So the news that Carla has married Sarko has of course devastated Rupert. “How could she?” he wailed down the phone to me as I stood at the supermarket check-out.
I excitedly shared the news of the wedding with the people queuing with me at Carrefour. They didn’t seem in the least bit interested. I couldn’t wait to get into the car to listen to the news. The girls demanded Amy Winehouse.
“No,” I told them. “Sarko’s got married, I need to hear all about it.”
“We hate Sarko,” said Olivia. “He’s going to make us do homework at the after-school crèche. We want to play instead.”
The news was full of some military coup in Chad. Who cares about Chad? What we really want to know is what did Carla wear?
I had to wait until I got home to read the Daily Mail and discover that she wore white.
“How ridiculous,” I huffed.
“And why shouldn’t she wear white?” said Rupert. “She hasn’t been married before.”
I suppose he has a point. But there is something rather incongruous about a man-eating former super-model turned semi-naked rock star doing the blushing bride bit.
I am not bitter. I know I sound bitter but I’m not. I never wanted to sleep with Eric Clapton or Mick Jagger or live in the Elysee Palace. But I do truly believe that Sarko has lost the plot. OK, so he’s obviously besotted, who wouldn’t be? But there are some women who are the marrying kind and some women who are not. Even though he has only known her a little over two months he should realise that Carla is not. And no matter how much white she wears I’m not convinced this marriage will last as long as Sarko’s presidential term. Which could only be a matter of weeks if Olivia and Bea get their way.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008