I didn't puke thankfully.
I'm thinking about the relationship between Eloise and Yanni whilst getting ready for the day. There is something not quite right about it, but I can't yet put my finger on exactly what that is.
In the short time I've spent around them I've noticed that Yanni is far meaner to me when with Eloise, almost as if he's trying to impress her?
He treats her almost reverently whenever they're together, he's gentle, affectionate and even seems happy, until he sees me, then his demeanour changes and he pours scorn on me. Does that make him feel good? Is he a power tripper? When alone he seems to be a different person altogether, much less confrontational, polite even? He really is the most perplexing man.
Perhaps their relationship is a convenience thing, I mean, they're always so busy, probably have no time to meet people and to start relationships in a normal healthy way, so maybe they just fulfil each other's carnal needs? Friends with benefits possibly?
I ponder the fact that it could be some kind of PR spin, although what that would achieve eludes me. Maybe he really does have some mental illness? There are definitely secrets there, things that they won't want me to find, stories they won't want to tell. Im excited to find out more, I live to investigate!
I spend the time until lunch sitting under a parasol by the pool with an iced coffee, roughing out the format of the book, Googling the guys, making notes, jotting down questions for each based on their profiles. I'm staggered to find so little information about them online, and what I do find is all according to the same curiously few sources. Considering how huge the group are, surely there'd be more? There has to be! World famous supergroup and no results of any worth on the entire world wide web?
If I were to google myself right now I'd be able to find out what colour toothbrush I used in 2017, my favourite brand of fabric softener and what I wore on any given day between 2010 and 2019. The reason?
Ex HUGO BOSS underwear model turned Hollywood actor, Harry Hartwell.
My now Ex-husband Harry Hartwell!
The son of one of British televisions most well known and beloved presenters, Henry Hartwell, and his beautiful Romanian film star wife, Elena Radu.
Harry is one of the most stunningly beautiful specimens of man. Standing 6ft 3in tall like his father, with a floppy mop of shiny chestnut hair and his mother's crystal blue eyes he is a sight to behold. A square chiselled jaw, wide and beautifully sculpted shoulders, a broad and well defined hairless tanned chest, tapering waist, solid six pack abs which curiously always make me think of 6 cans of spam packed closely together, a clear and extremely sexy set of 'fuck me v lines' drawing your eyes down to his ...
Oh my God! Stop perving over that piece of shit. Yes, he is a very hot, very sexy bastard, but he is also a very unfaithful, very dangerous bastard too!
We met at an awards ceremony. His father was receiving an award for Best Presenter of a daytime show and Harry was presenting it to him. He was relatively unknown at that time, having done most of his modelling work in America, but due to some introductions by Daddy he landed a role playing a detective in the third season of a gritty ongoing crime drama. He was surprisingly good at it, and was credited as the reason that over 2 million new viewers began to watch at season 3, unsurprisingly most of them were presumed to be women, so he was becoming more well known, beginning to make a name for himself.
I was attending the event in my capacity as journalist. My boss usually attended the large, more prestige awards ceremonies, leaving me to things like 'celebrity rear of the year' but this year she was ill and I was the last minute substitution.
I arrived at the venue alone, still flustered as I'd only had 45 minutes notice that I needed to be glamorously dressed and at the venue in time to witness the celebs arriving. Id had to put my make up on in the car during the fifteen minute drive from home. I jumped out of my dads car with a quick peck of thanks and hurried across the pavement, attempting to wrangle my hair into some semblance of a style, twisting sections and pinning it randomly at the nape of my neck with the many Kirby grips I had clamped firmly between my lips. The dress I chose to wear was very demure, a beautiful midnight blue crepe, cut to a figure hugging but not skin tight silhouette. It is sleeveless and has a wide bateau neck. A simple darted bodice and wrap around waist give way to some elegant pleating which gives the illusion of curvy hips if, as in my case, there are none, or delicately holds ample curves in a graciously minimising yet erotically alluring way.
I loved that dress, but I hated that wearing it meant I'd have to wear heels. I am not friends with heels, preferring glamorous sandals or chunky biker style boots, but this dress needed an elegantly simple, understated stiletto. The soft black leather looked amazing but pinched my toes, the balls of my feet felt as if they were on fire and my heels? They feet like the stiletto had been replaced with a double ended sword, the blade piercing my skin further with every step I took. How I wished I could just do this job in jeans and a T-shirt. Nobody would be looking at me anyway, I'd be talking to the most glamorous and attractive young stars of the most popular films and television shows. I could be wearing a flashing Christmas tree costume when I speak to these people and not a single television viewer would notice me..... I'm forgettable, or so I thought.
I encountered Harry as I tried to gain entry to the venue, like an idiot I forgot the copy of the invite my boss sent me, and also my press pass.
Shit! How do I get in there now?
That's when he approached and spoke to me. That's when I'd rewind time back to and I'd take an alternative path.
September 11th.
In 2001 it was the worst day to befall America in decades, New York almost brought to its knees after a terror attack brought down the World Trade Centre, the iconic twin towers levelled after passenger planes were flown directly at them and the pentagon, killing thousands, including some heroically brave plane passengers who sacrificed themselves by hijacking their hijackers, crashing their plane before it could reach its intended destination, suspected to be The White House. The reprehensible act scarred an entire nation and emotionally wounded almost every person on the planet.
September 11th, 2009.
My personal disaster day. It is the day 19 year old me met my future husband and the course of my life was knocked off kielter. I certainly fell in lust immediately, and was sure I'd fallen in love too. I was wrong..... oh so very wrong!
I know my situation didn't kill thousands or change the lives of millions of people globally, but it did almost kill me, and terrifyingly might one day actually be the reason another life ends.
Whenever September 11th arrives my first thought when I wake up is not that of many others around the world, of sympathy for all who suffered in New York, but rather of relief for myself, relief and a hefty dose of fear.
On that first September 11th he told me he was going to marry me! Just calmly walked over and said "Hi, I'm Harry, pleasure to meet you..... err...."
"Oh, I'm Sydney! Hi" I said weakly, my tongue so stiff I began fishing around in my mouth with my finger, trying to locate what I irrationally decide must be a stray Kirby grip. My saliva glands blocked from producing essential oral lubrication by the dust that was previously my throat!
"Hmmm.... Sydney Hartwell... MRS Sydney Hartwell. Yes! It suits you. Of course you'll take my name when you become my wife" he waved his hand aimlessly
"What!?", what a ridiculous but hugely attractive flirt he is.
"I'm going to marry you Sydney... you'll see! Now, come on... you can be my plus one!" and grabbing my hand he guided me past the doorman into the plush entrance hall of the venue, lifting 2 glasses of champagne from a tray held by a smartly dressed young waiter and handing me one.
"So, what month would you like the wedding? August and September are beautiful months to get married in England. What do you say?" he says seriously.
I laugh at him, explaining I'm flattered by his offer, but I'm there to work and so thanking him as I hand him the champagne, I wish him a good evening and walk away, looking back over my shoulder to find him still watching me, which gives me a thrill!
This sexy, gorgeous, famous model was flirting with me, an average Jane from a regional news station in London. Not exactly a catch for a man like him.
On our final September 11th in 2016 my now husband told me he was going to kill me.... and I believed him! How time can change some things, but also have no bearing on other things at all.