That Saturday, it all became too much, and I suppose I had some kind of breakdown. The weeks of stress and rehearsals and not being pregnant, on top of losing my little boy, finally drove me to a place I never want to go again. I would never end my life – I have too much to live for – but this day, I could see why some people choose to take that escape route. Despair doesn’t allow reasoning.
Davina eventually found me in a heap in the theatre stage door, a weeping mess. I was taken upstairs. ‘I just want a baby,’ I wailed to director Rob Ashford. He held me fiercely and whispered, ‘You will. Let’s get the official opening night done and then your little one will come.’ His patience and kindness, along with the rest of the cast and crew, was amazing! My agent Sue Latimer was called. Caro Newling also arrived and we all talked it through. After that, I had my coffee and two ring doughnuts (to make up for the hole), reapplied my eyelashes and went and kicked the door down on stage like I did every night. It was as if nothing had happened. In case any producers are reading this, I do just want to point out that I did always get my work done – I wasn’t a neurotic hormonal mess all of the time!
Zita was away, but she recommended a hypnotist, Maureen. She had never treated me before but she immediately centred me. She had lost her son at the age of twenty-five and she told me, ‘Every time I ask him something, he makes it happen. That’s his job. I will ask him to bring you a baby.’ I know it sounds weird, but she told me she had no doubt that I would get pregnant and, somehow, I believed her. I went back to work and back to secretly trying for my baby feeling confident and relaxed.
In the middle of all this I had to do a promo for the next series of Britain’s Got Talent. It would be the first time I’d seen everyone since our baby died, and felt like another major hurdle to get over. I walked in with a smile and told everyone, ‘It’s okay. I’m okay. We can talk about it. You don’t have to worry about me.’
The Hoff came up to me straight away and told me how his wife had nearly lost a baby. Obviously – as always with David – the story centred around him and how they’d been having a picnic on top of a hill when he had to do this big butch race to call the paramedics and then had to take an air ambulance to hospital. Nodding sagely, he said, ‘It gave me wisdom.’ (Bless him!) Michael McIntyre was much more emotional. He had been so supportive when I was pregnant and he’d felt the baby kicking. We had a big hug and he asked me if I was alright. Then Hoff stepped in (a case of ‘back to me’!) and said, ‘I nearly bought you a bowl.’ I had no idea what to say to that! (I was quite glad I didn’t have to accept a commemorative gift for my lost baby, though.)
With that, so began the litany of that day’s weird and wonderful acts, one of which was a Jack Russell that was meant to skateboard along our desk. Sadly, he did it wrong and had to do it again, so his owner called him from the wings. ‘Theo! Theo!’ she said, over and over again. It was a spooky thing. Theo was the name we had given our baby boy. No one else knew we had called him that. It was the first time I had ever heard the name said in public – and who calls their dog Theo anyway?
After the initial shock, when I finally gathered myself together I told Michael that we’d called our little boy Theo. He was gobsmacked at the weirdness of the coincidence, and at my reaction, while I was still laughing and crying all at once. I guess the universe has a sick sense of humour too.
Chapter 22
Well, Hello Hollie!
The week before the opening night of Shrek was totally manic, with the week-long live shows of Britain’s Got Talent taking place and all the build-up to the first night. That Saturday was the third of the month, and unbelievably, the inevitable didn’t happen. I phoned Jackie.
‘It hasn’t happened!’ I said.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ she said, wisely. ‘Stress of the show, and opening night next week may be the cause.’
I knew she could be right, but a flicker of hope was suddenly lit inside me. Opening night was the following Friday, and I wanted it to be perfect, so I didn’t buy a pregnancy test in case I was wrong and ended up totally disappointed. Instead, I kept the feeling to myself – I didn’t even tell Chris, who remained blissfully unaware and was just looking forward to the Friday. But with impeccable timing, it was on the red carpet with Jane – who had flown in from LA with her son Jack (Lexi’s best friend) to be there for me – that I suddenly couldn’t keep it in any longer and I decided to confide in her.
‘I think I could be pregnant,’ I whispered to her, smiling at the paps and hissing the news through my teeth.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Does Chris know?’
‘He doesn’t even know we’ve been trying,’ I admitted, and I felt a sharp stab of fear. Jesus, what had I done – and what would he say? I pushed the worry to the back of my mind. I had a big night to get through and anyway, I could be totally mistaken.
The official opening night went well. As well as Jane, Michael McIntyre came along with Sarah Parish, Angela Griffin, Rose Keegan, Ben Cooke and Sally Haynes. My darling Jason Maddocks was there with his partner Taro, along with my old drama teacher from my am dram days. Simon Cowell sent the hugest bunch of white roses, as did Sharon Osbourne and Piers. I searched out my family whilst dancing on top of the wedding cake at the end of the show, and blew them all a kiss. We had come through so much, and this really was the icing on the cake!
Afterwards, of course, there was a big party and drinks all round, and by rights I should have been completely in the mood to celebrate, but although I was over the moon at how the show had gone, I simply didn’t want to drink. It totally wasn’t like me, and even Sarah and the girls trying to throw red wine down me couldn’t change anything – I couldn’t bear the thought of it.
I managed to last out until the following Friday, and then, when all the signs were still good, and while Jane was still staying at the penthouse, I nipped to the chemist in my Mini to buy a test. By the time I got back home, I was absolutely dying for a wee and knew I couldn’t make it up in the lift in time, so I asked the concierge in our building if I could use his loo. I peed on the stick and then dashed back to read the result alone in the car. It came up positive.
Even though I’d had a strong inkling that I was pregnant, it took a few moments to sink in. I couldn’t believe it. Then it really hit me. I had never felt so happy in my whole life. I couldn’t catch my breath with the sudden sense of realisation. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to tell Chris!’
I couldn’t bear to put him through any more pain. He had had enough. I was okay and I felt I could handle it all. But Chris . . . The weeks of inevitable worry, the endless waiting for the twelve-week scan and then the results of all the tests that a woman of my age would opt to take – it would be too much, and I just couldn’t ask him to go through all that again. Jane and I discussed it, and I decided not to tell him until the twelve weeks were up. ‘That way,’ I reasoned, ‘when I do tell him I can also assure him he has nothing to worry about.’
In my head, at least, it all made perfect sense. In practice, it was a lot less straightforward. It seemed everything conspired to make things as tough as possible over those next few weeks. Chris was preoccupied with selling our house, which meant he was perhaps less attentive than usual and helped me keep the secret from him. But we were getting ready to move back to the penthouse permanently and that, along with juggling the tiring early weeks of pregnancy with both Shrek and Britain’s Got Talent, meant my schedule felt extra tough.
Every night doing Shrek was thrilling but felt as physically demanding as doing a marathon. I was knackered, on edge about the pregnancy itself and about keeping it all from Chris, and he accused me of being irritable.
I lasted for three weeks, but it was too tough. I tell Chris everything, and I knew I was never going to last until my first scan without sharing it with him. I’d had the tiniest scan with Jackie and everything looked fine with my little bean, so I knew I was okay – I was six weeks pregnant and it was all in the right spot.
>
We went to have a coffee in Kew and he was rabbiting on about the completion on the house. I watched his lips but his words were a blur. ‘Just say it,’ I told myself. ‘Say, “I’m pregnant.”’ I practised it a few times in my head. Snapping back to reality I heard him tell me, ‘You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me.’
‘Can you make sure that the completion’s on a Tuesday so that I can help you move?’ I said. Then I blurted out, ‘I’m pregnant.’
His expression was one of horror and then he said, ‘Are you joking?’
‘No!’ I cried. I was about to say something more but just at that moment the weather outside turned. It was like something from a film. It went from a normal July day to being incredibly dark, with giant hailstones hammering against the windows and the roof. It felt prophetic, and apocalyptic. As I watched the hailstones bouncing off the pavement I tried not to think of it as a sign.
‘I’ve lied to you,’ I said once the flash storm had passed. ‘I haven’t been on the Pill.’
He looked confused. ‘But I’ve seen you take it!’
I felt so ashamed explaining that I’d been spitting it out afterwards, and he just couldn’t understand how I could have been so deceitful (I can’t blame him!) I leaned forward and took his hand in mine.
‘I’m telling you now that if I hadn’t been doing this you would no longer have a marriage and you would not have had me,’ I said. ‘I would have been in an asylum if not for this. You think I am so strong and battle on but I could only be that person because of my cunning plan.’ He pulled a face, but I carried on. ‘I would have gone under, Chris. This was the final straw for me.’
He shook his head, and asked how pregnant I was (six weeks) and I told him Jackie and Jane knew, and how I was going to try and wait until the first twelve weeks were up so had to confide in them. Taking one of my hands in his, he attempted a little smile and, running his hand through his hair, he nodded and said, ‘Okay, okay.’ That was all I needed to hear.
As it turned out, Shrek would cure me for a second time – but this time, of morning sickness. This pregnancy was the first time I had suffered from it, and I was constantly nauseous – I even had to tell everyone I had a bug and the stage manager put buckets on the side of the stage, just in case! In the event, they weren’t needed as, weirdly, I always felt absolutely fine the minute I walked on to the stage. I was constantly shattered, though, and the staircase up to my tower dressing room was suddenly a killer. I felt every one of those twenty-five steps and I was always puffed out when I reached the top.
Looking back, my pregnancy had to have been the worst-kept secret ever – everybody must have known, but no one said anything, and I was so grateful they all kept quiet and left me alone to rub my tummy in hope. (A weird thing happens to me when I’m pregnant. I seem to develop some sort of inner ability to know if things are going to be okay or not and, this time, I felt as though me and my baby were going to be fine.) But once we felt comfortable telling the cast and crew, everyone was thrilled for us.
Girls Aloud’s Kimberley Walsh was lined up to replace me as Princess Fiona in the October, the press were respectful and delighted once we broke the news, my family were beyond thrilled, it seemed everyone was keeping their fingers crossed for me. (I guess there were so many pictures of my previous pregnancy that no one needed any new ones!) However, I knew that the first time I left the theatre after I returned I’d be papped, so I made sure I was mentally prepared. I came out smiling with my hand on my tummy and signed autographs for all the waiting well-wishers. Jill, who’d worked at the stage door of the Theatre Royal for thirty years, told me she’d never seen such crowds. ‘We never needed three barriers before, not even for Rowan Atkinson!’
Once my sickness passed, I felt amazing and I carried on the show in great spirits, now really enjoying my pregnancy. My midwives were always around, seemingly whenever I needed them, keeping a close eye on me. They scanned me every time I felt doubtful and Pippa even lent me a Doppler foetal heart detector so I could hear my baby’s heartbeat whenever I wanted.
I tried not to be too neurotic about it, but I checked it every morning. If I felt panicky I’d use the Doppler, which I was quite practised at thanks to my midwife course, and her little heartbeat would boom out of the speaker reassuringly. (I drove Chris mad with it. I thought I was being quite subtle, but I’ve since discovered he could hear everything and would feel sick with anxiety until he could hear the thud thud of the heartbeat, too. Jane, my make-up artist, was pregnant one month ahead of me, so I’d do it for her baby as well, and Lexi was always asking me to test it on her – we even tested the cat!) One day she asked me, ‘What if the angels want to take this baby back too, Mummy?’ That really threw me, and I told her, ‘Mummy is really hoping that this one is staying.’ (Again, blinkin’ angels!)
Prince Charles came to see the show and later asked me to become patron of one of his charities, The Prince’s Foundation for Children & the Arts. A few months later I was invited, along with the other patrons, to Clarence House for lunch.
Andrew Lloyd Webber also came to see Shrek and popped backstage to tell me he might have a project for me. He was putting together a talent show for 2012 to find the right actor to play Jesus for his rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. I remember thinking he probably wanted to see me so I could play Mary Magdalene and then I realised Mary wasn’t blonde, but I thought I might as well go and see him anyway. I had lunch with Peter Fincham, the Director of Television for ITV, who told me about the project and was very excited. I was over the moon about it, but I made sure I consulted Simon about it – I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about me doing another talent show.
‘They want me to be a judge!’ I told him.
He was unmoving. ‘No, darling. You must host it.’
I went to Andrew’s house for yet another meeting, and in the end it transpired that I was indeed asked to host it – he said that he wanted somebody relevant to the West End. I was over the moon. For me it was another full circle, because when I was at drama school he was like God! To go from singing Cats back at Mountview to having lunch at his house was just incredible. ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ was also Chris’s favourite musical.
The auditions would take Andrew and the judges all over the country before the finalists were invited to ‘Superstar Island’ (a little piece of land off Essex called Osea Island), and then to Andrew’s villa in Majorca. I would host the live shows in London later on with a judging panel that was to include Dawn French, who was a total revelation – I loved her! – Melanie Chisholm, who was a fantastic judge and was to play Mary Magdalene, and Jason Donovan. It was a fantastic experience, and both Peter Fincham and Andrew told me they were really pleased with my performance. I loved it. Ben Forster won the role and was magnificent in the part.
By September that year, I had almost finished Shrek and was four months pregnant when I went to fetch Lexi from school. On the way, driving behind a lorry in Kew, I must have momentarily lost concentration and I slammed into the back of it at 30 mph. The airbag went off and there was smoke everywhere. My car horn sounded and it wouldn’t switch off, but I didn’t care about any of that – I was calm, but obviously concerned for the baby and just wanted to phone Chris, but my phone had slipped under the seat and I couldn’t find it. I climbed out of the wreckage and a van driver behind me came up and asked, ‘Are you alright, love?’
My Mini was a write-off but even though I felt fine once the shock had worn off (I didn’t even make a dent on the lorry!), I still went straight to hospital. An auto repair man who happened to be passing moved my car to the side of the road and gave me a cup of tea in the back of a van while I finally phoned Chris, then the school, to let them know what had happened and that our friend would collect Lexi.
The van driver then offered to drive me to the hospital. He was so lovely and chatted non-stop all the way there about his wife and four kids. Then he looked at me and said, ‘You don’t half look like Amanda
Holden!’ (funny he should say that . . .!). I confessed and asked for his name and address. Later, I arranged for a chauffeur-driven car to collect him and his family to see a performance of Shrek and then come backstage afterwards, as a thank you for their dad’s amazing kindness.
After another scan at the West Middlesex it turned out the crash hadn’t harmed the baby, but that night I decided to give my understudy another chance to be Princess Fiona. I was taking no chances! I finally left Shrek in early October and was overwhelmed as the cast and crew threw me a farewell tea party and baby shower to wish me luck. I left the theatre clutching a bouquet and told waiting reporters, ‘Let’s hope I get a happy ending too!’
There was more sadness to come though, when we lost our beloved Fudge the dog. It was the first time Chris had cried since he was fourteen, and I felt relief. The tears were about more than the pain of losing our faithful family pet – I felt that he was finally grieving for our lost baby.
A month later, I developed a sharp pain in my side. It was bloody painful and I couldn’t take a deep breath. If someone made me laugh it was agony. I thought I must have cracked a rib somehow, so I went for an X-ray, only to be told I had pleurisy (which is fluid on the lung). I couldn’t take painkillers or antibiotics so I just had to stay in and keep warm until it passed.
And there were to be even more hospital visits after that, when the doctors told me at my next scan that I had something called a placenta accreta, which meant my placenta was growing into scar tissue from my previous C-section. I was constantly monitored and after a more detailed scan they assured me they could work around the problem and go in another way to get my baby out, but I became more and more worried as her due date, 14 February, loomed.
I also had something called a succenturiate lobe, an extra part (or lobe) of my placenta which was attached to the main part of the placenta. The baby’s umbilical cord had implanted itself into the smaller side of the succenturiate lobe; this could also increase the risk of infection or haemorrhage after birth. There is only a 1 in 4,000 chance of this happening! Honestly I really must start doing the lottery . . . !
No Holding Back Page 24
