I didn’t know who Rebecca Humphries was. Look at the title. What does it mean to you? Listen for the semi-ironic tone. The cover is a portrait of an upper-crust lady in a peacock coloured dress on a chaise lounge, pondering. In the background, a dour-faced gentleman in black, barely visible. A chapter titled ‘Brave’.
Blurbs from Emma Thompson. ‘Fierce. Game-changing. Urgently necessary. Brilliant, brilliant and did I say brilliant?
Marian Keyes: ‘Dazzling, absolutely sparkling.
Glamour: ‘A magical, magical book.’
Rebecca Humphries sounds like Marie Curie, who won the Nobel Prize twice. I wondered what she’d done. Well, it’s a long story (404 pages) and mildly entertaining. It begins with Author’s Note:
‘I never wanted to write a book.’
Millions of people on Amazon never wanted to write a book, but somehow it pops up on their feeds. They’re authors by default, but not their fault. Every celebrity that’s eaten a Curlywurly tells you how difficult it all is. 177 000 people post on my blog site every year. We somehow never intended to. This post is a mental tic, nobody can read into it. And few than a handful bother, which I’m grateful for, because without at least one reader, writing has no end product. No purpose.
Rebecca Humphries great unsecret is her boyfriend was cheating on her—and he got caught out. She doesn’t name him. Or she does. He’s named in uppercase like God. Him. Or should it be hmmmmm? Chapters alternate between: I stayed—why I did and—I left.
Rebecca Humphries is an actress (actor). Her boyfriend (Him) is a well-known comedian. I looked for a picture of her in the back of the book. None. I don’t know her name. Actors are like writers less than a handful makes a living from acting. I Googled her. I didn’t know the well-known comedian, a Londoner with a funny spelling name, Seann Walsh either. I don’t watch Strictly Come Dancing. But the Strictly curse of two fit youngish people shagging doesn’t surprise me. Anybody that has watched old movies, or read biographies, knows that the stars weren’t in the sky but in each other’s rooms at night.
Cut to Seann Walsh, a bit like Rod Stewart singing ‘Baby Jane, I can’t even remember your name,’ and moving on from blonde to blonde, until age caught up with him. Rebecca Humphries didn’t have an identity. She was the other woman. Framed by his shame.
9/10/18 09.27
My agent calls to let me know he has been contacted by more or less every interviewing body on television and radio from Woman’s Hour, to This Morning. ITV news want to do an interview special. I am asked if I want to have a meeting with a documentary crew who are interested in presenting a programme about gaslighting. We agree to say no to everything.
9/10/18 09.59
My name is the top trend on Twitter…
9/10/18 10.08
I have been emailed by all the same tabloid papers again. All of them would like to discuss a higher fee than yesterday’s should I be interested. A right-wing Sunday magazine has offered five figures (mid-range) to do an exclusive feature. I politely decline.
Fuck. I’d have taken the money. I like Rebecca Humphries. I like her style and self-modesty. Recounting her childhood as an outspoken little girl in Norwich, when she was a bit too loud. But she’s not a game changer. Her boyfriend? Who cares? Not me. We all know that Piers Morgan defends him as having the right to be an arsehole in public and private. We all know what we think of Piers Morgan. Whatever he says, I think the opposite. She’s cute enough to know ‘Brave’ doesn’t cut it. But I wish her well. Read on.