Love, Lipstick and Lies (7 page)

‘You’re not welcome here! Don’t touch any of my things … don’t eat any of my food … get out of my house!’ I added. I was so angry that he was still on my property and not man enough to leave.

Then I tried to appeal to his better nature. ‘For God’s sake, my children are here! I don’t want them seeing any of this. Please go!’ But he still refused. In fact, he didn’t reply; he didn’t seem to care that he was causing so much distress.

At the same time Scotland Yard paid me a visit and told me that a gang of criminals had targeted me and were planning to steal my jewellery and kidnap me! I mean, WTF! More drama! Sometimes I think that if my life was a film, everyone would think it was well OTT because so many extreme things have happened to me. Apparently the police had good intelligence that a criminal gang planned to break into my house when I wasn’t there. Then, when I arrived home, they planned to tie me up and force me at knife point to tell them where my jewellery was. The detectives told me to make sure that I had memorised the code to my safe, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence. ‘If you know who this gang is, why can’t you arrest them!’ I exclaimed. I mean, this wasn’t the first kidnap threat I’d had, but it was no less frightening.

‘We can’t arrest them until they make a move,’ came the far from reassuring reply.

Genuinely fearful for my safety and that of my children, I brought in my own security. They stayed in the house and patrolled the grounds, and one guard slept outside my bedroom door. Alex wanted to know what was going on, but the police had told me not to tell anyone. He thought I had called in the police to prevent him from coming into the house.
I wish.
In the end I had to tell him about the threat to me as he kept on asking me.

‘I’ll protect you,’ he told me. But the time for that had long-since passed.

‘I don’t need you to do that! I need you to go! Get out of my house!’ I replied. But he still refused.

One night I was out with Gary my make-up artist friend when a detective called me and told me not to go home as they suspected the gang were on their way to my house. The police were following them. I don’t exactly know what happened next, but apparently the police lost the car at a petrol station. I stayed at Gary’s and the following morning the police called to say that they had new information: the gang had dropped their plan to kidnap me. Maybe they realised that they had been rumbled.

Alex and I did spend one last night together. He had asked me to go away with him and I’d agreed. I didn’t want us to break up on bad terms, because of what had happened with Pete and me. I thought, Alex has got his issues, but if I’m nice to him, he’ll be nice back. I couldn’t cope with any more stress. We went to Alexander House, a nearby spa hotel, somewhere I knew
well. We had argued so bitterly in the weeks before that it might seem strange we could think of spending time together, but as far as I was concerned we were meeting as friends. As I tweeted then: ‘Me and Alex are not back together but are still good friends: it’s called being grown up and adult.’ But while we were sitting in the corner of the restaurant having lunch, I heard a familiar click, click, click, and instantly I knew it was a pap. And sure enough, a photographer had run into the restaurant to snatch a shot of us, and then legged it.

‘Look! A fucking pap!’ I shouted, and told Alex to chase the press pest, which he did. Didn’t catch him, though.

But how did any pap know that we were there, eating in the restaurant at that particular moment? It seemed too much of a coincidence to me. It had been one of our favourite spa hotels when we were together, and we had never been bothered there before. Again, I had a suspicion that Alex had tipped the press off … I asked him, and he denied it.

‘Well, it’s very weird that they knew we were going to be here, at this exact moment,’ I replied, thoroughly pissed off. Alex didn’t want us to split up and I couldn’t help thinking that he would be glad of any pictures coming out that seemed to show we were still together, even though that was a million miles from the truth.

Finally he got the message that I wanted him gone, and moved out. What a relief! But I’m afraid that there was no chance we could stay friends in the weeks that followed. Alex didn’t stay silent; instead he sold
a string of stories to the press about how heartbroken he was, and what it was like being married to me. It seemed he had to comment on every single thing I did. It was pathetic, and every single one of those stories was a fresh reminder to me of why I was right to get rid of him. Many of the things that were written were out and out rubbish. As usual, someone I had been close to was making themselves look better by painting me as the villain. And what made me laugh was, if I really was as bad as they made out, why had they ever stayed with me in the first place?

I wanted to get divorced as quickly as possible. But of course that didn’t happen because Alex was after my money and it would take nearly a year and a half for things to be resolved legally.

Alex went on to have a relationship with Chantelle Houghton. She was exactly the sort he would go for because he loves that glamour-girl look. All I wanted to do was ring Chantelle and warn her about him. She had mentioned in an interview that she already knew about Alex dressing up as Roxanne and that she was fine with it, that he had told her it was all a joke. And I thought: You have no idea what you are getting into. I wanted to say, Don’t even touch him with a barge pole. Trust me!

But I was wary of getting in touch because I didn’t know how she would react. There had been a time when she was handled by my former manager, Claire Powell, after I had split up with Pete, and she had been friends with my ex-husband. I imagined that they would have
portrayed me as a bad person and I thought she probably wouldn’t listen to me or even like me.

She quickly fell pregnant. I wasn’t at all jealous, even though I wanted another child; instead I was worried for Chantelle. She hardly knew Alex at that point and didn’t know what was coming her way. People think a baby will make a couple happier, but that’s only if they are okay in the first place. A baby can put a strain on any relationship, and I didn’t think that Alex would be able to cope. Sure enough, their relationship didn’t last. When Chantelle was eight months pregnant she came home and discovered that Alex had turned their bedroom into a dungeon, with sex toys scattered everywhere and porn playing on the TV. He was in full Roxanne mode, in stockings, suspenders, a red wig and heels. In spite of her begging him to stop,
The Sun
reported his sex binge lasted four days. It was all horribly familiar to me.

And then Chantelle and I did get in touch with each other, a kind of support group for survivors of a relationship with Alex Reid. I felt very sorry for her and think she was relieved to speak to me because I knew exactly how she felt. She was reassured to know that you could get through it and be happy again.

Being married to Alex left its mark on me. I had to see my therapist to try and process all the Roxanne shit, because it really had messed with my head and disturbed me.

I used to think Alex was handsome and had a nice smile … and I did love his legs! But when I look at him
now all I can see is Roxanne, a really ugly woman in make up. Alex is naturally so masculine that when he dresses as a woman he looks particularly awful. I no longer see him as the fun guy I first met. Instead I see dirty, seedy Roxanne. I see someone with a lot of problems, which need to be sorted out.

In my last book I talked about how I felt Alex accepted me for what I was, and he did, but I met him at a time when I was emotionally vulnerable because my marriage had just ended badly. I needed to be with someone. There were some good times, but they were outweighed by the many bad times … I can’t really see anything positive about our marriage, it’s like there’s a dark cloud hanging over that time. Yet when I think of my first marriage, however bitter things have become between Pete and me, I still feel that there was an emotional bond, and I think of the children we had together and the family times we shared.

I bitterly regret marrying Alex. Falling in love so quickly felt like fun at first. I enjoyed being spontaneous and impulsive. But ultimately it was a destructive impulse because it cost me a lot, emotionally and financially, and Alex embarrassed me by selling stories about me. And yet it had felt so good when we first met.

Afterwards I realised I must learn to follow my head, not my heart … but I couldn’t help wanting more of that fairy-tale, whirlwind romance. If I’m into someone, I’m into them. I find it hard to hold back. But after Alex I would definitely have to be more cautious.

Oh my God! The sheer relief when Alex finally moved out. I wouldn’t have to witness any more of his disturbing behaviour. I don’t think I fully appreciated then just how much of an impact it had had on me, on my self-esteem and on my confidence with men. I had married him on the rebound and we were only together some fifteen months, but it took me a hell of a lot longer to recover from the experience. I had trusted a man and paid a high price for it.

I didn’t have a single regret about leaving him. I would still get texts from him, asking me if I missed his cuddles, and I’d reply that I did, because I hoped if we could be nice to each other, it might stop him from selling more stories. And, I’m not going to lie, in spite of everything I
did
miss his cuddles … he was nice to
cuddle, when he wasn’t being Roxanne! But there’s a difference between missing someone and wanting to get back with them, and I knew I was
never
going to get back with Alex. At that time I thought I wanted to be single for a while; I’d had it with men and relationships for now. Or so I thought. It just shows how wrong you can be, as I was about to find out on a certain night in LA …

I’d flown out to the States in February 2011 for a week of business meetings and shoots. The highlights of the week were going to be Elton John’s high-profile AIDS Foundation Oscars party and my shoot, the following day, for the American edition of
OK!
It was a huge coup, as not many Brits ever get to be on the cover, and it was a first for me. I had brought a mini-entourage: my best friends Gary and Phil, my brother Dan, Harvey and his nanny.

We had arranged for my son to go to some classes at the school he had attended in 2008 when I was over there with Pete, filming our reality show. Harvey had absolutely loved his time there and had made the most amazing progress. But I’m afraid that had been the only good thing to come out of my three-month stay in LA, which had been easily one of the most miserable and lonely times of my life. I wasn’t getting on with Pete then and didn’t know what was going wrong with our marriage. He was very distant with me, off recording his music all the time, and when we were together we would only argue. I’d felt cut off from my friends and
family in the UK, stuck out in Malibu which is some distance from the parts of LA I know and like, such as Beverly Hills. Yes, we were in a mansion with a pool. But when you’re unhappy and you know things aren’t going well, it doesn’t matter where you are. All the glamour and glitz in the world won’t make up for that.

But it seemed a long time ago now and I didn’t feel weighed down by sad memories. I was looking forward to spending a week in LA. I love the busy vibe it has, the shops, the restaurants, and of course the weather! It was bloody freezing back in the UK, but here the sun was shining.

But one thing I don’t like about LA is the way the paps behave sometimes. From the moment we were walking through arrivals at LAX they were on our case, big time, thrusting their cameras in our faces, desperate to get their shots, not caring how aggressive and intimidating they were being. And while I’m used to it by now, after eighteen years in the business, it doesn’t mean I enjoy it or think it’s right that photographers behave like that. I can deal with it, but I really don’t like it when I’m with my children. Harvey in particular is incredibly sensitive to noise. But the fact that I was with my disabled son made no difference to the paps, who only cared about getting their money shot.

Thankfully once we were in the hotel we could relax and recover from the flight. Usually I stay at the Beverly Wilshire, near Rodeo Drive, the luxury hotel where
Pretty Woman
was filmed. This time we were
staying at a different hotel on Sunset Boulevard. After an evening of chilling out, the next day we got down to work, having meetings with a production company to discuss various ideas for reality shows and formatted shows for me. Over the next few days it was manic as I did a series of interviews with online gossip magazines, a photo shoot, and went to the
OK!
party. Oh, plus, I managed to squeeze in some shopping of course, hitting The Grove and The Beverly Center – two fantastic retail wonderlands! And I had to pop into my all-time favourite lingerie store, Trashy Lingerie. I love my underwear. It’s a bit of an obsession with me. In 2012 I even had a tattoo of a garter done on my thigh. I’ve got quite a few tattoos by now but that one hurt the most because it took the longest to do, and it isn’t even finished. It hurt even more than the cheeky pink love heart I’ve got on my bits!

Best of all, Harvey had a brilliant time at the Junior Blind of America School. To my amazement, even though it was over three years ago, he clearly remembered the school and exactly where his classroom had been, as well as all the teacher’s names. He even remembered the morning ritual where all the children sit round in a circle and sing a good morning song while playing a drum. He’s definitely got a better memory than me!

* * *

In Oscars week, it’s
all
about what you look like on the red carpet. The world’s media are watching, filming,
commenting, criticising. Not that I cared what anyone thought of what I was wearing. I’ve been slated in the ‘What Were You Thinking?’ pages of celeb mags, and worst-dressed lists, often enough not to give a shit. It was more how
I
felt about how I looked that mattered to me – and I was starting to have doubts about my choice of outfit for Elton’s party.