Oz and television show.: An Ode To Love

In November 2013, a few months into our friendship, I sent Mallory an email about a piece I hoped to write for her recently launched website, The News of the World Top.

I’m not ready yet to write it – I have to finish watching it first. but I want to write about the importance of the show and how it’s been overshadowed by subsequent shows, which is a shame, because I think it’s actually the only show I’ve seen that actually depicts men and men’s relationships honestly, in a way that is not “single male character where the world that revolves around him” or “male tyrant” or “idealized male desires.” it’s not tony soprano, walter white, don draper. it’s men dealing with friendship, love, sex, vulnerability. men not having control over their lives or their bodies – something women can relate to. those who accept their guilt and responsibility fare better in some ways than those who don’t. the show takes violence and sexual assault very seriously, both for men and women. it has some terrible subplots but some incredible character arcs that are astonishing.

The ways in which the characters sometimes change and become men to the best of their abilities within a very constrained, confined context because that’s all they can do. nothing is actually transformative in a huge way, but sometimes some things are transformative in small, daily struggle ways that are realistic, heartbreaking, real. these are men who are not allowed to be “men” as we see them in society but some of them struggle and grow much more than the men we see depicted elsewhere.

ALSO ALSO ALSO

how intense Said gets in season 5, like he consumes Adebisi and transforms into him, his rage and guilt

“YEP,” she replied, in what I would come to know was classic Ortbergian fashion.

I never wrote that piece.

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When Oz first aired in July of 1997, I was 22 years old. A year out of college, I didn’t even own a TV. My roommate had a small one, but I hadn’t been able to watch much TV since the last time 90210 and Melrose Place aired back-to-back on the same night. I kept reading about this wild, boundary-pushing new TV show HBO was showing. When I got a new job in 1998, I befriended an intensely smart and acerbic guy who watched every episode. He would tell me how graphic it was: full-frontal nudity and violence and sex. It seemed at times too much even for him. It was too new, too different, a TV show that was doing what TV shows had never done before. More than merely depicting the existence of violence and rape, more even than showing deeply human characters in a maximum security prison, Oz was showing what it was like for men to survive in a place where the boundaries of their own bodies were constantly subjected to the rules, laws, whims, and desires of others.

The thing you should absolutely know about Oz before you watch it is that it is at times ridiculously over-the-top. Occasionally it’s just plain ridiculous. It is not artfully subtle by any means. There are some abysmal subplots. At least one character’s fate betrays the the beauty of his many seasons-long story, as well as the investment you’ll make in his growth, and this will make you mad for a very long time.

You should also know that the show is very graphic. There are scenes depicting assault where the camera does not cut away. There are violent scenes between characters of all types, between men and women, and between men of all kinds.

There are also many transcendent moments. Beauty, pain, friendship, love, loss, affection, growth. There’s betrayal of others and betrayal of the self. There’s hope and its immediate erasure. (Speaking of transcendent, there are some incredible butts and at least one kiss that will make you stand up and cheer.)

There are characters who are so vile you wish for their destruction. When they turn around and reveal how they too are flawed and human, you think about the part of you that wanted them to suffer—what does that mean? How are they different from the other flawed, broken men who you wanted to succeed? What does wishing you could see anyone be destroyed make you?

Oz is a show that asks, sometime forces, you to think about men in ways we rarely do. In the daily grind of Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary, surrounded almost entirely by other men and under constant surveillance by guards and fellow prisoners alike, you begin to wonder how a person maintains his sense of humanity. The endless machinations of particular characters and the show’s steady stream of violence and death keep things lively and were doubtlessly useful in those early HBO days (a few seasons aired before The Sopranos even existed). But beneath the ruckus you can see the characters blossom—then wither and crumble, and then sometimes blossom again.

A human has needs beyond fresh air, decent food, and freedom. But a human also needs friendship, affection, trust, non-violent physical touch. Oz is about life on the inside, so it allows you to consider a lifetime of literally having to live inside—inside your own self, a place deep within you that you try to protect at all costs because everything and everyone wants to break it and you.

Oz creates artistic freedom through the virtue of constraint: It closes its characters in, and so it allows them to open up in very small, real ways.

This is why it’s fascinating to watch a group of men make choices about trust, friendship, love. They succumb to manipulation, to hope, and to the very basic desire of needing to feel loved. When Beecher and Keller (calling all Christopher Meloni fans) go through round after round of love and betrayal, you want them to stop being horrible to each other but god, do you also want them to make it. And make out. Or when you watch Miguel deal with the emotions around his baby, you want him to make better choices, to believe in the man he wishes he could be.

Oz approaches this need for an internal strength through faith as much as it does through human connection. Even better, it does this in part through Father Mukada and Sister Peter Marie, played by B.D. Wong and Rita Moreno, respectively (on the secular side, Patti Lupone makes a cameo. I’m telling you, Ozis a miracle). Oz was also one of the only mainstream American shows to depict Black Muslim characters with nuance and respect, particularly the character of Kareem Said, played by Eamonn Walker (particularly surprising, considering nearly three full seasons aired after 9/11). In fact, one of the show’s only true missteps, one that lazily and without reason violates the show’s own logic and careful treatment of faith-related issues, is with a Jewish character (one of maybe two Jewish people depicted in the entire series). This will make you mad for many reasons. In fact, much of the last season will make you mad for many reasons. We can talk about it when you get there.

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I didn’t watch Oz when it aired on HBO. In fact, I didn’t see a single episode until 2013, the year I became friends with Mallory. She immediately shoved the DVDs for the first season in my hands. We watched the first few episodes, and then I made the huge mistake of bingeing the rest of the season on my own. I called her, distraught. “Don’t watch any more by yourself!” she admonished me. “You need me there.” She was right.

Oz flipped many scripts. It didn’t shy away from race riots. It put characters on death row and didn’t always pardon them, put them the hole and in solitary and showed how that damaged them. It showed men struggling to find emotional and spiritual connection, while also contending with not owning or being in control of their own bodies. I thought about my old friend in 1998, and I wonder if he was ready to think about all those things, especially on his own.

So if you are going to watch Oz, watch it with someone. Sure, Mallory and I will forever share a love of Dino’s need to run the kitchen, of Adebisi’s hat, of Martin Querns and of Torquemada (I love you, Bobby Cannavale!). We’ve referenced Ozto make a lot of jokes but we have also talked seriously about this show and its implications. Of course, art and music and film give people a shared language and a tangible culture to use as shortcuts in getting to know one another. But I like to think that as much as it entertained and allowed us to shriek at Beecher’s-gone-wild facial hair or the dentistry scene, Oz made us go inside a little bit too.

PS: This time I’m the Beecher, the one who finally stopped being so goddamn afraid of writing an essay about a television show.

Holding Hope: On Being a 911 Operator

I’ve listened to a lot of people die, and take it from me, people don’t slip away quietly like they do on screen, with one last longing look and a soft sigh of disappointed resignation. There are, of course, some quiet deaths—dying in one’s sleep is something many of us hope for. But the body is built to fight, and even in the most exhausted of frames, it can kick up a racket on its way out. It’s not polite. It doesn’t ask permission. It rattles and gasps and wheezes like an accordion being run over by a tractor-trailer. It fights with the bouncer and hurls epithets over its shoulder as it’s carried out.

I’ve worked 911 for seventeen years as the first of the first responders. I’m the person who tells you how to do CPR when you see a guy drop in front of Starbucks, when no one else wants to help, when you can’t remember one single thing you learned in that class you took before you had your first kid.

I’ve heard so many people die that sometimes I can tell the person is dying before the caller does. That fish-gasp-snore sound (called agonal breathing) is the reason CPR is sometimes started too late to help.

“Ma’am,” I say. “He’s not getting enough oxygen. I’m going to tell you how to do CPR.” 

“Oh, I can’t do that. He’s still breathing, can’t you hear that snoring? Just gethere!” 

But I can tell by the sound that he’s not snoring, he’s actually dying, and without immediate intervention he won’t make it. It’s up to me and only me to convince the eighty-year-old woman that she’s strong enough to pull her husband off the bed in order to get him on a flat surface (You can’t do compressions on a bed. Pull the sheet he’s lying on. Don’t worry about the fall is what I say. You can’t hurt a dead man is what I don’t say). It’s up to me to convince the seventeen-year-old girl to give mouth-to-mouth to a friend who’s overdosed, even when the caller is high as hell and doesn’t want to get anywhere near the stuff coming out of her friend’s mouth. It’s up to me to tell the mother how to cut down her son who’s hung himself with a rope made from his stepfather’s ties in case there’s still oxygen lingering in his blood. Speed. Now. The faster, the better. The more convincing I can be, the better chance the person has of being revived.

*

You answer the phone. You talk two hikers through giving CPR to a stranger on a hillside. Tell one how to pull the latitude and longitude off their iPhone because the call came in on the wrong line while coaching the other hiker not to stop compressions (tip: know how to find this location info on your phone). Get the helicopter ordered, help it land safely in the right place.

Finish your slice of pizza long gone cold. Fiddle with the crossword puzzle from the day before. Answer the next phone call. Don’t ask about the endings. HIPAA laws make it clear that unless you have a need to know, you have no right to know anyone else’s medical information. It can be frustrating to never know the endings. Unless you make the endings up yourself.

I started writing them down, fictional plots based on nothing but the conglomerate of grief I stored in the back of my mind—the endings I wrote to all my novels were hopeful, because hope was what I heard every day on the phones. The hope that I—that someone—could help before it was too late.

One novel’s inspiration came from talking to too many people with early-onset Alzheimer’s—they always know something’s wrong, but they can’t quite tell me what it might be. Sometimes they can’t remember their names or why they called 911. But they always hope I’ll be able to help. With something.   

Another novel, The Ones Who Matter Most, was the result of listening to hundreds of women over the years entering miscarriage. “No, no, no, no. Not this, no.” The liturgy these women chant is millennia old. Don’t sit on the toilet, I tell them. Don’t cross your legs. They cling to my words, hoping that if they do what I say, they can change the ending.

Hope. I hold out hope.

Because without hope, we don’t go on. Hope is the only thing that lets us say goodbye to our loved ones in the mornings—the hope we’ll come back together later, safely.

Hope is the thing our brains hold without us having to try. Our bodies, even at the edge of death, still hope for oxygen, still try to grab at it. Hope is extravagant and senseless and often just plain ridiculous, and yet still it rises.

Once I took a call for a 103-year-old woman who stopped breathing while at a family birthday party. Her great-grandson did perfect CPR—I could hear the sound her chest made as he did compressions in exactly the right rhythm. All the while, he panted and muttered, “Come on, Grandma, you can make it. Come on, Grandma. You can do this.” Behind him, the whole family cheered them both on. I was listening to a house full of hope. A home full of love.

I don’t know if Grandma made it or not. I’m guessing she didn’t, but what a gift, to be 103 years old and your family’s still not ready to let you go. 

*

I’ve just left the day job. It’s not like it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’ve been working both 911 and writing, ninety hours a week, for ten years. I’ve published three literary novels, ten feminist romances, and one memoir, and this is what I’ve been working toward. I’m as ready for this leap as I’ll ever be.

It’s been almost two months of complete self-employment and I’m still twitching from adrenaline withdrawal, but not having to wear a pager to go to the bathroom is great. Actually sleeping at night—every night—is even better. So even though my hopeful dispatch manager has put me on the part-time roster just in case I feel like picking up some shifts, I think I’ve made the right choice in taking off my headset for good. 

I spent seventeen years listening to what can go wrong, hearing stories of predictable losses and freak accidents. I had the two best jobs in the world: giving immediate, life-saving assistance, and then making up stories about what happened next (in all cases fictionalizing the stories completely to protect those affected, including in this essay). I knew that sometimes, while on 911, I helped someone save a life.

And then a couple of readers wrote to me, saying I’d saved their lives. That’s exactly as untrue as it would be if I took credit for actually restarting someone’s heart over the phone. In not one single case did I put my hands on a chest and push. There was always someone else following my directions—they did the life-saving. In the same way, I don’t believe my writing can actually save someone.

But in both those jobs, I played the same role: to be the holder of hope. On the phone, I was the placeholder, the voice the caller clutched while waiting for an actual hand. In my books, I’m also just a voice, something to cling to while a reader’s world slips sideways. And I’m hoping like hell I get it right. From now on I’m wearing no headset and leaving behind only black marks on a white page, holding the space for hope and the shaky breath that follows it.

*

Dorothy L. Sayers, Marjorie Barber, and the Story of a Wartime Lemon

In February 1943, Marjorie Barber, who was known to everyone as Bar, carefully wrapped a lemon in a jeweler’s box and sent it to her friend, the detective novelist Dorothy L. Sayers. The packaging was appropriate: a lemon was as precious as a jewel in the depths of World War II in England. This was a war that devastated the home front: nearly 70,000 British civilians died, and no one escaped the shortages, the long hours, or the near-constant menace of bombs.

The ‘home’ front was fraught on another level for Bar and Dorothy. They were both in complex long-term partnerships that frequently offered stress rather than succor and uncertainty rather than support. Their quiet friendship was a refuge and a source of the fresh air, space, and humor that makes it possible keep muddling through in one’s marriage and one’s life, and the lemon, both treasured and refreshing, is its perfect symbol.

Wartime rationing and controls aimed to ensure that every person had access to a minimum supply of basic goods – not only food, but also clothing, furniture, and other items. A points system governed access to rarer items like cereals, lentils, and tinned (canned) foods. Lemons, though, were never rationed: like bananas and other items that had to be shipped from warmer climes, they simply became essentially unobtainable. The war disrupted trade routes and filled ships and cargo holds with munitions and soldiers rather than tropical fruits.

A queue for food in wartime London.

Dorothy called the lemon a “Museum Piece” for its rarity and splendor. Her husband, Mac Fleming, looked at it with a “stupefied gaze” and asked, in mock bewilderment, “What is it?”

But a lemon is not a jewel: it will not last forever. Mac said it “would be a pity to destroy it,” but Dorothy countered that “it would be a pity to let it dry up or grow green whiskers.” He wanted to put it in a glass case and sell tickets for the privilege of viewing it; she wanted to make that curry that he’d rejected before because it was “no good without a squeeze of lemon.” Manifestly unable to agree, they wrapped the lemon back up in its wadding and put it aside.

Bar had lived in London with her partner, Muriel St. Clare Byrne, since the 1920s; while Bar taught English literature to high school girls, Muriel was a Shakespeare expert and historian who taught at Bedford College and the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. All three women had attended Somerville College, Oxford, together around the time of the First World War. Muriel and Dorothy were members of the same writing club there, the archly named Mutual Admiration Society. While Muriel and Bar were setting up house in their London flat and writing poems about their beloved cat, Dorothy had a more tumultuous romantic trajectory, involving some fraught love-affairs with men, a son born out of wedlock, and finally marriage in 1926 to Mac — a veteran of World War I, a journalist, and a gourmand who had already been married once before.

By 1943, both partnerships had been through good times and bad – the marriage of Mac and Dorothy, and the partnership of Muriel and Bar, who called each other “friends” or “companions” but functioned socially as a couple and wrote to each other with the frank love, deep concern, and possessive annoyance of spouses. Mac had eventually adopted Dorothy’s son, but the marriage had grown less close and was put under strain by his chronic ill health and the deaths, in rapid succession, of both of Dorothy’s parents. In the early 1930s, Dorothy considered separation and perhaps divorce; she took a long vacation with Muriel to discuss the matter, and ultimately decided to stick it out. Her subsequent letters narrate their spats and disagreements with a witty veneer that is hard to penetrate. To what extent had they found a reasonable modus vivendi, and to what extent does the humor cover a profound marital unease? The lemon incident is only one example: read the exchanges in different tones of voice, and their meaning shifts from the charming to the depressing.

Dedication page, BUSMAN’S HONEYMOON (the novel version, 1937) by Dorothy L. Sayers

Dorothy found, in her friendships with Muriel and Bar, both emotional and intellectual connection. With Bar’s regular input, Dorothy and Muriel collaborated on a series of writing projects, beginning with a play, Busman’s Honeymoon, that dramatized the early married experience of Sayers’ famous fictional sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey, and his beloved Harriet Vane. By World War II, Muriel and Dorothy had launched an edited book series, “Bridgeheads,” that aimed to explore different aspects of a rapidly changing world. The three old school friends were in constant conversation about books, poetry, criticism, ideas, theology, and drama; Sayers’ letters to editors and other friends frequently cite something either Muriel or Bar has said on a given topic. Dorothy wrote a cycle of twelve radio plays on the life of Jesus early in the war, and her work was informed by the reactions of Bar’s students, who listened in each month. But Mac was not entirely left out of this circle: he painted a portrait of Bar, for example, in 1941, and sent it to her when it was not included in an exhibition.

Muriel and Bar, for their part, were separated by the war. Bar followed her students when they were evacuated from London, part of the large-scale effort to protect English children by moving them out of the zones likely to be worst-affected by German bombs. She worried profoundly about Muriel’s safety in London. And she found it harder and harder to cope with the terms of their relationship, which seems to have involved a certain degree of openness or latitude for Muriel to have relationships with other women. One such woman lived in their flat during the war, causing increased tension with Bar. Bar found, in Dorothy’s home, a refuge from those tensions. She spent long holidays with Dorothy and Mac, on a scale reminiscent of a Jane Austen character. Witness Dorothy’s invitation in 1942: “Well, dear, have a good term and come back at Christmas to pay us a nice long Eighteenth-Century visit.” Bar did spend that Christmas with her friends, leaving Muriel in London with her other companion.

Bar advised Dorothy to put the lemon in water occasionally to plump it out again, should it show signs of deterioration. This Dorothy did, until at last, about a month after the lemon’s triumphant arrival, she decided to take covert action. The lemon, it seemed, was beginning to grow whiskers, and the butcher had sweetbreads in stock. So, as she told Bar, “I cast reverence to the winds, cut the precious creature open (it was in perfectly good condition), used half the juice for the sauce, and served up the sweetbreads adorned with slices of lemon as per Mrs. Beeton.”

“You’ve CUT the LEMON!” Mac cried when he saw the dish. But Dorothy placated him by pointing out that he never looked at it and it was growing moldy. And they ate Mrs. Beeton’s sweetbreads and lemon, and then Dorothy made barley-water with the peel and even saved a small piece of the lemon to eat alongside some fish at the following morning’s breakfast.

It was “a very beautiful and encouraging lemon,” Dorothy said. And it carried with it the networks of love and care that had brought it to her doorstep. As she ate it, she told Bar, “I thought humbly and gratefully of you, and of our Armies in Africa and of the Merchant Seamen and the Warships and all the other kind and courageous beings who had toiled to bring the lemon and the sweetbreads.”

When life sends you war, rationing, and personal hardship, true friends send you lemons.

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Sources

Barbara Reynolds, ed., The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers, Vol. II: 1937-1943: From Novelist to Playwright (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996)

Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Austerity in Britain: Rationing, Controls, and Consumption, 1939-1955 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000)

You met where? Forget looking for love online and blind dates, Cupid works in mysterious ways

Forget looking for love online and blind dates, Cupid works in mysterious ways – Labour’s David Miliband met his wife Louise on a flight from Rome. So set your love compass to romance and who knows where you’ll find Mr Right...

By Eimear O’Hagan, 26/09/2010

Mistaken identity

'He thought I was someone else'

Hannah White, 29, is a fashion buyer from south-west London. She says:

A message on Facebook led James to Hannah

"Logging into my Facebook account in July 2009, I was confused to see a message from a guy called James, who I was sure I didn't know.

'Hi Hannah, nice to meet you over the weekend. Wondered if you fancied going for a drink some time?' it read.

I laughed, realising this guy had clearly got the wrong person. I definitely hadn't met a James at the weekend.

'Wrong Hannah,' I replied. 'Unless I have severe memory loss!' Hitting send, I didn't expect to hear from him ever again.

No one was more surprised than me when James replied and we started a jokey online conversation, culminating in him asking me out for a drink.

I'd never been out with, or even kissed, someone totally random before. I'd always stuck to friends of friends when it came to dating.

But I'd been single for three years and James' cheeky Facebook messages made me laugh, so I thought 'why not?'. I had nothing to lose.

Was he handsome? I couldn't really tell, his Facebook profile picture was of him in a weird fancy-dress outfit - with pink tights and a headband!

A week later we met on a rainy night at a bar in Putney, south-west London.

That day, I'd nearly backed out of the date. What was I doing going to meet a guy I didn't know? It was so unlike me.

But my housemates thought it was hysterical that I was going out with a guy who'd actually been trying to find someone else, and insisted I went along to meet him.

I felt a bit nervous as I walked into the bar. I recognised him straightaway and, thankfully, he looked normal in jeans and a polo shirt.

I thought he was cute, but I had to get my head around the fact that I was on a date with a stranger I'd met on Facebook.

He told me he'd recently met a blonde girl called Hannah at a barbecue and, after regretting not getting her number, had tried to track her down on Facebook and found me instead. I wasn't offended that he'd been looking for another girl. I thought it was funny.

We got on brilliantly, even better than online! As we talked, we discovered we'd both gone to university in Newcastle, and had both been on holiday in Portugal, even going to the same nightclubs. There seemed to be so many coincidences, I couldn't believe how similar our lives were.

The date was really good fun and James asked me out again. On our second date we shared a kiss.

We've been together over a year now, and people love to hear the story of how we met - most of them think it's hilarious.

For Valentine's day this year, I had a printout of our original Facebook messages framed as a special memory of how we met.

Whether it was fate or just a happy accident that brought us together, all I know is that I've never been happier and I'm so glad James didn't get the other Hannah's phone number at the barbecue that weekend."

James Gilmore, 30, is an insurance broker from west London. He says:

"I kicked myself for not asking Hannah from the barbecue for her number, but it was the best decision I've ever made.

I was so embarrassed when I realised I'd messaged the wrong girl. I'd never tried to track anyone down on Facebook before, and clearly I wasn't very good at it! But Hannah number two was so pretty and didn't seem to mind the fact that some idiot had messaged her by accident. So I thought it was worth asking her out.

As we sat talking on our first date, I realised she was a pretty special woman, and I hoped she'd want to see me again.

What are the chances of meeting someone so gorgeous, who you get on with so well, completely by accident on Facebook? I definitely think fate played a part in us meeting like that - how else can you explain it?"

Lost property

'I lost my phone but found love'

Lorna Kings, 25, is a make-up artist from Harrow, north-west London. She says:

Love was calling for Lee and Lorna

"Last September, I was sitting in a bar in Harrow opposite a tall and handsome man, chatting and laughing like we'd known each other for years.

But I'd only met Lee a few minutes before when I'd collected my mobile phone from him after leaving it on a bus days earlier. Lee had found it and, when I'd called my number in a panic, he'd answered and offered to meet me and return it.

All I'd been bothered about was getting my phone back - but as soon as I saw Lee, I felt a spark. When he asked me out there and then, I decided it would be a laugh. I'd been single for two years, so what was the harm? Plus, Lee was exactly my type.

It felt very surreal to be on a date with someone I'd just met, our only connection my lost phone. Lee told me he was a chef and lived in Brighton. He'd been in London visiting friends and was on the bus home when he noticed my phone on the seat. I'd had lots of shopping bags with me and I must have dropped it on the seat without noticing.

At the end of our impromptu date, we swapped numbers. Lee called me a few days later and I travelled down to Brighton to see him. We spent the day together, walking on the beach and getting to know one another. And now, a year later, we're still together and very in love.

He cooks me delicious meals, he makes me laugh with his cheeky sense of humour what's not to love?

My friends and family just can't believe we met because I was clumsy enough to lose my phone on the bus. They're always saying: 'That's a story to tell the grandchildren!'

I was happy when I was single, but I'm even happier now that I'm with Lee. I truly believe that when you're not looking for love it just shows up. So now, if Lee and I ever fall out, we both remember how we got together and that there must have been a reason Lee found my phone that day. We always make up pretty quickly!

I'm not a superstitious person, but I now believe certain people are meant to come into your life for a reason, and I definitely see my future with Lee."

Lee Bawyers, 24, is a chef from Brighton. He says:

"Losing your mobile phone is such a nightmare, so when I saw one left on a bus seat I was keen to do a good deed and return it to its owner.

Fortunately, Lorna called her phone and we were able to arrange to meet up. She's a gorgeous girl and, being a bit of a cheeky chap, I decided to try my luck and ask her out for a drink.

Lorna is my first serious girlfriend and I still can't believe how lucky I am to have found her. They say what goes around, comes around and I've definitely got my reward for my good deed."

The emergency pick-up

'I found love in a tow truck'

Natalie Down, 26, is a student veterinary nurse from Wool, Dorset. She says:

Gareth was Natalie's knight in a shining tow truck

"Every girl dreams of being rescued by a knight in shining armour, but I never expected mine to pull up in a tow truck.

What had been a miserable afternoon - my car breaking down in the rain, calling a recovery service and then waiting for them - would become an afternoon that changed my life forever.

In April 2007, my mum Karen and I were on the way to see my granddad, an hour's drive from my home in ¿Dorset, when my Vauxhall Corsa came to a juddering halt. Luckily, I had breakdown cover and called for a tow truck straightaway.

When it arrived and a tall guy with a cheeky smile got out and introduced himself as Gareth, I turned to Mum and said: 'He's a bit of alright, isn't he?'.

I had a boyfriend, but our four-and-a half-year relationship was coming to an end and, although I knew I shouldn't be attracted to Gareth, I couldn't help it.

He towed my car home and Mum and I clambered into his truck. I sat beside him and we chatted like old friends. Back at mine, we invited him in for a coffee and he stayed for three hours.

He told us he lived in Poole, 15 minutes away, and had a girlfriend but that the relationship wasn't going well. Then he offered to fix my car for a fraction of what a garage would charge.

We swapped numbers so we could arrange for him to work on my car. After exchanging a few texts, he asked me out for a drink as friends and, a couple of weeks later, we met up.

We spent the night laughing and as we said goodbye I knew there was more than friendship between us.

Natalie arrived in a tow truck for her wedding to Gareth

Splitting up with our partners was never discussed, but independently we both did just that. Then a month after we first met, Gareth and I started dating.

We moved in together in August 2007 and in October 2008 we went on a break to Disneyland Paris, where Gareth proposed. We set the date for May this year, at the Marsham Court Hotel in Bournemouth.

I came up with the idea of arriving in a tow truck as a tribute to the way Gareth and I had first met. We arranged for a red 40-foot truck to take me and my stepdad Andrew to the wedding.

If someone had told me that my future husband would be a tow-truck driver who came to my rescue one rainy afternoon in April, I'd never believed it. I thank my car for bringing us together!"

Gareth Down, 23, is a service manager for a motor company. He says:

"I was actually on a day off when I got a call from work asking if I could help with a breakdown. I reluctantly agreed, but now I'm so glad I did.

When I spotted Natalie at the side of the road, I immediately thought she was gorgeous. Then as I worked away on her car and started chatting, the more I wanted to get to know her.

The relationship I was in at the time wasn't working, but I made sure I was single before anything happened between Natalie and me.

When my colleagues found out I was dating someone I'd towed, they gave me a bit of a ribbing, but they could see how perfect Natalie and I are for one another.

A plane crash brought this couple together

Our wedding was amazing, and it was very fitting that Natalie arrived in a tow truck. After all, that's what brought her into my life in the first place!"

Ben Bostic, 39, and Laura Zych, 31, boarded a plane in January 2009, but could never have dreamt it would end up crashing into New York's Hudson River, or that their brush with death would bring them into each other's arms. The couple have been together ever since.

Sun, sand and SEDUCTION

The story so far: When Emma took a summer job nannying in Brighton, she couldn’t take her eyes off her gorgeous boss, Patrick. Then she spotted his wife, Laura, getting steamy with another man...

By Tess Stimson, 08/08/2018

Emma couldn't look anyone in the eye; it was like having the world's worst case of conjunctivitis. Every time she saw Laura or Dash, she pictured them in bed together, Laura's little size-zero bottom bouncing up and down.

But toughest of all was keeping the affair secret from Patrick. Emma hated having to lie to him, even by omission.

There was no point kidding herself any longer: she was mad about Patrick. Desperate to escape her feelings for him, she took the twins out of the house at every opportunity, regardless of the weather. They walked up and down the beachfront promenade a hundred times, and she spent hours teaching them to skim stones on the beach.

But the more she tried to stay away from him, the more they seemed thrown together. She'd take Bryanna and Gabriel down to the pool for their swim, and five minutes later, Patrick would turn up for a chat. They even bumped into him on Brighton Pier. It was like Cupid was playing games with her head, teasing her with what she couldn't have. Part of her would be relieved when her month nannying came to an end.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to stay on?" Patrick said one afternoon, after she'd brought the twins back from yet another bracing seaside walk. "I've never known the children to be this quiet and well-behaved."

"Don't torture the poor girl," Laura said. "I'm sure she's dying to get back to her little bookshop, aren't you, Emma?"

And you're just dying to get me out of here before I blab, Emma thought. Not that she'd ever say anything to Patrick; much as she longed to see Laura get her comeuppance, she couldn't be the one to destroy his life.

Emma did her best to tell Laura she wouldn't reveal her secret. But every time she did, Laura simply flapped her hands to quieten her, then added another zero to the figure on the bonus cheque, "To make up for any inconvenience"

Later, as Emma started to pack her bag, she bumped into Patrick as he got ready for work. He should wear that shade of soft gold more often, Emma thought helplessly, as she watched him adjust his tie: it brought out his green eyes.

"Look, Emma, why don't you take tonight off?" he suggested. "I don't have to go to my conference dinner now; Laura and I can stay in for a change. You've been stuck at home with the twins every night so far"

"But I have plans," Laura exclaimed.

Patrick frowned. "What plans?"

"Late-night shopping," she said. "Less crowded than during the day. And it's no fun for Emma going out on her own."

"You're right, I didn't think." He looked round suddenly. "Emma, why don't you and Dash go off and do something? He hasn't lived in Brighton long, he doesn't know many people. I know he'd love to take you out, he's been talking about you all week."

Her heart plummeted. She knew there was no hope for her with Patrick, but for him to pair her off with his junior partner, and the man sleeping with Laura, was more than she could bear.

"He has?" Emma replied listlessly.

"He has?" Laura demanded.

Patrick looked from one to the other, confused. "Am I missing something?"

"No, nothing, everything's fine," Laura said quickly. "Maybe you should go out with Dash, Emma. I'm sure the two of you must have plenty to talk about."

Emma didn't like Laura using her to throw Patrick off the scent of her affair, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She threw on a boring little black dress, twisted her hair up into a loose knot, and put on the minimum of make-up, determined not to make an effort. This was not her idea of a fun way to spend an evening.

But to her surprise, she actually enjoyed herself. Dash didn't mention Laura at all, and was entertaining and attentive company. He laughed at her jokes, lent her his jacket when the sea breeze chilled her shoulders, and gallantly took her arm as he guided her down the restaurant steps at the end of their meal.

"Have you ever seen the Brighton Pavilion at night?" he asked, staring up at the starlit sky.

Here it comes, she thought. Time for Casanova to make his smooth move. "Look, it's getting late"

"Five minutes," he said, smiling at her.

Maybe it was the wine or the moonlight, but somehow she found herself agreeing. He really was attractive, she thought, as they made their way along the promenade. And it's not like she had a hope of anything ever happening with Patrick. Dash was at least single. Well, more or less.

Dash stopped as they reached the Pavilion and held out his arms. "Come here."

"We really should be getting back"

"Oh, Emma. Live a little, why don't you?"

In a moment, he'd pulled her towards him and given her the kiss of her life, a kiss that flared across her skin like a match held to newspaper. She knew she should stop, this was only going to lead to trouble, but he was just so goddamn sexy...

And then her phone rang.

Laura spent the next few days seething with jealousy and resentment. Dragging Emma back from her evening with Dash on the grounds that Gabriel was "looking a bit peaky" was just a blatant excuse to ruin Emma's night, and she was amazed Patrick didn't see through it. The way Laura was carrying on, it was only a matter of time before Patrick realised what was going on under his nose.

Twice Emma had to cover for Laura when she got back late from a date with Dash, her make-up smeared and her chin raw with stubble rash. Every time Laura's phone rang, she shot outside to answer it. Even Patrick, sweet and trusting as he was, had started to look at his wife strangely.

Emma hated being caught in the middle. She felt awful for Patrick, and while Dash and Laura might be enjoying their little game, she hated all the deception and lies. If it wasn't for the fact that she'd never see Patrick again after the next few days were up, she'd be counting the minutes till she could get out of here.

On her last day, she decided to take the children to Brighton Pier for ice creams, their favourite treat. To her surprise, Gabriel said he was too tired.

"Too tired for ice cream?" Emma teased.

Her head and her heart were a mess

She felt his forehead. He didn't have a temperature, but his breathing was shallow and laboured, and when she picked him up, he flopped like a rag doll in her arms.

Emma tucked him into bed and called Laura, who didn't answer her mobile phone. She must be with Dash, Emma thought grimly.

She left a message on Patrick's phone before remembering that he was at a conference in London. A sudden calm descended on her as she dialed 999 and asked for an ambulance. She didn't care if she was overreacting. She was in charge of this little boy and nothing was going to happen to him on her watch.

The next three hours were the longest of Emma's life. She and Bryanna clung to each other in the hospital corridor as doctors came and went, their faces giving nothing away. She had no idea what was happening, and the longer time went on, the more panicked she became.

Finally, as Emma was begging one of the doctors for some news, Patrick burst through the double doors. "Is he OK? What's happening? I got a taxi from London as soon as I got your message"

"He's out of the woods, Mr Fulton," the doctor said. "Your son has juvenile diabetes. It comes on suddenly, there's no way you could have known. Once we get his glucose stabilised, he'll be fine. It's very lucky this young lady brought him in when she did, or this could be a very different story."

Patrick put his arm round Emma as she collapsed sobbing with relief. "Why don't you take Bryanna back home," he said softly. "I can take it from here."

Emma nodded, too exhausted even to enjoy the feeling of Patrick's warm, spice-scented body pressed against hers. She got home and put the little girl to bed, then curled up in an armchair downstairs, waiting for Laura to get home.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, it was daylight and she was gently being shaken awake.

"Sweetheart, I need to talk to you," Dash said.

Emma struggled awake. "Is Laura with you?"

"She just got your message. She's upstairs changing so she can go straight to the hospital."

"You were with her all night?"

"Never mind that now. Forget about Laura, Emma. She's just a distraction." His voice was thick with passion. "You're the one I'm interested in! I haven't been able to think about anyone else since the moment I saw you!"

Emma pushed him away, confused. "Go away," she sighed. "I'm not interested," she said. "Anyway, how many women do you need at one time!"

"For God's sake, I told you, Laura doesn't mean anything!"

"Not because of Laura! Because of Patrick!" Emma cried, before she could stop herself.

Dash laughed. "There's no point mooning after him, he doesn't know you exist!" He roughly lifted her chin so she was forced to look in his eyes. "Emma, what do I have to do to convince you? I like you, a lot - I thought you'd be flattered! Well, you should be In fact, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since we went out."

The next moment, Laura appeared, she flew across the room and slapped him hard around the face. "You bastard! You told me you loved me! How could you do this to me?"

"Blimey, Laura! What's wrong with you?" exclaimed Dash.

"I could ask the same thing," said a quiet voice from the doorway.

They all spun round. Patrick stood there, his face pale but composed. "Your son is asking for you," he told Laura evenly. "I came back to see why you hadn't come. I guess now I know."

Laura reached towards her husband. "Patrick, this isn't what you think..."

Emma expected Patrick to look hurt and angry but, instead, she thought she sensed relief.

Emma slipped away to pack. She was going to cash the huge cheque that was coming to her and then do her best to forget this past two weeks had ever happened.

She could hear raised voices coming from Patrick and Laura's room as she called a taxi and left. She wished she'd had a chance to say goodbye to Gabriel and Bryanna. She'd grown fond of the pair of them. Away from the corrosive influence of their mother, even the little girl had blossomed.

Thirty minutes later, Emma stood at Brighton Pavillion. She checked her watch, her train was due to leave in 20 minutes, but she couldn't face rushing to the station, back to her old life. Her head and her heart were a mess.

She was going to miss Patrick more than she could bear. There was something about his quiet honesty that had got under her skin.

He's married, she told herself, for the thousandth time. Off limits. She stared out over the sea, she had to sort her life out, do something different.

She kicked off her flip-flops and headed down to the beach, lugging her bag behind her. Plonking herself down and curling her toes in the sand, she stared out at the sunset, closed her eyes and started to give herself a telling off. Then she was vaguely aware of someone close by. She opened her eyes.

"Patrick! I thought you'd be on your way back to the hospital."

"I was. I mean, I am. We need to talk," he said, flustered.

Emma flushed. Oh God! He knew that she knew "Patrick, I'm so sorry," she started, "about Laura and Dash"

"Are you?" Patrick said, his expression suddenly watchful.

"Well, of course. You must be devastated."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You and Dash," Patrick said impatiently.

She laughed. "There is no me and Dash."

For a long time, they stared at each other. "Back at the house," Patrick said finally, "you told Dash you couldn't be with him. Because of me. Is that true?"

Emma sighed. "I..." she cleared her throat. "I... Oh, it doesn't matter. You're married..."

Patrick sat down beside her. "Laura and I have been over for a long time. We were in the middle of a trial separation when she found out she was pregnant with the twins. We've given it our best shot, but clearly..." his voice broke.

"Look, I've come to care for you," he said. "Deeply. Is there any chance you would..." he paused then cleared his throat. "Oh, Emma, I know this will sound weird, but I don't want you to go. I think I'm a little bit in love with you."

Emma laughed. Then Patrick leaned in and she kissed him. Perhaps the summer hadn't been so bad after all...

PART ONE: Sun, sand and SEDUCTION

PART ONE: When Emma took on the position of nanny to help get over her latest break-up, having a work romance was not in her job description

By Tess Stimson, 01/08/2017

Romance was dead, Emma thought gloomily as she opened up a new box of Jane Austen novels. Pride And Prejudice might still be flying off the shelves at the bookshop where she worked, but that's only because women were starved of sexy, romantic heroes in real life. This was the third time she'd been dumped on Facebook, and she was getting really tired of it.

"Look on the bright side," said Hailey, her workmate, best friend and eternal optimist. "At least you won't have to spend Saturday watching the footie any more."

"I'm 31!" Emma wailed. "I put three years into Alex! I'd just got him trained to put the loo seat down without being asked. I thought he was The One!"

Privately, Hailey thought she'd rather marry a corpse than Alex Rodgers, though from what she'd heard, there wasn't much to choose between them in the bedroom department.

"At least you've got our month-long sunshine trip to look forward to, island-hopping around Greece, looking at men that'll get him right out of your mind," Hailey said brightly.

"I'm not sure a one-night stand will cure the humiliation of seeing my ex's Facebook profile go from engaged to me, to single, to in a new relationship - all in two bloody weeks! I've never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

"Forget about Alex! In 10 days we'll be on holiday. Sun, sea, sangria, remember?"

Emma took a deep breath. "Sorry - I can't afford to come. Alex was an a**e, but he did at least pay half the rent. There's no way I can afford a holiday now I'm paying for everything on my own."

She could barely manage to pay her electricity bill, Emma thought miserably as she trudged back through the grey, wet streets towards her Crawley bedsit. She was desperate for a break from work and thinking about Alex, but with Hailey and the girls going off without her, she didn't have anyone to go anywhere with. It looked like she'd be having a singleton's staycation this summer. Her heart sank. Even a wet weekend in Bognor would be better than that.

Then that night she got a call from her Aunt Jemma. Would Emma want to earn some extra dosh babysitting four-year-old twins for a super-wealthy dentist friend whose nanny had unexpectedly quit? Normally she'd refuse. But she found herself agreeing.

After all, how bad could it be?

"Do you eat a lot?" Laura Fulton enquired, her eyes scanning Emma's generous size-16 curves with contempt.

It was going to be bad, Emma decided.

"Well, I like celery," she ventured, not bothering to add that she used it to stir her Bloody Marys rather than to eat.

Laura pursed her glossy-red, surgically-enhanced lips. Emma guessed she was in her late-30s, but she was wearing so much make-up, it was hard to tell. The classic pink tweed Chanel suit made her look older, too, though it set off her scrawny, flat-chested figure to perfection.

"Only the last girl practically bankrupted us," Laura added suspiciously. "Ate us out of house and home. And the twins are very active. They need a lot of entertaining."

On cue, a howl came from the bedroom upstairs in the Fultons' Brighton bolt-hole. Emma thought of the number of zeros on the cheque waved in front of her at the start of the interview and forced herself to keep smiling. She'd earn more for four weeks' work than she made in six months at the bookshop she worked in back home. She'd take care of Gollum's evil twin for that amount.

"Oh, I've got loads of energy - I do a lot of marathons," she said. After all, she and the girls were famous for drinking the rugby club boys under the table during their mammoth weekend binges. "And I love swimming."

This, at least, was true. Her dad used to call her a mermaid, she spent so much time in the water. It was the only place her weight didn't count against her.

"Well, I suppose I don't really have much choice," Laura said ungraciously. "My husband is a very busy man, and we do a great deal of entertaining. The agency said it'll take at least a month to find a permanent nanny, so I guess you'll have to do till then. You can start tomorrow?"

He was lush

Emma nodded. She'd booked leave from the bookshop anyway, so she might as well use it to earn some money rather than sit around in her flat, staring out at the rain.

"In that case, come and meet the twins," Laura said.

Emma followed her upstairs and braced herself as Laura opened the bedroom door. A red-faced little boy with a mass of brown curls launched himself at his mother, who side-stepped and let him crash into Emma instead. Instantly, he started howling.

Behind him, a sweet-looking little girl with blonde bunches trotted demurely across the room and held out her hand. "I'm Bryanna," she lisped sweetly. "That's Gabriel. He doesn't like strangers."

Emma struggled to contain the sobbing boy in her arms. She knew at once that Bryanna was trouble; it was written all over her pretty little face. Behind her, a second bedroom door opened. "Everything all right?" a warm, masculine voice asked.

Emma felt a rush of lust. The twins' dad was seriously lush. He could have stepped right out of Grey's Anatomy, her favourite show - tall, cute, with incredible green eyes, just like Patrick Dempsey. He even had the same name. OK, he was a dentist, which wasn't quite as hot as a brain surgeon, but still. Why were all the good ones married?

Emma didn't do married. Her mum always said, a man who cheats with you will cheat on you. Mind you, if she were ever to slip off the straight and narrow, she thought wistfully, as Patrick Fulton picked up his son and tossed him in the air to shrieks of laughter, this would be the man to do it with.

She sighed. It was going to be a very long month.

"Watch me, Emma! Watch me!"

Emma smiled as Gabriel jumped into the shallow end of the Fulton's indoor pool where she stood ready to catch him. In the four days she'd been here, she'd already grown fond of him; he was a sweet boy, shy and easily outshone by his show-off sister.

Gabriel wrapped his arms tightly around her neck. "Why do you wear your skirt in the water sometimes?" the little boy asked her.

Before Emma could answer, Bryanna had. "It's not a skirt, stupid," Bryanna sneered. "It's called a sarong. Mummy says she wears it because she's fat."

"She's not fat!" Gabriel cried, snuggling against Emma's chest. "She's comfy and cosy and she makes me feel safe!"

A rush of cold air signalled that the pool doors had opened and closed. "I couldn't have put it better myself," Patrick said warmly.

For a man running a busy dental practice, it was amazing how often Patrick seemed to be at home, stopping by to see the twins. Emma had a sneaking suspicion he was actually checking up on his wife. Everything seemed wonderful between them, but Emma couldn't help noticing Laura acted like a cat on hot bricks around her husband. She jumped every time the phone rang, disappearing for hours. Maybe Mr Handsome was a nightmare to live with but he seemed so genuinely caring.

Down girl, she told herself crossly

And genuinely blimmin' gorgeous. Down girl, she thought crossly. It didn't matter how much she fancied him, Patrick was still a married man nearly 10 years older than her. What's more, he was unaccountably devoted to his skinny size-zero b***h of a wife.

Now, she wanted to sink under the water as the twins' dad walked over to the edge of the pool. Instinctively, she pulled Gabriel tighter to cover her breasts, which were spilling out of last year's too-tight bikini, and wished she'd at least thought to put on some waterproof mascara.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but have you seen Laura?" Patrick asked, his eyes locked on hers. "She was supposed to meet me for lunch."

Emma felt herself flush under Patrick's gaze. "I think she was getting her hair done..."

"Uncle Dash!" Bryanna cried. She ran round the side of the pool as a man about Emma's age stuck his blonde head round the door.

Seriously? Emma thought. Not one, but two sex gods in close proximity and I have to be practically naked in fluorescent lighting with my hair plastered to my head, no supportive underwear and not a scrap of make-up? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?

The blond Adonis ruffled Bryanna's hair and strolled towards them, his gaze lingering appreciatively on Emma's breasts as Gabriel jumped out of her arms and paddled excitedly towards the edge of the pool.

"Dashiell Oliver," he said, leaning over the water to shake Emma's hand. She couldn't help noticing the absence of a wedding ring. "Patrick's junior partner."

A jolt of electricity ran up her spine as she took his hand in a daze. He looked nearer her own age than Patrick's - in his early 30s, his blue eyes sleepy and slightly hooded, his lips full and curved in a sensual smile. Dangerous, she realised. Sexy and knowing and very, very dangerous.

"Pleased to meet you, Emma," Dash said, throwing her an ironic smile that burned its way straight to her groin.

All this celibacy wasn't good for her, Emma thought crossly, as she put the twins down for their naps and took a long, hot shower in the bathroom. All she wanted was to find her Mr Darcy. Was that really too much to ask?

As the water poured over her body, she imagined Patrick kissing her, his mouth at the very heart of her, his hands roaming roughly across her skin, probing and exploring and caressing her to a thrilling pitch of pleasure. She knew it could never happen, but she couldn't get him out of her head.

She climbed out of the shower and knotted a bathrobe at her waist. Then, just as she was about to open the bathroom door, she heard muffled voices coming from the hallway. Must be the Fultons' cleaner. She came in for a couple of hours most afternoons, though Emma had thought she'd heard her leave earlier.

Quietly she locked the door and waited for her to go. She didn't want to be seen dripping-wet and bedraggled. But then she heard a giggle and the sound of a man's voice. Couldn't be Mrs Spicer, then. She peered through the keyhole as a woman came into her field of vision. Laura!

Her heart jolted with panic. She'd told Laura she was taking the twins out to a birthday party this afternoon. It was only because Gabriel had been so tired after his swim that Emma had kept them home.

She couldn't see the man with Laura, but it wasn't Patrick. Even after just a week in their home, she'd have known his soft laugh anywhere.

She waited until they'd disappeared into the guest room, then quietly opened the door and tiptoed down the corridor to her own room. They hadn't bothered to shut the door and, as she shot past, Emma couldn't help seeing a pair of masculine hands pull Laura down on the bed, helping her wriggle out of her clingy LBD. She heard his throaty laughter as Laura mounted him. Oh God, this was beyond embarrassing.

She ran down the hallway and covered her ears with her hands as the sounds of their love-making intensified, praying they didn't wake the twins. A short while later, Laura's shrieky little cries signalled it was all over, followed by a long, satisfied masculine groan.

Emma sat on her bed, waiting for the slam of the front door to signal they'd gone and it was safe to come out. But then, over the twins' intercom, she heard a wail from Gabriel.

"Please go back to sleep," she whispered fervently.

He cried again, louder this time. Biting her lip, Emma went out into the corridor and headed towards the twins' room. Maybe Laura and her lover would be too preoccupied to notice.

Instead, Dashiell Oliver almost sprinted out of the bedroom straight into Emma. "Helloooo, sexy," he breathed. Emma felt her face flush with a mixture of anger and sexual tension. "Our secret, eh?" he winked.

To be continued next week...