me with eyes the colour of palest moss. He has the most amazing thick, jet-black eyelashes, fluttering out from around these astonishing eyes. The fact that everything about Rufus is dark except for his eyes seems to highlight their lightness even more. His skin always looks tanned, his hair is thick and dark and glossy, but those eyes – they lift out of his face, full of laughter, joy and this alluring intensity. God, he's gorgeous. He pulls me towards him. 'That's enough taking stock. Stock all taken,' he says as he pulls the duvet off me and I feel his eyes travel the length of my body before resting on my breasts. 'Come here,' he growls, throwing the duvet over us.
I can feel his erection digging into my leg. 'Mmmmm,' I murmur back as he begins to kiss me and all my worries about Great-Aunt Maude and shadowy figures on the CCTV screens drift quickly from my mind.
We're sitting at the breakfast table in the snug enjoying a range of berries and some fruits I've never heard of before, like goji berries. Goji berries? We only had apples and bananas at home. And, maybe, strawberries if we were feeling flush. Now it's all star fruits, lychees, pomegranates and goji berries (which, for the record, are foul; I don't care if they're a superfood, hand picked by Tibetan monks and consumed by the world's skinniest actresses and supermodels). I munch through the fruit plate, which has been prepared by Pamela – one of the housekeepers. She's my favourite one, actually; she looks like every great housekeeper ought to, with her large barrel-shaped body and her light-grey hair fashioned into the tightest of curls on her head. She always wears an immaculate white apron over her long grey skirt. She and Julie have been so lovely to me. Ever since I started coming to the house regularly, all those months ago, they've looked out for me, and make an effort to come and say 'hi'. I'd count them as friends, to be honest. I often pop in to have a chat with Pamela about her husband who works too hard and her son who can't get a job. I feel as if I know her family well. I tell Pamela all about my family too, and I often talk to Julie about Mandy and Sophie and what great mates they are. I'm going to take Julie for a night out with the girls soon; as soon as I get myself organised.
I have a notebook in front of me on which I've drafted out an important list of things to do. First thing on the list is 'call the girls'. This is proving harder to do than I'd predicted because there's only one way of getting hold of them and that's through Sophie's mobile. Mandy doesn't have a bloody phone and the one in the flat never worked properly after Dodgy Dave tried to strangle himself with it. One of my main tasks over the coming weeks is to get someone to mend that phone in their flat so that the three of us can actually talk to each other in the evenings. I guess I never realised how important it would be to be able to call them regularly; I had these ideas of popping round there in the evenings, but since it turns out that the press are permanently outside, I can't leave the flat unless it's under armed guard, and with three decoy cars ahead of me, so 'popping' is not really an option.
'Why would you write "call the girls" on a list?' asks Rufus in his simple male way, nuzzling his stubbly chin into the back of my neck. 'Why not just call them?'
'I've tried a million times,' I exaggerate. 'I've put it on the list to remind myself to keep trying. They're very hard to get hold of. Neither of them has a PA! Imagine that?'
'Funny lady,' he says. 'I'll have you know that I know people without PAs too.'
'Yeah right,' I respond sarcastically. 'Your milkman probably has a PA.'
He grabs me from behind as if to strangle me. 'You'll be sorry,' he growls. 'I'll teach you to take the mickey out of me.' Just as I start to fear that he might actually start to wrestle with me, he tickles me playfully and wraps his arms around me.
'I hope you don't really think I'm like that,' he says. 'You do know that my two best friends hang out at baseball games trying to get autographs. Deeves spent the whole of last summer selling hot dogs at the Yankees games so he could watch 'em all without paying.'
'Did he?' I ask. 'Why didn't you just buy him a season ticket?'
'Because the man has pride,' Rufus says, shaking his
head. 'What can you do? Have to say I love him for it though. I reckon he must have been sneaking himself some free hot dogs somewhere along the line to make it all worthwhile.'
'You are friends with a sausage thief?' I suggest in mock horror.
'I fear so,' he retorts, sounding as British as he can. 'Now, I have an idea . . . an idea about how we might pass the time.'
'Yeah, I know what your idea of us passing the time involves, and it seems to necessitate me being naked and in bed!' I say light-heartedly.
'Not necessarily in bed,' he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'But definitely naked.'
'Mmmm . . . thought as much,' I say, rubbing my cheek affectionately against his.
'But I had another notion today,' he says. 'Oh yes, believe it or not I do have thoughts about you that don't involve you taking all your clothes off.'
'My God!' I feign concern and look deep into his eyes. 'Are you unwell?'
'Nope.' He pulls me in close to him. I love the way he does that: squeezes me so tightly that I can barely breathe and end up sucking in light raspy breaths – it makes me feel all wrapped up and protected. When he hugs me like that I feel that no harm can come to me.
'I think we should go shopping,' he suggests. 'I'd like to go and buy you the necklace to match it.'
'Match what?'
'Oh, didn't I mention?' he says mischievously. 'I've bought you a bangle.'
'A bangle? Oooooooo.'
There are times when living with Rufus is a bit like starring alongside Rufus in one of his films. And, I tell you, I know all about Rufus's films. From the rom coms to the epics, the war films to the horror films – he's been in so many different types of films; that's what makes him so special as an actor (and the fact that he's drop dead gorgeous). In the early days of our courtship, I seemed to spend all the time I wasn't getting ready to see him, watching his films. I could quote most of the lines from Tarzan II by the time our third date came along.
'If you come with me, I will love you for ever.' (Him).
'I will, Tarzan. I will.' (Some dumb blonde actress playing Jane).
'Then come, now. I take you away.' (Him again).
When he's not running around in a loincloth or winning an Oscar for his portrayal of a killer, he's playing the dashing hero with whom everyone falls in love. The charm that lights up the screen and sends millions of teenager girls into swoons and sighs is as evident off the screen as it is on it.
He pulls out a bag and hands it to me. Inside there's a Tiffany's box. Oh my God. 'Thank you,' I say, smiling up at him as I pull the turquoise ribbon off and watch it fall softly and gracefully to the floor. Even the disposable packaging is stylish on this gift. I lift the lid and stand back in sheer delight and amazement. The bangle has three diamonds on it – in a row . . . exactly like my beautiful, favourite jewellery pot. 'It's exactly the same!!' I say, genuinely awe-struck by the beauty of the piece of jewellery. 'I can't believe it.'
'Neither could I when I saw it,' says Rufus, grinning from ear to ear. 'I'm glad you like it.'
'I do, I do,' I say, trying to fix it around my wrist as he pulls me into his arms again.
'They have matching necklaces,' he says, squeezing me close to him. 'I ordered one and it's in the store. I was going to ask Christine to collect it, but why don't we go?'
'Can we do that?' I'm aware that going anywhere with Rufus demands an operation of military-style proportions and precision or the shop will be full of fans. 'Will we have to parachute in under the cover of darkness?'
'We can do it,' he says cautiously. 'And, if we get it right, probably without parachutes. Henry can drive us and we'll go in by the back door.'
I sit back and watch as Rufus briefs Christine in that gentle way of his, making her feel like the only girl in the world as he asks her to call ahead to the manager and request that the shop be shut when we arrive.
'Thank you,' I say. 'You're very thoughtful.'
'It's my pleasure,' says Rufus, taking my face in his hands. 'I love you.'
'I love you too.'
I wish I could reciprocate in some way; I wish I could buy Rufus something that he would adore, and would make him go as mushy and adoring as I go when he buys things for me. But how? What could I buy that he couldn't afford to get himself two million of? When it comes to purchasing power, our relationship feels so unbalanced that I find it very difficult. He's only got to say in an interview, at a party, or anywhere else, that he quite likes the look of the new Burberry suits, and the entire winter menswear collection will turn up in seconds. What's the point of me saving up to buy him a tiepin when the manufacturers will give him every tiepin ever made?
'Ready?' We've arrived at the back door of Tiffany's in Bond Street. Rufus pulls his cap down and his collar up and looks around shiftily, as if he's off to hold up a bank or something. We go darting through the doors that swing open to greet us. Now this is something I've really noticed about Rufus's world: doors are being opened for me constantly. I can't remember the last time I deigned to do my own door opening. In fact, it's been so long I'm not sure I can remember what to do. Everywhere I go there's someone expecting me and swinging the door as I arrive in greeting. Like magic!
Rufus places the necklace around my neck and it hangs, sparkling wildly but elegantly, against my skin. I can't speak. I just stand, looking into the mirror, while the sales assistants coo and say 'gorgeous' while clearly looking at my boyfriend. I notice how he doesn't return their admiring glances though – ha! He keeps on looking at me, like he's absorbing me with his eyes, like there's no one else in the room. He may be the world's most adored film star, and – yes – I know there are women queuing up to be with him, but at times like this I just know, know, that he would never cheat on me.
If I'm honest, I knew by the second date with Rufus that I was falling in love. What I never expected was that he would fall in love with me. I wasn't alone in this view. My friends, Sophie in particular, warned me strongly against getting too close to the world's most sought-after man. They never said it, but what they were thinking was – it can't last . . . just think about how many beautiful women are throwing themselves at him. It can't possibly last. 'By all means go out with him,' they said. 'Have fun, have a good time, but don't fall in love with him.' But how could I not? Christ, there are teenage girls who've never met him who are head over heels in love with him. What choice did I have when he was wining and dining me and taking me dancing under the stars?
'Don't fall in love,' screamed Sophie, when I set out on our second date together, and I went out there and fell completely and hopelessly in love with him.
For our second date, we planned to go out for the day, and he wanted to take me somewhere very English.
'Leave it to me,' he said in his strong American accent.
'It'll be the Changing of the bloody Guard,' said Sophie. 'You know what Americans are like.'
'Or Kensington Palace because he'll want to show you where Princess Diana lived, because the Americans adore her, don't they?'
The 'guess where the American's going to take you on an English date' game became quite serious. When Rufus appeared at ten am that warm late summer morning, I'd been reliably assured by Soph and Mand that we were going to Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, Harrods, tea at the Ritz or to play croquet and watch cricket. I was quite excited by the time he arrived at the door.
Not knowing where we were going would normally have produced sartorial terror of cataclysmic proportions in me. If you don't know where you're going, how do you know what to wear? But with Rufus I'd kind of got used to the fact that nothing in my wardrobe was ever going to be appropriate for anything we ever did anyway, so it didn't really matter that I didn't know what we were doing – if you know what I mean. Just gave me an excuse for being wrongly dressed!
I jumped into the back of the car next to Rufus and he introduced me to Henry, his driver, who'd come over with him from America.
'He's been driving me for fifteen year
s,' said Rufus.
'And he's been driving me insane for just as long,' said Henry.
The two men joshed and took the mickey out of each other as the car wound through the streets of Twickenham, heading out of town. Out of town? What about tea at the Ritz? Did he not know where the Changing of the Guard took place?
'You have to tell me where we're going,' I said, as the car eased towards a beautiful bridge with boats and canoes sweeping along below. Henry pulled over and Rufus jumped out. He ran round to the back of the car and swung my door open for me. 'Welcome to Hampton Court,' he said.
I have to admit, I was amazed. The place is about twenty minutes from my flat and I'd never been there before. Rufus, on the other hand, seemed to know the place intimately. We walked through the old Tudor kitchens and down into the giant greenhouses housing the world's largest vine. 'How do they know?' he whispered at every new historical fact. 'Have they measured every vine in the world? I bet they just make this stuff up.'
'Spoken like a true American,' I retorted as we escaped through a small wooden door and out into the palace courtyard with a beautiful fountain in the middle.
'Make a wish,' said Rufus, digging into his pockets for coins. He handed me enough money to keep a family of six fed for a week and urged me to throw them. I tossed the coins into the air and watched them fall and splash into the sparkling water; pennies from heaven. 'OK, my turn.' He threw his money into the fountain and made a wish that nothing would change between us.
'I want us to stay like this for ever,' he said, wrapping his arms around me.
'Me too,' I said, smiling like I'd never smiled before.
'I want us to get to know each other and for us to get closer and closer, but most of all I want the special bond between us to stay like this.'
'Yes,' I replied, almost breathless with joy. 'I want to know everything about you too.'
Celebrity Bride Page 5
