Jenna suffered with anorexia nervosa for more than 13 years. She developed it in her teens when she was still at high school and had justbeen scouted by a high-profile modelling agency at the age of 15. The following year, she was walking the runways of Paris and looked to all the world as if she was living the dream. But she was existing on an extreme diet to try and maintain her figure and that would ultimately lead to her spending a large part of her life in and out of eating disorder units across the state. Over the course of her illness, Jenna had over 25 hospital admissions.
When she left modelling, she went on to study for a degree in psychology at Colombia, for which she achieved a 3.9 GPA. Living with this chronic illness meant she was unable to start a career, despite her intelligence and drive. Nevertheless, she was always determined to continue to fight and was still able to enjoy her life, friends and family, right until the end.
The pain of seeing someone you love suffer in the way she did is devastating. It had the potential to tear apart our family, but instead it made us stronger and love each other even more. Our story is by no means unique and if there’s one legacy we know Jenna would want, it’s to help others like us.
Chapter 18
It’s a bank holiday weekend, but the boys have decided against staying with Brendan in the Peak District. They don’t hate it over there by any means, but I can’t say they love it either. There was a time when I thought their lack of enthusiasm could be attributed to Melanie, his partner. But they assure me she’s ‘all right’, in the same way you’d describe an average, inoffensive sort of biscuit, a custard cream as opposed to a Chunky Kit Kat.
Truth is, while they’re usually pleased to see their dad, at this stage in their lives, it’s clear where he stands in the hierarchy of their friends, sport and gaming consoles.
So, he’s driven here to spend the day with them, though that seems to have turned into an afternoon, because it’s nearly 12pm by the time he arrives to collect them. He’s in his cycling gear – head-to-toe Lycra, fingerless gloves and a pair of those funny shoes that make him sound like Fred Astaire when he’s walking up the driveway.
‘I’m a bit sweaty,’ he says apologetically. ‘I’ve come straight from a ride. I won’t come in, I stink.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s fine. Don’t stand out on the step,’ I say, beckoning him in, though part of me regrets that when he enters the hallway and starts to overpower the Febreze plug-in. ‘Do you need to use the shower?’
‘No, I’ll get one in the leisure centre before I get in the pool. I’m going to take the boys swimming.’
I can’t deny he’s looking good for all the exercise. Trim, healthy, glowing. My ex-husband has become very enthusiasticabout cycling in the last couple of years, which surprises me because he’d be the first to slag off ‘gym bores’ when we first met. A lot has changed since then.
Brendan and I were introduced by one of my neighbours, whose husband had shared a house with him at university when he was studying Computer Science. He had dusty brown hair, fair skin that turned pink and peeled in the summer and a gentle face, shaped like a love heart. This gave him the appearance of being closer to my age – 29 – than his – 37.
It was refreshing to meet someone who didn’t work in the media and, although he was a small business owner and clearly doing well even before he sold his little credit checking firm to a much bigger global concern, he had the air of someone who was slightly surprised at his own success. I found that quite endearing. After we moved in together, then got engaged, I can only say that he lived up to his glowing Google reviews: he was trustworthy, consistent, reliable. I never really felt like a grown-up until I married Brendan.
But if any of this is making him sound boring, then I’m doing him a disservice. He can be quite funny when he wants to be. And he knows a great deal about things I don’t, like volcanoes, algorithms and the early albums of Tom Petty.
We had fun together in those early days and he could surprise me on occasions. On a mini-break to Amsterdam, it was he who suggested we share a joint in a coffee shop then venture into the red-light district. Just to tick it off the bucket list, of course. We stayed about seven minutes, laughed awkwardly at a few things in a souvenir shop, then agreed to go to Anne Frank’s house instead.
Falling in love with Brendan felt completely different from the first time. Compared with the whirlwind of Danny, it was slower, more cautious. Having your fingers burnt makes you less starry-eyed, less vulnerable, less, frankly, stupid. I think it’s amatter of self-preservation. Nevertheless, three years later, we were married with a mortgage, a baby on the way and, just to complete the royal flush of domesticity, a dog.
How I loved Tilly. She was a seven-year-old rescue with curly hair and a – usually – soft, dopey nature that I found impossible to resist. She was perfect in all ways but one: she lovedmea little too much. In practice this meant she refused to tolerate Brendan going anywhere near me. She would become agitated and growl if he so much as held my hand. A kiss would result in frantic barking and, at the onset of any foreplay, she’d howl like there was a full moon. She once scampered into the bedroom when he was attempting penetration and her response resulted in the neighbours calling the RSPCA.
In short, she wreaked havoc with our sex life. We tried putting her outside the door but she’d scratch and bark until she was nearly hoarse and the hinges were creaking. We introduced a baby gate to keep her downstairs, but she’d go so ballistic that, even with ‘Wicked Game’ by Chris Isaac on full blast, it really was hard to get in the mood.
We eventually worked out that she thought Brendan was attacking me, which was sweet in some ways, though funnily enough he didn’t see it like that. We never really found a solution. I mean, there isn’t a palatable one, is there? Beyond the odd quickie when the boy opposite asked if he could walk her to save up for his gap year. But the reality was that having sex became hugely stressful and not really worth all the hassle. So long past that, by the time Tilly died and the coast was clear for us to resume relations, it all seemed like such a distant part of our lives that we never really got going again.
Brendan called time on the marriage shortly after Jacob’s first birthday. There were all sorts of complex reasons why we’d both stopped loving each other. But I’m fairly certain that the lack of intimacy was the final nail in the coffin for him. If I’d beenwilling to add ‘Fellate husband’ to my to-do list twice a week, it may well have persuaded him to stay.
That’s partly why I don’t ordinarily rise to Mum and Rose when they slag him off. They don’t know this detail. It’s hard to say out loud that your marriage failed because of a jealous crossbreed with curly hair and intermittent explosive disorder.
‘Are you still having the kids over half term?’ I ask Brendan now.
‘Yes, I’ve booked some time off work so we can all do something. Melanie too,’ he adds, then catches himself, as if he thinks I’m still liable to burst into tears every time I’m reminded of the woman who’s taken my place in his life.
There was once a point when that was the case, but we’re long past it. It’s not as if she was the cause of our break-up. They only met a year after he’d left, when he’d already started cycling long distances at weekends, got a tattoo on his upper arm that read ‘Freedom’and bought a pair of leather trousers that Rose said made him look like Suzi Quatro.
I’ll admit that when I discovered his new girlfriend was eight years younger than me, I imagined some Monroe-esque sex kitten. But Melanie is actually an averagely pretty but by no means exceptional woman who works in a gift shop and has stencilled the words ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ above the sofa in their living room. I only know this because she made a half-hearted attempt to become an influencer a few years ago and made several videos in which she demonstrated how to apply mascara, before moving onto interiors, then giving up altogether.
‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘I know I was supposed to be having them for a few days, but I’ll have to drop them off on the Tuesday now.’
‘Uh . . . okay, that’s fine,’ I say. In truth, I don’t love being away from the kids for this length of time anyway.
‘It’s just, Melanie got us tickets for a concert that night. Drake.’
I am tempted to ask if he actually knows who Drake is, but keep my mouth shut.
‘I’ll work from home that week or make sure Mum’s around,’ I tell him.
