Читать книгу My Bonnie: How dementia stole the love of my life - John Suchet - Страница 7

So what did it all mean? It seemed impossible that she might actually be interested in me. Let’s look at the facts. She—a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant born and educated in America. Moi—a rather dark-skinned (olive, I think, is the polite word) Londoner of slightly indeterminate European origin, from around half a dozen Central and Eastern European countries, at least if you go back a couple of generations or so, with a bit of English thrown in, and a totally British upbringing. We had nothing in common, absolutely nothing. Besides, she was married with two sons, to a decent man who, as far as I knew, was a caring father and husband, with a prestigious job that allowed him to provide them with a comfortable life. In short, Bonnie and I were physically, mentally, in every which way possible, polar opposites. What could possibly happen between us, ever?

Soon after we were finally together, I put these facts to her, in a desperate attempt to try to understand her folly. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I am utterly different to you, in origin, in looks, probably in everything.’ ‘So?’ she countered. I wasn’t going to be put off. ‘All right, I’m not a blonde, blue-eyed Adonis, you can’t argue against that.’ ‘No, I can’t,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want a blonde blue-eyed Adonis.’ ‘Right,’ I replied, gearing myself up for what I knew would be the knockout punch, ‘I am not six-foot two. OK? However you look at it, I am not bloody six-foot two. Not even on a good day.’ ‘So?’ she said, moving towards me. ‘Look,’ and she nestled her head neatly between my upper chest and my neck. ‘We are a perfect fit.’ ‘Darling, would you like some more tomatoes?’

‘I like tomatoes, all right? I like them. But I can’t eat them now while I’m having this lunch.’

‘Fine, darling.’

I couldn’t have known just how perfect the fit would be, in everything, absolutely everything, physical, mental and emotional. But before I relate how we began to discover that, I need to fill you in on the developments in my glittering career. For once, just once, it really was beginning to glitter.

I had joined ITN in the summer of 1972 in the same lowly capacity as at the BBC, only this time I managed to get the weather forecast and football results mostly right. I was soon promoted from junior scriptwriter to chief sub-editor, but my heart lay in reporting. More than anything else I wanted to be a reporter, to travel the world reporting for News at Ten, to be a ‘fireman’, to use the journalistic term—to go into work in the morning not knowing where in the world I would be that evening. After three years ITN announced it had a vacancy for a reporter, and would accept external as well as internal applications. I was pretty sure I stood no chance, but I also knew if I didn’t put in for it, I could kiss my ambitions goodbye. I applied. I did a camera test. I read yesterday’s news bulletin. I got the job.

When I left ITN 30 or so years later, my colleagues made a leaving video for me. They unearthed that camera test. A very young me, long hair halfway down to my shoulders, sideburns almost down to my chin, tinted glasses that went automatically darker under the studio lights, wide lapels. Very 1970s, very self-conscious, very gauche. No wonder it was years before Bonnie deigned to afford me a second glance.

The reporting went well, because I loved doing it. Do a job you love, and it’s hard to mess it up. ‘Suchet delivers,’ said the senior foreign desk editor. I did indeed travel the world. I covered the Iran revolution, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. I was sent on an impossible mission to the teeming city of Algiers to find an Arab terrorist wanted for masterminding the Munich Olympics massacre: I found him and got an exclusive interview. One boring Sunday afternoon I sat at the reporters’ desk, twiddling my thumbs; three hours later I was on a chartered executive jet, flying to Spain to cover a hostage crisis. I attended the last Rhodesian Independence Ball before the country became Zimbabwe. In the late 1970s I came to know Belfast and Derry nearly as well as I knew London. My passport and contact lens solution were always in my briefcase.

Then the plum came up, the most important and prestigious position open to an ITN reporter: US correspondent, based in Washington; ITN’s only overseas posting. Back in 1973, as a junior scriptwriter, I had been sent to Washington to act as runner for the then US correspondent, as President Nixon became engulfed in the Watergate scandal. It was my first trip to the United States, and from the day I entered the ITN office, I coveted the job of US correspondent. It was not only an unrealistic ambition, it was an impossible one. No mere scriptwriter had ever become a reporter at ITN, let alone US correspondent. Well, I had achieved the first part of that impossible dream, and now the ultimate prize was open.

I applied for it, and got it. The then editor of ITN, David Nicholas, wrote me a letter telling me the job was mine, and expressing his assurance that I would bring the same distinction to it that I had shown as a general news reporter.

Of course I would. I had wanted this job for the best part of a decade. I had achieved the impossible. Now I would really show what I was capable of. Well, I certainly did that. I proceeded to make such a hash of it that it almost brought my career to a total halt. Doesn’t that have a rather familiar ring to it?

Yes, yours truly, ace reporter and superstar John Suchet, was about to prove, once again, how when offered his dream on a plate, he repaid his employers’ faith in him by messing it up. Big time. I had brought my career at Reuters to a halt with the decision to resign rather than take the job as bureau chief in Brazzaville. It was at Moya’s urging, but ultimately it was my decision. After that I almost got myself sacked by the BBC because my work was sloppy and careless, my attitude arrogant. But I came to my senses in time and just as the BBC was applauding my newfound commitment, I cut my losses and moved to ITN. Two damned close-run things had concentrated my mind, and when I began my career at ITN I was utterly determined not to fail. A third disaster would surely mean curtains for this fledgling journalistic career.

I developed a sort of mantra. In my early years at ITN, I would walk through tube stations on my way to work repeating in my head At ITN I have so far, at ITN I have so far, at ITN I have so far…It was a way of saying to myself that although things were going well so far, I shouldn’t be arrogant because it could all go wrong tomorrow. I remember consciously deciding not to say anything as foolish as At ITN I will, or At ITN I have…That would be tempting fate.

Now, nine years or so into my career at ITN, it really did look as though I had so far. Ah yes, so much success, from junior writer to senior writer, to reporter, to correspondent. I truly didn’t stop to give those insignificant little words so far another thought. But things were soon to become very bad indeed.

In the early months of 1981, I prepared myself and my family for the move to the US, scheduled for July. My three boys were aged 10, seven and five. Moya and I needed to sort out schooling, rent our house out, arrange shipment, and so on. It would be a mammoth task. But hey, in 1979 I had earned plaudits for my coverage of the Iran Revolution (had I not flown from Paris to Tehran with Ayatollah Khomeini?), then I had returned to a greatly changed Tehran to report on the American hostage crisis, as the new Islamic Republic of Iran under the Ayatollah flexed its muscle. At the beginning of 1980, it was off to Afghanistan to cover the Soviet invasion. I went into Afghanistan no fewer than five times, the last three with the Mujahedin, dressed as one of them. Once, my camera crew and I found ourselves in front of what we thought was a Soviet firing squad, up against a wall after being captured at gunpoint by Russian soldiers. Good old Boys’ Own adventures. Just what I had always dreamed of doing. Plaudit followed plaudit. My career was on track, and the track was golden.

Imagine my state of mind in 1981. I had landed the plum job at ITN, against all expectations. There could not have been a more exciting time to take up the Washington posting, with a new President in the White House. It was mine, all mine. On the personal level, I was leaving behind that beautiful and gorgeous woman I had been secretly in love with for almost a decade, and whom I had kissed in one unforgettable moment in the pouring rain. But she had given me hope by saying she would try to get over to the US to visit her family, and if she did maybe we could see each other.

We’re down in France. Bon loves it here so much. She gets gently confused, though. This morning when I brought tea up to bed, she had already dressed. I have learned not to snap now. So I quietly said, Take your clothes off and get back into bed, then after tea you can shower. She said yes, I didn’t need to get dressed.

She went into the bathroom and I listened at the door. She was whispering to herself, ‘Right, clothes off and then I shower. OK. Right, take my clothes off first…now shower.’ It was quite a relief when I heard the water come on.

That remark Bonnie had made, albeit a year or more before, about how sad it was that I wasn’t seeing my parents, had simmered in me. What I was doing to my ‘old’ family, was wrong, plain wrong, and I had to do something about it.

In July 1981, days before leaving for the US, I braced myself and made a journey. I invented an excuse for leaving the house a couple of hours earlier than usual (‘need to sort stuff out in the office’) and travelled up to London. Instead of going straight to the ITN office, I stopped off in Baker Street. Heart pounding, I entered the large block of flats immediately over the tube station, the block where I had grown up. Where my parents lived. There was a porter behind the desk, quite elderly. I recognised him. He smiled broadly when he saw me. ‘Hello, Mr John. It’s been a while. You’ll find them upstairs. Second floor. They’ll be so pleased to see you.’ I nodded, couldn’t say anything, throat closed up.

I walked along the corridor, the sights, sounds, smells of my childhood invading and battering my senses. I stood outside their door, paused, fought back tears, breathed deeply to steady myself, and rang the bell. A woman I didn’t recognise answered the door. She looked at me, frowned, then gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘There, in the kitchen,’ she said in a foreign accent, pointing to her left.

I walked to the back of the entrance hall and took the few short steps to the kitchen. Then I saw them. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, Dad was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Their mouths opened, shock in their eyes, bewilderment on their faces. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. My eyes filled up. Mum leapt out of the chair and flung her arms round me. I cried into her neck. Finally I looked at Dad. He had tears in his eyes, and a false-angry look on his face. ‘About bloody time,’ he said, or words to that effect. ‘Come on down to the sitting room.’

We sat and talked and talked and talked. Just one or two things to catch up on. Like several years, and three grandchildren. I gave them photos of the boys I’d secretly had printed. The years melted away. I couldn’t stay for long. I had to go in to work. I told them I was sorry from the bottom of my heart for what I had done to them, and that I would make it right again. I would be in Washington for four years, I said, but I would stay in touch, albeit surreptitiously, and one day, not far off, everything would be normal again.

They hugged me till I thought I would burst. It was the Prodigal Son. If Dad could have killed a fatted calf, he would have.

I didn’t tell them about Bonnie, because I could see no way of making my dream come true. Nor did I tell them that if it hadn’t been for her passionate remark, and the power of that kiss, I wouldn’t have had the strength to do what I had done that day. A shameful admission, but true.

I was at the computer just now. Bon came in and recited her full name—first name, middle, then surname. She smiled at me in triumph. Before I could stop myself, I said yes, that’s right, but why did you say it? Because it’s true, she said, raising her fists in triumph. This is the woman who 10 years ago taught me how to use the computer, and almost 30 years ago was responsible for my long overdue reunion with my parents.

Things in Washington began well enough. I filed reports for News at Ten from around the US. Mostly they were ‘soft’ items, as Americans rediscovered their pride after President Carter’s disastrous handling of the Iran crisis. Ronald Reagan told his people they were not to blame, there was nothing morally superior about Islam, and in his State of the Union address in 1982 he memorably defined the Soviet Union as the ‘evil empire’. Nobody had stood up to Communism like that before. We were not to know it, but it was the beginning of the process that would culminate seven years later with the destruction of the Berlin Wall and the fall of Communism. President Reagan had been right.

But something strange was happening to me. I was not settling happily into my role as US correspondent. I found the ‘soft’ stories, Look at Life stories as I dismissively called them, difficult, and when it came to political stories in Washington, I was struggling. With hindsight, I can see it clearly (in fact, I saw it clearly just a few years later): I was a ‘fireman’, it was what I had always wanted to be, and I had proved to be quite good at it. What I was not good at was unearthing stories, finding them, tracking them down. Give me a plane crash, a sudden disaster, a war, you name it, and I was in my element—get there fast, turn out report after report, come home. There was another kind of story I was also proving to be less than good at: politics. I was not, never have been, and still am not, a networker. Not for me the working lunch with contacts, probing them discreetly, getting the inside story. I had very little interest in the workings of Capitol Hill—not ideal for a US correspondent. I can state all this now, but at the time it was not quite as glaringly obvious. Me? Not good at something? Don’t be ridiculous, it must be the something that is at fault.

One further fact increased my unease. My opposite number, the BBC’s US correspondent—against whose work mine would be judged—happened to be one of the best of our generation, he of the white suit, the future Independent MP Martin Bell. Martin had already outgunned me once, covering the handover of independence to the Central American country of Belize. While I attempted to follow Princess Michael of Kent’s official schooner to an offshore island, by hiring a rickety boat with two outboard motors, one of which broke down, leaving my crew and me stranded, Martin filed a comprehensive report on the state of Belize’s economy.

I sensed that all was not right. I was given to understand, subtly but to the point, that there were rumblings in London that maybe I was not up to the job. I wasn’t fazed. Hell, I would ride it out. A good strong story or two and they would see what I was made of. But I was about to be found out.

On 2nd April 1982, Argentine forces invaded and occupied the Falkland Islands and South Georgia. From out of nowhere, Britain was on the brink of war. The United States administration took it upon itself to lead diplomatic attempts to prevent conflict, in the shape of Secretary of State Alexander Haig. He undertook a triangular diplomatic shuttle between Washington, London and Buenos Aires. The London end was covered by our political editor, a senior reporter was dispatched to Buenos Aires, and it fell to me to cover the Washington angle. This involved attending regular press conferences at the State Department, as well as off-the-record briefings by the British ambassador, Sir Nicholas Henderson, at the British Embassy.

At the State Department I was not asking the right questions, and my reports failed to capture the nuances of America’s negotiating tactics. My understanding of the subtleties offered to us at the ambassador’s briefings escaped me. So came the word from the foreign desk in London. One day the phone in the office rang and on the line was David Nicholas. The top man. The boss. ‘Are you properly plumbed in to Capitol Hill?’ he asked. ‘Of course, David,’ I replied. ‘Then tell me which senators you are speaking to. Who is briefing you? Who are you having lunch with?’ ‘Er…’

Still I was not overly concerned. Can you believe that? It would still come right, I was convinced. My posting was for four years. These were early days.

Then something happened that was to take my mind thoroughly off work-related matters. I heard from Bonnie that she was coming to the US to visit her family in New Jersey.

It is a cold wet Easter Saturday afternoon down in France and we have just watched the 1960s film 55 Days At Peking on the television, starring Charlton Heston as the hard-as-nails heroic American major and David Niven as the suave, cool and stiff-upper-lipped British ambassador. In real life, one died of Alzheimer’s, the other of motor neurone disease. Once you get caught up in the dreadful subject of brain disease, you tend to be aware of things like that.

It is getting dark by the time the film finishes. I say I will pull the curtains in the séjour. Good idea, Bon says, I will help you. Then into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. A few minutes later she goes into the séjour and opens the curtains. I say nothing, but when the dishwasher is empty I say, gosh, it’s dark and wet, I’ll pull the séjour curtains. Good idea, she says. We do them again together. A few minutes later she goes back into the séjour and opens them.

I see the funny side and give her a big hug. She doesn’t know why she has deserved this, but she smiles.

It was all I could think of. I had to see her. I had to. I called her at home in the UK when I knew her husband would be at work. She said of course she would see me—that was why she was coming over! I was shocked. Final proof. It wouldn’t be easy, and it couldn’t be for long, she said, but somehow she would make it happen.

On a day in the summer of 1982, I met her for lunch in Washington. We threw ourselves at each other, kissed, embraced, hugged. It was slightly early, so we were able to find a quiet table in the corner of a small Italian restaurant. We sat and started talking, and talked and talked and talked. The maître d’ came to take our order again, again and again, raising his shoulders in Italian exasperation. Still we talked. Prego, signor e signore? We muttered something to him. We barely ate. So many plans, so many possibilities, all completely hopeless. I kept my hand on hers, just wanted to touch her, not let her go. In between the torrent of whispered words, a bite or two of food. Dolci, signor e signore? A shake of the head, and still the words flowed. I looked her in the eye, stroked her cheek.

She told me more about her life at home. Her husband was not entirely the attentive soul he appeared to be. She didn’t have a lot to complain about except that his life revolved around work and he didn’t share it with her, leaving her to raise their sons and clean the house. She felt neglected, lonely. ‘That night you kissed me,’ she said, ‘I knew my marriage was over.’ Stunned? I was struck dumb. But how to be together, Bonnie and me? That was the question we asked again and again, but could not answer. On and on we talked, trying to work out if there was a way we could have a future together.

Finally we were brought sharply back to planet earth. The Italian boss, standing facing us, shoulders raised, arms outstretched, palms toward us, behind him an empty restaurant. ‘Eh,’ he said, ‘this is a-love, not a-mine-strone.’ We both dissolved in laughter.

I had an office to go back to, Bon had a train to catch. We said goodbye rather perfunctorily outside the restaurant. ‘I must see you again,’ I said. She nodded. A flash of light in my head. ‘New York,’ I said. ‘Can you come to New York? I can invent a story in New York. There’s always something happening up there. Could you come over again?’ She looked worried. ‘I don’t know. I’ll need to think of how. I’ll let you know.’ And she was gone.

What was I doing? Back in our rented house, the atmosphere was worsening. There had been a change in my attitude, brought about by several factors. We were away from the family house in Henley, the house where the boys had grown up, and I had no emotional ties to the house we were now in. The reunion with my parents had underlined for me how wrong I had been to allow the rift to happen—and how wrong Moya had been to ask me to cut all contact with them in the first place. There had been ‘The Kiss’, and now Bonnie—woman of my dreams for so long—was telling me candidly she wanted to be with me every day, night and day. I was emboldened, empowered.

A few months after that lunch with Bonnie in Washington, I saw a story in the US press that British holidaymakers were coming over to New York on shopping trips because of the strength of sterling and also the relative cheapness of American goods. Perfect story, I thought. I sent a telex to the foreign desk in London proposing a major report, a potential lead to part two of News at Ten, filming Brits shopping on Fifth Avenue—cameras, CD players, even clothes in the big stores like Macy’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. It would, I wrote, mean a full day’s filming with a two-night stay in New York.

The reply wasn’t good. The foreign editor felt the story wasn’t strong enough to merit such a trip. If there were two or three other stories to mop up at the same time, maybe. But on its own, no. If I was keen to do it, though, why not a swift day trip to New York—surely all the filming necessary could be accomplished in two to three hours?

This was, of course, journalistically absolutely the right response. It just happened to be not the response I wanted. But why should I allow that to deter me? I was more concerned with affairs of the heart, of considerably greater importance than any journalistic consideration. I looked at the diary. I ringed three days the following week. I phoned Bon in Henley and gave her the dates. I implored her to fly over. Invent something, I said, anything, only just be in New York for these dates. She sounded flustered. She had her boys to think of, then aged 14 and 11. She would have to think of something to tell her husband. I pushed her. What better chance would we ever have? She told me she would do all she could, but it would be difficult.

On the appointed date, I flew to New York. I was, quite simply, committing slow but certain professional suicide.

Humour. That’s the thing. Usual difficulty getting Bon to take her clothes off to shower after breakfast. ‘Why must I? Why have I got to do this?’ I said ‘It’s a small price to pay for being beautiful.’ A beatific smile spread over her face and she co-operated fully.

She had made it possible. I gave her the name of the hotel—the Harley on East 42nd Street—and told her I would be there from 6pm. She told me she would try to get there as soon after that as possible.

It was a beautiful room, with lush furnishings and a luxurious king-size bed. I fussed around, making sure everything was perfect. Beautiful soft towelling dressing gowns, his and hers, towels you could wrap round yourself twice, large bath and spacious walk-in shower. It was perfect. I rang room service and ordered a bottle of champagne. It arrived before she did, which I was pleased about.

The phone rang. ‘I’m in the lobby.’ As calmly as I could, I gave her the room number. My heart was pounding, my skin tingling. I forced myself to count slowly to 20, then went to the door and held it open. I listened for the lift doors opening. Nothing. I waited, my breathing becoming shallower. Still nothing. I cast my eyes back into the room to check for the umpteenth time that everything was in order. Suddenly a flurry of movement, the sound of quick breathing, the rustle of clothes. In a flash, head down, she brushed past me into the room.

Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, and slowly her breathing calmed down. ‘God, what an experience.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘As soon as I walked into the lobby, I saw this man looking at me. Had a pass or something round his neck, so I knew he was security. After I phoned you, he walked over to me. I knew what he was thinking. He asked me if I was a guest. I said no, but I was coming to visit a friend. From England. He looked as if he was going to question me further. But then he nodded and walked away.’ ‘My God,’ I said. She nodded quickly. ‘He thought I was a hooker.’ She looked alarmed, I looked alarmed, then we both dissolved into laughter.

She was wearing a dark pink suede suit, with a plain mauve blouse underneath. That suit was one of my favourites, and I had told her so when she had worn it to a fancy do we had been to with our spouses in London. That’s why I wore it, she said, because I knew you liked it. I sat her on the end of the bed, put my arms round her, and kissed her. She responded instantly. Gently I laid her back on the bed, opened the suit jacket, and kissed her again, more softly this time.

I opened the champagne and poured two glasses. ‘A toast,’ I said. ‘To our future together. Lord knows how we’ll achieve it, but we’ll do it somehow.’ We clinked our glasses and drank. Later I ordered dinner from room service.

I remember now that we didn’t talk much that evening. What was there to say? We could go through all the impossible dreams and ideas again, as we had at that Italian restaurant in Washington, but where would it get us? There was another reason for our silence—well, mine at any rate. I knew we were together, and were going to be together for the next two nights. I wanted nothing to intrude on that delicious thought.

It came time for bed. ‘You get into bed,’ she said, ‘and I’ll join you in a few moments.’ She went into the bathroom. When she emerged she was wearing a white towelling robe. I had dimmed the lights. She stood by the side of the bed, fixed her eyes on mine, unbelted the robe and let it fall from her shoulders. She climbed into the bed.

Ah, my Bonnie, I remember it as if it were yesterday, every sensation, every glorious moment, the little pulsating sounds you made, the gentle smile on your upturned lips. You make that sound now, quite often, but there is distress in it. You made it when I got you ready for bed last night, didn’t you? You hate having to take your clothes off to get into your nightie, you ask me why do I have to do this, and you make despairing little sobbing sounds. They go into me like a thousand sharp needles. I try to reassure you, but know I am making you unhappy, and that hurts. Me, making my Bonnie unhappy? How could it have come to this? But once you’re in your nightie you’re fine, you even thank me.

So off we go to the bathroom. I hand you your toothbrush and you start to brush your teeth. Damn, how could I have been so stupid? I take it gently from you and put toothpaste on it. You let me, you’re not angry. All the time I am saying reassuring things. You let me help you, even with the most intimate things. In fact, you’re grateful. Thank God. I couldn’t handle it if you kept getting angry with me.

I tuck you into bed like a caring parent. I return to the bathroom, content to have just a minute or two on my own. Last night I looked at myself long and hard in the mirror. Sad face. John the lover now John the carer. I force a theatrical smile. Make it as wide as I can. God it makes me look stupid, but it makes me laugh for a moment. I get into bed and we have a peck of a goodnight kiss. As always, my mind starts to roll back the years, but fortunately I am asleep before I become too miserable.

I cursed myself for having wasted five hours sleeping in that hotel room. Five hours of unconsciousness. Stupid boy! I wake you gently, and without opening your eyes you are smiling and we are joined again, from our lips down to our toes.

You get up and make me a cup of tea. I remember you walked across the end of the bed. You wore the towelling robe, and on your head was a white towelling turban. You turned to me and you were smiling. ‘I must look silly,’ you said. Silly? Silly? I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

We lingered over breakfast in the room and I reluctantly began to turn my attention to the day’s filming. I had a story to shoot. I knew I could knock it off in a couple of hours and get back to the hotel. As I left the room, I turned back for a last look. Bon was sitting up in bed, still in the robe and turban. It took me a moment to realise that what I thought was a towel she was holding to her face was, in fact, the shirt I had been wearing the day before.

I linked up with my camera crew and explained that we would have a trawl down Fifth Avenue and film Brits shopping. My cameraman asked me what stores I had arranged this with. I said I hadn’t made any prior arrangements, we would just suck it and see. He raised an eyebrow. It won’t be that straightforward, he said. You can’t just walk in with cameras and expect to start filming. I told him not to be silly. This was America. You could film anything you liked, anywhere you liked.

Turned out he was right. By lunchtime we hadn’t shot a foot of film. Never mind, let’s go to one of the electronic shops. That’s where we’ll find the Brits. We found the shop all right, but the moment we walked in with our camera gear the manager came straight over waving his hands. You can’t film in here, he said. What was going on, I wondered? He explained that the shop had a strict policy of privacy towards its customers—we couldn’t film anyone in the act of buying. I protested—free country, free press, what if the customer agreed, and so on. Ever tried arguing with a New Yorker? Doesn’t work.

I was beginning to get just the inklings of a certain feeling of anxiety. My arguing turned to pleading. Finally the manager made a small concession. We could film the goods in the shop, as long as we did not identify the shop, and he would give me an interview saying that he had noticed an increase in British shoppers in the previous few weeks. Phew, I thought, at least that will give me a story.

By late afternoon that was all we had. Not much of a story, said my cameraman. I was satisfied. I knew we had enough. We shot some footage of anonymous people window shopping, walking in and out of the big stores. I added a piece to camera, me strolling along Fifth Avenue saying how Brits were taking advantage of the strong pound and the lower prices here, making it worth coming to shop in New York even with the cost of an airfare. By six o’clock I was back in the Harley with my Bonnie.

That evening I said I wanted to take her out to dinner. She wore a dark chiffon dress with large colourful flowers, belted at the waist, pleated at the front. Another of my favourites. Under it, oh yes, stockings and suspenders. Naturally. Those cream combs held back her lovely hair. I smiled when I saw them. I knew you would like that, she said. Had I ever been happier? I don’t think so.

I took her by the arm and walked her to a restaurant I knew. The manager sat us at a table in the window with Bon facing out to the street and me facing into the restaurant. The cold air was coming through the glass, and so we moved to a table further in. The manager came over, arms out, and asked in a voice that passes for polite in New York, ‘So what did you do that for?’ I said defensively, ‘Er, it’s a little cold by the window. It’s warmer here. Is that ok?’ ‘So now the pretty lady cannot be seen from the street. Sheesh!’ and he walked away in disgust. He’d wanted her to be seen from the street because it would be good for business!

I laughed out loud and she laughed in an embarrassed way. For many years thereafter, whenever we went into a restaurant, I would imitate that manager in an exaggerated New York accent.

The next morning had to come, there was no way of stopping it. I wanted divine powers so that I could make time stand still. Sadly my urgent pleas with any deity there might be up there went unanswered.

Breakfast in the room the next morning was a subdued affair. I can remember exactly what I said to her. ‘We’ve lived together for the last two days. I know what it is like now to live with you. It’s what I want for the rest of my life. This is a turning point. After New York things can never be the same for me.’ She looked at me with a serious face. ‘It’s what I want too,’ she said.

As for my ace report on Brits shopping in New York, I satellited it to London but it never made News at Ten. The foreign editor told me it was one of the weakest pieces he had ever seen. Still I didn’t see the warning signs.

I get up from the breakfast table and walk across the kitchen to the cupboards, instantly forgetting why.

‘What have I come here for?’ Silence. ‘Why have I come here, my Bonnie?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’

Her words sting. ‘Oh darling, don’t say that. It hurts.’

‘Well, everyone else is doing it, so why shouldn’t I?’

We spoke transatlantically several times over the coming months, often for two hours or more. Finally we made a pact. We would both tell our spouses we were leaving them.

We knew that what we were doing was wrong. We were married, me with three boys, she with two. We were breaking up our families. There would be hurt and pain. Morally it was indefensible. But we could not be stopped. It sounds melodramatic, and I can hardly believe I am about to write a sentence more suited to a bodice-ripping novel. We truly could no longer imagine life without each other.

Life with Bonnie, I knew, would be calm. I had known it for a long time: the New York sojourn simply confirmed it. I knew something else too. It would be very different to the life I was currently living with my wife. Bonnie was even-tempered, wise and kind. Where Moya and I seemed to disagree on everything, in the short time Bonnie and I had spent together we discovered that we liked exactly the same things, in whatever field. There were no arguments. I also found, to my obvious delight, that if I expressed an opinion on whatever subject, Bonnie would nod and agree. It was not something I was used to, and I liked it.

Relations between Moya and me were worsening, our differences becoming more pronounced, not least because I was being slightly less acquiescent. There were other reasons. She’d wanted me to take the Washington posting, yet once we were there she wasn’t happy. The ITN house, which we had visited a couple of months before on a familiarisation trip and which she had liked very much, was now suddenly unacceptable and she insisted that we move. My bosses at ITN were a bit shocked. She picked holes in everything I did, anything I said, and I no longer gave in quite so easily, which didn’t help.

Bonnie had given me a little present in New York, a small book with deep red velvet covers entitled Love: a celebration. It was an anthology of love poems. Inside she had written, ‘For my Poodle, with all my love Bonnie’. The book is sitting alongside my laptop now. In January 1983, there was a massive snowfall in Washington and I couldn’t get home. I stayed the night in the Mayflower Hotel. I had the little book with me. I read the poems. One, in particular, I read again and again and again. It was by D.H. Lawrence and it was entitled ‘All I Ask’.

‘All I ask of a woman is that she feel gently towards me

when my heart feels kindly towards her,

and there shall be the soft, soft tremor as of unheard bells between us.

It is all I ask.

I am so tired of violent women lashing out

and insisting on being loved, when there is

no love in them.’

Shortly after this, Moya and I had the grand-daddy of all rows, the one that marked the end. It began with a classic domestic, a kind of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf? without the other couple, and it ended with us both realising that the marriage was over. Things had been said and done from which there was no way back any more.

On Sunday 13th February 1983, with the help of my cameraman and his van, I moved out of the large house rented by ITN in a suburb of Washington DC and into a bedsit near Rockville Park close to the centre of the city.

Lying in bed this morning, Bon said something. I asked, ‘What did you say?’ She said ‘I don’t know but I’ll know by next year.’ We both dissolved in giggles.

Bonnie said she wouldn’t be able to come over to join me until late April. There was no question of her bringing the boys because she didn’t want to disrupt their schooling at a crucial stage when I would be in Washington for only a limited time anyway. She had to sort out their school arrangements, clothes, all the normal domestic things she would be leaving behind. I told her how sorry I was she was having to go through all that, but she said that at least her husband was behaving very reasonably, given the circumstances. He was hardly happy that his wife was about to leave him, but he told her he would not stand in her way or make things unnecessarily difficult.

Late April was more than two months away. I am not by nature a patient person, but I put myself through a self-designed patience course. When taking the escalator at my local metro station, I forced myself to stay still and wait until my feet reached the step-off point at the very top before moving. In the street I slowed my pace just a notch. When eating I chewed each mouthful that little bit longer. In short, every activity I performed, I tried to make it take a little more time. That way, I felt, the two months or so might seem slightly less long.

Then something came to my rescue—at least, that was how it felt. The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh were to make a tour of the west coast of America. Surprisingly, during 30 years on the throne and dozens of official visits the world over, the Queen had never visited California. It was announced that in March they would more than rectify this, starting in San Diego in southern California, going right up the coast and across the border into Canada, ending the tour in Vancouver.

By now, even with my mind focused on other matters, I was coming to realise that my reputation as ace correspondent was taking something of a battering in London. A colleague back in the newsroom tipped me off that the knives were out. It was worrying, of course, but I still failed to appreciate the gravity of it, even when I was told that those wielding the knives were pretty senior figures. I knew I had a four-year contract, all right maybe I was going through a bit of a trough, but one good story and hey, all would be right again. The royal visit to the west coast was heaven-sent.

It began badly and got worse. I can’t now remember what the content of the first report I satellited to London was, but I do remember the foreign editor telling me it was considered transmittable on News at Ten only after some major re-editing in London. The high point of the visit was to be the arrival of the royal couple in Los Angeles. The plan was for them to arrive by boat, accompanied by a flotilla, and to be greeted with fanfare by President Reagan and First Lady Nancy as they stepped ashore.

The problem, though, was that a day earlier a storm had blown up, the rain came down in torrents, the sea became dark and treacherous, and the forecast was of no let-up for days. There was a hasty rescheduling of events, with the royal arrival now happening in the rather less spectacular form of a motorcade. I shrugged this off and filed a standard report, pointing out the change of plan, but focusing on what was planned for the Queen and Duke—walkabouts, a visit to Hollywood, a banquet hosted by the Reagans, Frank Sinatra to sing for the Queen, British actors and actresses based in Hollywood to meet her, and so on. All in all, I thought I had done a pretty good job.

London did not agree. The BBC report—Martin Bell, of course—had been superb, I was told. Graphic footage of raging seas and tossing boats, people dashing for cover through a biblical downpour, stunned locals saying they had never seen anything like it, flustered officials struggling to reschedule everything at the last minute—and this was California in the spring! I was ordered to do a swift catch-up report, with a warning that much better coverage was expected from me.

Did I take this to heart and buck up my ideas? Judge for yourself. I attended a banquet to which I received a personal invitation. It said President and Mrs Ronald Reagan, and guests of honour Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, request the company of John Suchet at a banquet…Well, you would go too, wouldn’t you? In the presentation line I met the legendary Alistair Cooke, journalist and broadcaster famed for his Letter from America on BBC radio. When I reached the royal couple, the Queen proffered a tiny gloved hand in such a way that I only grasped the tips of her fingers. Expecting the Duke to be something of a ‘man’s man’, I gave him a knowing smile and pointed out I was a journalist. He took my hand, and in one swift movement I found myself several feet away. So that’s how they do it, I thought.

The evening went well. I snatched a quick ‘on the hoof’ couple of words with Frank Sinatra, I interviewed a young Anthony Hopkins trying to make a name for himself in Hollywood, Julie Andrews gave me a smile that would have melted an iceberg and answered my fawning questions graciously, and even an 87-year-old George Burns did a comic turn for me. I basked in what was really rather an exciting occasion for a journalist, forgetting the golden rule that a good journalist will observe, rather than participate. My report made News at Ten, but won no plaudits.

Have I finished my tale of woe, you ask? Oh dear me no. British officials briefed me that the Queen and Duke were to be guests of the Reagans at their ranch in the Californian hills, and asked me if I would like a place with my camera crew on the press bus. Of course I said yes. I did not change my mind, even when the kindly Martin Bell (perhaps sensing I needed a bit of guidance) advised me not to go. You’ll be out of touch for hours, he said. Better to stay in Los Angeles and take coverage from American TV. He was right, of course. Sure, I got excellent coverage of the Queen and President Reagan riding horses in torrential rain, of the two couples posing for the cameras again in a downpour, and even picked up the sound of Nancy prompting her husband when a question was thrown by a reporter (not me). I knew I had enough for a good piece.

So had Martin. Just as good as me, and he had stayed at base and filmed a lot of other material to give his report more breadth and gravitas. (Shades of Belize.) I was thoroughly bested again.

All right. I shall spare you any more self-inflicted humiliation. By the end of the trip, my bosses in London had more or less given up on me. I was pretty much a lost cause. On a personal level, it was even worse. The continual rain and cold temperatures had got to me. By the time I reached Vancouver, I had a nasty cough, which I could not shake. When I breathed deeply, fluid rattled in my lungs. This had not happened to me before. I went to see a doctor. At first he thought I might have contracted pneumonia. In the event, he diagnosed bronchitis. I was slightly hurt when I was offered not an ounce of sympathy from London.

If I had any doubt that my stock had plummeted, it was settled once and for all when a senior foreign desk journalist announced he was coming to Washington and wanted to see me. In the office he sat me down and explained that the editor-in-chief, David Nicholas, was seriously worried about me. What had happened? My reports were shocking. Why? In mitigation I explained what had happened to me on the domestic front. It must have affected my journalistic judgment, I said. He said my marital problems were an open secret in London, but that was no excuse for unprofessionalism. I was United States correspondent, for God’s sake, and things were expected of me. Finally he hinted darkly that if my work didn’t improve, action would have to be taken. He didn’t elucidate and I didn’t probe.

On my own in my bedsit, with weeks still to go until Bonnie’s arrival, I pondered my position. My career, I finally acknowledged, was in trouble. I had been given the biggest reporter’s job in ITN’s gift, and it appeared I had blown it. What did the future hold for me professionally? I had no idea, but it was not looking good.

How bad did I feel about this? How worried was I? This may shock you, but really I was not all that concerned. Why not? Because soon my Bonnie would be with me. Soon my new life would begin.

We fly back from France and at Stansted use the moving walkway. I go ahead and come off first. Mistake. Bonnie is wandering from side to side on it, lost. A man pulling a suitcase pushes angrily past. I try to gesture. Another pushes past, jostling Bon and making her distressed. As he walks angrily off, he says, ‘You’re supposed to stand on the right’.

I feel a surge of anger. I want to shout, ‘My wife has dementia, you idiot.’ Instead I say, ‘Fuck off’. Even as I say it, I know I shouldn’t. I should just take Bon by the arm and calm her down. I hope he doesn’t turn round and start a scene. He doesn’t. He is in too much of a hurry. Good. I must learn to stay calm, whatever. My priority is Bon, not getting my own back on some idiot.

I was living the life of a bachelor and finding it quite a challenge, albeit a rather enjoyable one. Breakfast was a boiled egg and a cup of tea, and in the evening I cooked myself a leg of chicken with frozen spinach. To vary it, I would cook chicken breast with frozen peas. Occasionally I bought pork, but it was a bit bland. I tried to cook steak but always overdid it.

I didn’t mind having confined surroundings. I am by nature tidy and the few clothes I had brought with me were neatly stacked on shelves. It reminded me of my university days. I set up the old manual typewriter Mum and Dad had given me for my 17th birthday, and which had now been round the world with me, and typed page after page of my longing for Bonnie and the joy that I knew lay ahead. (You are spared—I have long since shredded it.)

There was, inevitably, a cloud. I wasn’t seeing my boys. I saw Rory once—we went 10-pin bowling on one of those difficult single-parent outings. Kieran was at school in Maryland, Damian at boarding school back in the UK. I spoke to Moya several times on the phone in an effort to see the boys, but her response was always that they didn’t want to see me. I know now that was untrue, though of course I didn’t know it at the time. Fair enough, I thought, I had left the marital home, made their mother unhappy, and left them without a dad in the house. I knew they would need time and that I shouldn’t force things. In the end, I was sure it would turn out all right. (Just as I had felt over my parents. I should have known better.)

One Sunday morning I went across the road to a café and ordered a coffee. A disheveled man sat at the counter next to me. Bearded, shabbily dressed, baggy eyes half-closed from a no-doubt sleepless night, in typical American fashion he opened conversation with me. I scarcely listened to his drawl, and he finally gave up. He looked like a man who had recently left his wife and set up in a bedsit somewhere. Why would I want to talk to him?

An utterly traumatic 24 hours. As I write this, in mid April 2009, I realise it is 26 years minus one week, my Bonnie, since you flew to America and we began our new lives. Yesterday we went to the christening of your granddaughter, your son Hereward’s daughter. As a christening present, we took her a beautiful emerald ring, the ring I bought you for your 60th birthday. How you loved it! It sparkled on your finger, catching the sparkle in your eyes. You wore it to so many special occasions. I took it out when you were getting ready for the RTS awards ceremony last year when they made that dreadful mistake and gave me the piece of engraved glass. You said what a lovely ring. I asked if you could remember when I had given it to you, but you shook your head and smiled. I mentally smacked myself for asking. I tried to fit it on your finger, but it wouldn’t go over the first joint. I stifled my disappointment, said never mind, and hastily put it back. You didn’t seem concerned. So then I thought why not pass it on to your granddaughter? Keep it in the family.

Your ex-husband was at the christening, naturally, since he is grandfather. He pecks you on the cheek, you smile, but I don’t see recognition on your face. Later, ironically, it is he who drives us to the station. You get another couple of pecks, I get a cursory handshake (he is hardly going to treat me like a long-lost buddy) and we walk to the platform. I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but as nonchalantly as I can I say, ‘Did you recognise that chap, the man who drove us to the station?’ You say, ‘No’. I don’t say anything more.

In bed later I lie awake for some time, profoundly depressed. You didn’t recognise the man to whom you were married for the best part of 20 years, with whom you had two children. It didn’t worry you. You showed no distress during the whole day, although I know that your son, your grandchildren, other members of the family were lost on you. It has made me realise that if I were to go away for, say, a month, maybe two, you would probably forget who I am. This has been the strongest evidence yet of what this dreadful disease is doing to your memory, and I shudder at the thought of what stage it will be at in a year’s time, or less. But in a curious way I am calm. The big issues seem almost easier to cope with than the minor ones.

This was concrete evidence, undeniable, unambiguous. I feel so sorry for you, it is impossible not to become tearful. These words I am typing are shimmering through a tearful veil. It makes me all the more determined to be patient with the smaller issues, the minor eccentricities that are part of the same affliction and not just some bloody-mindedness on your part.

I shall return now to writing about the glorious past, when so much lay ahead of us, so much seemed possible. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe.

I like Billy Joel’s songs. There, that’s a cheery thought. I was in my bedsit one evening when up came his latest on the small TV. It was called ‘Uptown Girl’. The video showed the model Christie Brinkley pulling into a petrol station in her chauffeur-driven limo, stepping out and shimmying arrogantly across the forecourt in swaying summer dress, killer stilettos and wide-brimmed hat, pursued by a gang of oil-stained mechanics led by Billy Joel, half crouching as they trailed in her wake, clicking their fingers as he sang about his ‘Uptown Girl’.

I yelped with recognition. Ms Brinkley, blonde, pale-skinned, beautiful, smiling seductively, the arrogance an act, pursued by olive-skinned, dark-haired Joel in an impossible bid to gain her attention. At the end, of course, she climbs onto his motorbike and off they ride together, her hat in her hands and her long hair waving in the wind. It was Bonnie and me.

A few weeks ago, I downloaded that video onto my laptop and watched it for first time in 26 years, headphones clasped to my ears. Oh boy, did the tears run down my face. There, all depressed again.

The date was set. She said she was flying over on 27th April.

I informed London I wanted to take a week’s holiday in early May and booked a small apartment on the seashore in South Carolina. On the morning of the 27th, I picked her up at Baltimore Washington International and drove her back to my bedsit. She did that twirl, and I knew our lives would never be the same again. We were at last together.