Now Heather Mills writes a novel: Surprise, surprise... it's about a model who weds a

Surely this isn't true?!?!?!!!!

Now Heather Mills writes a novel: Surprise, surprise... it's about a model who weds a rock star

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz...rock-star.html

By Richard Simpson
Last updated at 8:17 AM on 09th September 2008


She was dismissed by a High Court judge as a fantasist who 'indulged in blatant make-believe'.

And it seems that the ever-resourceful Heather Mills intends to turn that damning indictment to her advantage.

Bound by a gagging order but determined that the truth - as she sees it - about her marriage to Sir Paul McCartney should be revealed to the world, Miss Mills seems to have found an ingenious way to let her story be told.


Heather Mills autographing a previous book


She has spent the past few months writing a treatment for a novel about a model who falls for a world-famous rock star and marries him before the relationship turns sour.

The book is to be touted around publishing houses with Miss Mills asking for an advance of some £1million to complete it.

While she will be adamant when promoting the book that it is fiction, the storyline and some of the main characters might appear rather familiar to those who have followed the curious twists and turns of her years with the former Beatle.


A source close to Miss Mills said: 'Heather has written the treatment for a novel about a model and campaigner who marries the most famous rock star in the world.


'She will be marketing the book as a work of fiction. But it doesn't take a genius to realise what is really behind this book - the thing which infuriated her the most about the divorce was that she was gagged from ever telling her side of the marriage.


'This is her way of getting the information out there.


Sir Paul McCartney picks up an award for Outstanding Contribution to Music at the BRIT Awards this year

'It chronicles all the model's trials and tribulations with the rock legend.


'It's a rags-to-riches tale taking in her tough childhood, how she struggled to make it as a model and then how this famous rock star met her at an awards ceremony and how they fell in love.

'She has incorporated all sorts of other characters.


'There is a hard-nosed professional woman who is part of the rock star's team who sides against the model and tries to make her life difficult - that will inevitably be seen to be Paul's divorce lawyer Fiona Shackleton.


'The rock star's first wife had passed away and his children can never get over that fact, so they gang up against the model, who they see as moneygrabbing and an opportunist.

'Those characters will inevitably seen to be based on McCartney's children Stella, Mary and James.

'The pair start rowing and the fights often end violently. The rock star is painted as a deeply flawed character whose mind has been warped by years of being treated like a god.

'He finds solace in drinking and smoking cannabis which gives him mood swings.'

Miss Mills, who was awarded £24.3million as a divorce settlement after asking for £125million, will have to tread carefully when deciding what can be borrowed from her own personal experiences as a 'model' marrying an international rock star.

But if any detail might be seen to paint McCartney in a negative light, she can just say it's fiction.

This stinks, I hope none of the publishers take it up......... but you know one will!!

I for one will not be buying!

It could just as well be about.... Rod Stewart ... Brian Ferry... ?

Anyways... it's again an amuzing story ..it would be really sad if this was true though.. apart from the ? if it will ever get published

Originally Posted by Lucy

Bound by a gagging order <snip> 'the thing which infuriated her the most about the divorce was that she was gagged from ever telling her side of the marriage.'

This error is really getting on my nerves! In those court papers (hi, FP) it's clearly stated that Heather AGREED to a non disclosure clause! It's MUTUALLY agreed upon by her and Paul, the judge only concurred. If she wanted to tell her story why accept the clause?!?! Why be furious? She did it to herself!!!

If true, tacky. Hopefully this will not see the light of day.

You know what they say: write what you know.

Originally Posted by VersusBatman

You know what they say: write what you know.

But nobody will believe what you say.

What she says anyway.

She's cried wolf far too many times.

Originally Posted by Lucy

A source close to Miss Mills said:

Meh... I'll believe there's a book when I see one...

Sounds like an obvious roman a clef to me.

SURELY this is made up...but here is allegedly the rough draft....I haven't bothered to read it in any detail because what i did read was just so ridiculous.

Poor Little Me: How Heather Mills's novel about a model and her rock-star husband is enough to make even Mills & Boon weep

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/ar...Boon-weep.html

Forbidden as part of her £24 million divorce from writing about her stormy marriage to Paul McCartney, Heather Mills is instead reportedly writing a novel about a model who marries a rock star. So what can we expect from a woman famous for her rather fluid relationship with the truth? Incredible as it may seem, the Mail's David Thomas believes he's stumbled across the first draft. And it's enough to make Mills & Boon weep...


Chapter one

In which, using her bionic arm, our heroine saves the world's children

Heather Miller, the humble Geordie lass who had never forgotten her working-class roots - even now that she was an award-winning international humanitarian and supermodel - cursed softly under her breath.


She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. Yet there were tears forming in her beautiful, crystal-blue eyes and falling on to the soft, unblemished skin that was a testament to her incredible genes and the skill of her personal beautician, Penny Laine, of Bond Street.


She knew she should be tougher. Friends always told her: 'Heather, you must stop putting others first. We know you find it virtually impossible, owing to your uniquely kind, tender-hearted character, but we beg you, just try thinking of yourself for once.'


And yet, she could not bring herself to let down the millions of little children who looked to her as their saviour. So few people seemed to care about the curse of unexploded Christmas crackers.


But the letters she received from kiddies as far away as Tunbridge Wells and Basildon told their own harrowing story.


They spoke of crushing disappointment when crackers were pulled but refused to go off; or of nasty shocks when they suddenly exploded, for no apparent reason, late on Boxing Day.


Heather insisted on answering every one of the letters personally, using her hand-tooled Paperback Writer pen. Thank goodness for her bionic arm! Heather had lost her original arm in a tragic Space Hopper accident. But since her new bionic prosthetic had been fitted, she could do anything.


She could even take the lids off jars better than any man she knew. And thanks to her wondrous plastic limb, there was no limit to the amount of writing she could do.


That was just as well. Her old friend Nelson Mandela had written to her - again! - asking for advice on reconciling the black and white peoples of South Africa.


There was also a note from Elle Macpherson, begging Heather to tell her how she stayed so slim and fit. Dear Elle! She was a little dumpy, but she had a good heart.


And then Heather's eye caught sight of the newspaper thrown away on the floor of her study, and was reminded again that not everyone shared her sweet nature. 'MODEL HEATHER'S £1,000-A-NIGHT SEX ROMPS WITH ARABS' it screamed.


Inside a former call-girl, Deirdre Slutt, was claiming that she and Heather had sold their bodies to the notorious Middle Eastern armsdealer Sheikh Yerbooti.


That was nonsense! Heather had been giving the Sheikh one-to-one personal advice on his philanthropic activities. The money was just a consultancy fee!


Thank goodness most people saw the lies for what they were. Tonight, Heather was going to be honoured as Woman Of The Millennium at the glittering Best Of British Awards.


She had not wanted to accept the award, as always refusing to draw attention to herself.


But then her friends had told her: 'Don't accept it for you. Accept it for the kiddies,' and that had persuaded her.


She smiled as she thought of the beautiful Eleanor Rigby evening dress she would be wearing tonight, teamed with her laciest Lady Madonna lingerie and her lucky Nowhere Manolo stilettos. Good things had happened whenever she'd worn those shoes.


Tonight would be no exception!


Chapter two
Those limpid eyes, that aubergine hair. . . and all that wonga
The evening had gone wonderfully. The whole audience, including royalty, celebrities and top politicians, had risen to acclaim Heather. They knew the value of the selfless work she did for others.


She had looked beautiful, too, though she hated to admit it, owing to her profound personal modesty. Only one thing was lacking: a man with whom she could share her life.


Heather had so much to give, so little interest in taking. Surely, there must be a man who could understand that?


Then, across the room, she saw an instantly recognisable figure.


True, there were lines around his boyish eyes and his mop-top hairstyle was turning grey ('Nothing that an aubergine-coloured dye-job won't fix, though!' thought Heather, seeing the positive side as always).


But there was no mistaking the rock legend that was Cash McLoaded, once one of The Bankers, otherwise known as the Fabulously Rich Four.



Together with his songwriting partner, Jim Lemon, Cash had written countless classic songs like - like, er - actually, Heather didn't really follow music. She was too busy caring for kiddies. But she knew at once she must have Cash McLoaded.


There was something about him. Perhaps it was his tailor-made suit by Ringo di Roma, or his handmade shoes from George and Harrison's?


Perhaps it was his gold watch, or the chauffeur-driven limousine, waiting to take him to one of his seven homes?


No! Heather did not care about any of that. She just knew that this was a man with whom she could create a deep spiritual bond.


She approached her dear friend Piers Brighton, the former tabloid editor who was now a global TV superstar as the host of the reality show These Losers Have No Talent.


'Piers,' she said, 'do you know Cash McLoaded?'


'Do I know Wonga?' he replied, using the nickname by which Cash was affectionately known to his fans. 'Of course I do! I know everyone! It was me who introduced Liberal MP Lemsip Optrex to the Sneaky Girls!'


'What can I do for you, Heather? I'm always delighted to help someone as caring and pure as you.'


'Could you introduce me to Cash?' A glint appeared in Piers Brighton's eyes. 'Ahhhh - I get it! Poor old Wonga's been feeling all sad and lonely since his dear wife died. You just want to comfort him, I suppose.'


'Exactly,' said Heather. 'I'll bet it hasn't crossed your mind that he's Sir Cash now. So any woman who married him would automatically become Lady McLoaded.'


'Really?' Heather said. 'I had no idea.' 'Of course you didn't, love,' said Piers, cheerily. 'Come with me.'


A few moments later, they were standing by the former Banker.


'Hello, Wonga!' Piers was saying. 'There's someone I wanted you to meet. This is Heather.'


But Heather wasn't listening, and nor was Cash. For them, the rest of the world had disappeared. They were looking deep into one another's eyes. The flames of love were burning in their hearts.

Chapter three
Lady McLoaded now... just one problem - his jealous daughter Cruella
'How was it for you?' Heather asked, arranging the folds of the pure silk sheets from Ebony And Ivory over her lissom, honey-tanned figure. Cash grinned and gave her a double V-for-victory sign.


That was his way of saying he was happy: either a cheery thumbs-up, just like the ones he'd wave at his fans, or, if he was really delighted, a full double-V.


Heather smiled back. Truly, she had never known anything as ecstatic as being with Cash McLoaded. And now she was Lady McLoaded!


Obviously, she didn't care at all about titles. Still, she had written to friends and family to tell them how to behave around her in future. 'A quick bow or curtsey is advised when first meeting Her Ladyship,' the letter suggested. 'Failure to comply may result in legal action.'


The wedding had been magical. At first she had planned to have it at a beautiful Lesliecrowther Castle, deep in the Irish countryside. But then Cash had an idea.
'Tell you what, luv, why stop there? Let's hire Ireland!'


So they'd rented the whole country for the day. Hordes of grateful, loving Irish folk had lined the streets to cheer as she rode in an open-topped, horse-drawn carriage to the wedding. They'd packed the pavements a dozen deep as she and Cash had driven to the airport where his jet was waiting to take them on honeymoon to his private island in the South Pacific.

Now, with just a staff of 78 to keep them company, they were leading a simple, back-to-nature existence.


'This is so perfect,' Heather sighed. 'If only all the greedy, materialistic people in the world would be content with the kind of simplicity we enjoy.'

'Hang about, chuck,' Cash interrupted. 'You've given me an idea for a song there.'

He clicked his fingers and a houseboy ran up, clutching an antique guitar by George Martin and Sons of Abbey Road. Cash began strumming, then sang: 'Simplicity, all my troubles, tum-tum-dee-dee.' He looked at Heather. 'What do you think? Obviously I've not worked it all out yet.'



'I think it's wonderful,' she sighed, gazing lovingly at the deep purplebrown lustre of his hair, while she changed the tape on the machine that recorded all their conversations.

'Your new songs are so much better than the stuff you and Jim wrote in The Bankers.'


'That's what I like to hear!' Cash said. 'Come 'ere, you sexy thing!'


As she melted into his arms, Heather thought her life was almost perfect. In a few weeks' time, she would be leaving their island paradise to appear on Larry King Live.


She'd tell Larry about her new volume of memoirs. She hadn't decided on a title yet. She was torn between The Long And Winding Road To Happiness, or Let It Be: Why It's Vital To Forgive and Forget.


Larry understood her so well. He knew that she only ever went on his programme to tell his millions of viewers about her hatred of personal celebrity and longing for privacy, and anonymity.


Yes, everything was almost perfect - but not quite. For one member of her new family hated Heather.


Cash's daughter Cruella had made a fortune with her line of vegetarian designer furniture. She made fakefur rugs and meat-free sofas.


Heather had done everything she could to make friends with Cruella, even buying a set of her dining-chairs made from freeze-dried Japanese tofu. But it had not worked.


Cruella despised and mistrusted her. Somehow, inexplicably, Heather had made an enemy. Surely this awful woman couldn't come between her and Cash?

Chapter four

Our heroine wanted so little out of their divorce... who could begrudge her 90pc?

Heather looked around the magnificent, ornate chamber, deep in the bowels of the High Court and asked herself, for the thousandth time, the question that tore at her wounded heart: how had it all gone wrong?


All she had ever wanted was to help the world, save poor cracker-damaged children and love her husband. Yet now the world had turned on her.


Once the tabloids had affectionately dubbed her 'Lady Wonga'. Now they called her 'Lady Whinger'.


They mocked her for her financial demands. But why? Everyone knew that Cash was worth hundreds of millions. They'd been married for five whole years now. Surely Heather was entitled to a reasonable share - say, 90 per cent or so?

The money wasn't even for her. It was all for charity, apart from a few, very modest hundreds of thousands she'd need (every month), to sustain her low-key lifestyle.


And why would no one believe her when she told them what a monster Cash had turned out to be? She had him on tape, screaming: 'I could knock your flippin' block off!'


All right, he'd never actually done it. But even so, what kind of a man would live with all the love, kindness and selfless, undemanding attention that Heather provided, and even think of giving her a sound spanking?


Even worse, while Heather was having to conduct the divorce case on her own, following her discovery that all her lawyers were part of the great global conspiracy to do her down, Cash was represented by the toughest divorce lawyer in London, Ramona Crackleton.


Yes! Heather was being torn apart by another woman!


Just as Deirdre Slutt had lied about her alleged past as a prostitute, and Cruella McLoaded had turned Cash against her, so Ramona Crackleton was wrecking her chances of starting a humble new life as a divorcée.


Suddenly, Heather could bear it no longer. Sitting on the table in front of her was a glass of Sgt Pepper fizzy drink. Heather picked it up and hurled the sticky, fizzy brown liquid into Ramona Crackleton's smug, gloating face.


For a second there was silence in the court. And then, with increasing volume, came the sound of laughter. Ramona, Cash, the clerk of the court - they were all laughing at Heather!


And all she could think was: 'Why me? Why, why - why?'

That's totally got to be a joke.

Yeah, that's definitely fake, but "In which, using her bionic arm, our heroine saves the world's children" might be the greatest opening line in the history of literature.

Looks like a bad fanfic.

As a public service, I will now analyze these first two chapters and point out exactly why they are fake.

Chapter one

In which, using her bionic arm, our heroine saves the world's children

Heather Miller, the humble Geordie lass who had never forgotten her working-class roots - even now that she was an award-winning international humanitarian and supermodel - cursed softly under her breath. Wrong - Heather Miller would never curse. She's far too classy. Also, "humble" is too much of an understatement.


She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. Yet there were tears forming in her beautiful, crystal-blue eyes and falling on to the soft, unblemished skin that was a testament to her incredible genes and the skill of her personal beautician, Penny Laine, of Bond Street. Wrong - If Heather Miller says she's not gonna cry, then you can bet damn well she ain't gonna cry. And everyone knows that Penny Laine's salon is on Abbey Road; the old location on Bond Street closed years ago.


She knew she should be tougher. Friends always told her: 'Heather, you must stop putting others first. We know you find it virtually impossible, owing to your uniquely kind, tender-hearted character, but we beg you, just try thinking of yourself for once.' This is true, but it fails to point out that, upon seeing her friends' concern, Heather became concerned for them and they achieved the exact opposite effect they had hoped for. Damn it, Heather, we're trying to help you!


And yet, she could not bring herself to let down the millions of little children who looked to her as their saviour. Jesus who? So few people seemed to care about the curse of unexploded Christmas crackers.


But the letters she received from kiddies as far away as Tunbridge Wells and Basildon told their own harrowing story.


They spoke of crushing disappointment when crackers were pulled but refused to go off; or of nasty shocks when they suddenly exploded, for no apparent reason, late on Boxing Day. Ugh, I hate it when that happens!


Heather insisted on answering every one of the letters personally, using her hand-tooled Paperback Writer pen. Thank goodness for her bionic arm! Heather had lost her original arm in a tragic Space Hopper accident. But since her new bionic prosthetic had been fitted, she could do anything. Well, "anything" might be a stretch. Or maybe...it's not enough. Chew on that for a while, while I go look up what the hell a Space Hopper is.


She could even take the lids off jars better than any man she knew. She could do this before she had the bionic arm too, but was too humble to show off. She's still too humble, but the arm has a mind of its own sometimes. And thanks to her wondrous plastic limb, there was no limit to the amount of writing she could do. Insert sex toy joke here


That was just as well. Her old friend Nelson Mandela had written to her - again! - asking for advice on reconciling the black and white peoples of South Africa. Arrgh, that Mandela guy is so friggin' needy! Of course, Heather does have some expertise in the area, having suggested to Rosa Parks, "Eh, just keep sitting" and ghostwritten the "I Have a Dream" speech. She also bought Birth of a Nation on DVD just because "it's one less copy that David Duke can get his hands on."


There was also a note from Elle Macpherson, begging Heather to tell her how she stayed so slim and fit. Dear Elle! She was a little dumpy, but she had a good heart. I've always wondered why Heather was friends with that ugly skank. But that good heart thing makes sense I guess.


And then Heather's eye caught sight of the newspaper thrown away on the floor of her study, and was reminded again that not everyone shared her sweet nature. 'MODEL HEATHER'S £1,000-A-NIGHT SEX ROMPS WITH ARABS' it screamed. Not cool, Heather is not some cheap whore! It was closer to £5,000 a night.


Inside a former call-girl, Deirdre Slutt, was claiming that she and Heather had sold their bodies to the notorious Middle Eastern armsdealer Sheikh Yerbooti. You know, Heather should have never trusted that Deirdre Slutt girl. In retrospect, the last name should've been a giveaway. Oh well. Oh, and Frank Zappa called, he wants his album title back.


That was nonsense! Heather had been giving the Sheikh one-to-one personal advice on his philanthropic activities. The money was just a consultancy fee! Ooh, "one-to-one personal advice." Is that what the kids are calling it these days? And "philanthropic activities"? Ooh, kinky.


Thank goodness most people saw the lies for what they were. Tonight, Heather was going to be honoured as Woman Of The Millennium at the glittering Best Of British Awards. Heather was actually the second choice for the award, but Mother Teresa couldn't show up for some reason.


She had not wanted to accept the award, as always refusing to draw attention to herself. She also sponsored a new hospital wing, the Heather Miller Center, which she had earned via an anonymous donation.


But then her friends had told her: 'Don't accept it for you. Accept it for the kiddies,' and that had persuaded her. Despite this, the prize money Heather received for the honor did not go to said kiddies.


She smiled as she thought of the beautiful Eleanor Rigby evening dress she would be wearing tonight, teamed with her laciest Lady Madonna lingerie (Mary would be so proud) and her lucky Nowhere Manolo stilettos. Good things had happened whenever she'd worn those shoes.


Tonight would be no exception! Enter Phil McGarden, or whatever his name is. You know, if good things happened whenever Heather wore those shoes, why didn't she just wear them all the time? I mean, maybe they were uncomfortable, being stilettos and all, but Heather is such a generous spirit, that I think she would put up with the pain for the sake of the kiddies. The real question is, why wasn't she wearing them during that unfortunate Space Hopper accident? Or maybe she was, and the accident indirectly led her on the path of greatness and bionicness that she is on today, so something good did happen. Think about it, and I'll continue researching what exactly a Space Hopper is.

Chapter 2 coming soon!

Dude, RR, ... you just killed me. LMAO

SPACE HOPPER ????

Why oh Why can't she just take her millions and go away already!

Very bad fanfic and not good farcical works either.