The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low

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СКАЧАТЬ and I promise it was based on our love, our inherent connection and our mutual feeling of shared destiny. Okay, so the fact that he had a penis the size of a marrow was a contributory factor, but I’d like to think I was deeper than that. Slightly.

      However, it wasn’t to be. I discovered that after I’d deserted him, Sam had undergone a career change and transformed himself into the most popular (and expensive) high-class male escort in South East Asia–not exactly what I’d anticipated as a career for a potential husband.

      ‘Do you, Sam Morton, promise to love, honour and cherish Carly Cooper? Do you promise to keep her in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer, and by the way would you also stop shagging anyone who throws their credit card in your direction?’

      Much as Sam tried to persuade me otherwise, I knew it would never work. Shortly afterwards, he gave up hooking and wrote the screenplay of his life, which landed on the right desk at the right time. I’ve no idea if it was a female’s desk and if Sam’s privates also landed on it, but I prefer to think he got it on merit.

      The movie was huge. Massive. And, surprisingly, Sam was great in the lead role. Who knew he could act? Apart from the one very strange woman who booked him for Wednesday afternoons to pretend he was her husband and answer to the name of Harold.

      It was the first of many roles for Mr Stud. And great ones too. He became Richard Gere when the real Richard Gere was getting on a bit and too busy pissing off the Chinese government to strut his stuff in romantic dramas.

      We stayed friends. Whenever he was in London for a premiere or to shoot something at Pinewood he’d stay with us and allow us to bask in his reflected glory. To the world he was Sam Morton, A-list superstar and all-round sex god. To us, he was just Sam. Friend. Ex-boyfriend. All-round good guy. With the biggest donger in the northern hemisphere. I chose not to share that not-so-insignificant tidbit of information with Mark. He might have been born without a single jealousy gene in his body, but there was nothing like penis envy to upset a bloke’s equilibrium.

      Mark actually really liked Sam. But then, liking Sam was easy. He was sweet, great company, utterly without ego and he brought lavishly expensive pressies when he came to stay. He and Mark got on well and had loads in common (apart from a familiarity with my reproductive organs). A mutual love of football and beer and man-to-man avoidance of any conversational topics that included emotions, feelings or gossip seemed to have developed into a mutual respect for each other. It was all very modern and adult. Mark had even demonstrated his admirable lack of jealousy once again by suggesting that we ask Sam to be Benny’s godfather. Sam was thrilled–and I’m sure one day Benny will echo that sentiment when he realises that his godfather has direct access to hordes of hot chicks.

      ‘Ma’am, can you step forward please.’ Hallelujah! My back was breaking with the strain of carrying three stones of little boy and what seemed like the entire aircraft’s carry-on luggage. The rather formidable gentleman checked our passports, scanned things, tapped his computer, took some kind of weird photo and fingerprinted me. I refrained from pointing out that I was coming to crack Hollywood, not the bullion safe at Fort Knox.

      We trundled through to baggage reclaim, grabbed a trolley, dashed to the carousel and dragged off our cases. By the time I’d loaded everything up, I couldn’t see where I was going and, bloody, bloody arse, my trolley had a wonky wheel and kept veering to the left.

      I dragged it through customs, Benny awake and on my back now, Mac sitting precariously on one of the bags. I’m sure the customs officers would have stopped me if I hadn’t looked like I was three seconds away from demented hysteria.

      I got another five yards up the steep walkway. What sick bastard designed a corridor so that people had to push luggage-laden trolleys UP a hill? Just when I thought I’d got the hang of it, Mac swayed to the side causing a full-scale dissolution of the suitcase mountain.

      Bollocks. I pulled and heaved everything on again, then started back up the hill. Around the corner…Crash. Everything back off. My hands started to shake. Benny started to moan. Mac…well, Mac didn’t give a toss but that’s only because he has the thirst for adventure of an adrenalin junkie on speed and this whole new experience was whipping him into a frenzy.

      A frenzy…Oh no.

      ‘Do you need to go to the toilet, Mac?’

      ‘Nope.’

      Fingers crossed that he wasn’t lying or being overly optimistic. But I speeded up just in case.

      I loaded everything back on and pushed upwards. Round another corner, one last burst of energy and…

      Sam. He was standing against a railing looking like he’d just stepped out of Man at Armani. He smiled and opened his arms. Mac ran into them.

      ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam!’ he screamed, delighted.

      I reached two things at exactly the same time. Sam and the end of my tether. As he reached over to envelop me in a hug, I burst into tears. And not pretty Demi Moore/Ghost-type tears. Not even mildly sweet Kate Hudson tears. I’m talking full-scale Gwyneth Paltrow, nasal fluids, racking sobs, off-the-scale-in-humiliation-and-embarrassment tears. Sam looked horrified, but that might have been because my make-up-smeared, tear-drowning face was in contact with his two-thousand-dollar jacket.

      ‘Hey, hey, what is it? What’s wrong, honey?’

      ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam, we’re going to see Spiderman!’ screamed Mac. ‘Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a Spider can…’ wailed Benny.

      There wasn’t a single person in the building who wasn’t looking at us. I pulled my head off his clothing.

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