She was so proud to have ‘bagged’ him –
he’d toured the world on Dad’s business;
he’d ‘squired’
(that’s the word we use –
who wants to hang around the hotel’s staff door all and every night?)
every It girl, every starlet, every girl of the moment;
and the Valentine cards with foreign stamps
just added to her catch;
the press cameras loved him,
with that extra button on his open neck shirt
undone, under his suit,
even when he was with Her.
But he’d chosen her.
For ever.
In sickness or in obscurity,
in notoriety or in overweight.
He for his part was so proud to have ‘bagged ‘her.
Her string of exes was impeccable –
her loyal girlfriends saw to that,
sharing their lists, and quietly informing
the PRs of suitable Hollywood superstars
weekending in London for their premieres
that mutual publicity might be ‘leaked’
– like a hole punched in a bucket.
Their wedding was a private one
since they loved each other just so much
more than themselves.
Stella, and Fleshtape, did the bridesmaids
proud, and pert; amazing food;
a happening designer; an edgy band.
One ex is a sad sight at such a bash;
ten-plus exes for each of the pair – that’s sparky.
To tell the world their love,
they each sold the story of their romance of a lifetime
and by setting the mags against each other
got a doubled fee –
his was in one, hers in the other.
In fact, such was their love
they even discussed having one PR instead of two.
Their payments for their stories were a few months late,
(their accountants insisted they went down as ‘expenses’) :
but by the time they put them through
their separate bank accounts
we had noted that their well-paid break-up stories
didn’t quite match.
or so we wish?
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