Kidnapped over a boob job
Kerry and James on honeymoon
Wednesday 27th June 2007
Stretched out on the beach in Barbados, I smeared on sun cream and smiled over at my new husband, James McCarthy. We'd got married the day before in a beachside ceremony and now, we were enjoying 10 days of glorious sunshine.
'I'm so happy,' I said.
And I meant it. Even though our relationship hadn't exactly been plain sailing, none of that mattered now. Not even the fact that everyone thought I was mad to have married James, 27. You see, he had a lousy temper. He'd fly into rages over the slightest thing and had even gone to prison for three months in 2005, after punching me in the face.
'It was a moment of madness,' James had sobbed after he'd been released.
Stupid I know, but I took him back. James could be charming and he made me fall in love with him all over again.
There was an even bigger reason why I wanted to make a go of things — our 2-month-old son, Daniel.
'I'm so proud,' James had choked when he cradled Daniel in his arms at Newham General Hospital, in East London.
I already had three children — Reece, 10, Joshua, 7, and James, 2, from a previous relationship. Now, my husband and new baby had made the family complete. Sitting there on the beach in Barbados, I couldn't imagine being happier.
There was just one thing missing… the perfect body.
'If only I had her figure,' I sighed enviously, as a bikini-clad woman walked past.
'You've got a great body,' James scoffed, unconvincingly.
If only.
After breastfeeding four kids, my 32D chest had shrunk to a 32A, and it was destroying my confidence. I wanted to feel sexy. My GP had put me on the waiting list for breast implants to boost them to a 32D. I hadn't told James because I knew how jealous he got. It went without saying that he wouldn't like the idea of other men ogling them. So I was waiting for the right time to break the news.
But back in Britain, that time never seemed to come. James's moods got worse.
'You're seeing another man,' he accused me one day when I got in from shopping.
So even when I got a letter from St Barts Hospital, London, saying my boob job was scheduled for 8 February this year, I was in two minds whether to tell him.
Then two weeks before the operation, I was watching telly when James stormed in.
'What's this?' he yelled, waving a piece of paper.
It was the letter about the operation. He'd found it tucked in my handbag.
'You don't need a boob job,' he spat. 'Do you want men drooling over your chest?'
Before I could reply, he tore it up and stormed out.
The next day, I went to stay with my mum, Val, 50.
'I've had enough,' I said when I phoned James.
'Come back now,' he stormed.
Then the text messages started. I'll stab your chest, said one. I'll have your pretty face cut,
read another.
But despite James's sick threats, I was determined to go through with the surgery. I was a bag of nerves when I arrived at St Barts on the day of the operation.
'If anyone asks for me… a man… I'm not here, right?' I stuttered as I booked myself in.
A nurse showed me to a room where I undressed and got into my gown. Suddenly, my mobile bleeped. My stomach lurched. I love you just the way you are, it said. I'm going to kill you. James. I'd barely had time to read it when the door flew open.
'What the...?' I gasped.
James stormed in.
'Please don't hurt me,' I begged as he dragged me off the bed by the scruff of my neck and
out of the room.
'How dare you defy me?' he spat. 'I've got a knife, and I'm going to kill you.'
'Let me go!' I screamed, as James pushed me towards the hospital's main entrance.
'You're not going to have this operation!' he snarled.
Everything was happening in slow motion… hospital staff watching powerless as James dragged me out of the door… James's breath on my neck as he ranted… my heart pumping.
I'm never going to see my kids again, I thought.
James dragged me round the back of a church near the hospital entrance. It was a freezing February day and I was only wearing a hospital gown, yet I couldn't feel the cold of the air.
'What am I going to do with you?' James leered, reaching for something in his pocket.
Did he have a knife?
'I promise I won't have the operation,' I pleaded in desperation. 'I'll come back to you.'
Suddenly a misty look came into his eyes and he relaxed his grip. Seizing the moment, I yanked myself free and dashed across a busy road into the bank opposite.
'He's trying to kill me,' I gasped as I collapsed on the floor.
The next thing I knew, I was lying in a ward in St Barts being treated for severe shock.
'The police found James wandering near the hospital and arrested him,' a nurse told me.
'I honestly thought I was going to die,' I whimpered.
I was discharged the next day, but couldn't face going back for the operation as I was so traumatised. It wasn't until James pleaded guilty to kidnapping at the Old Bailey two months later, and was jailed for 20 months, that I began to relax.
It's been five months since the attack and I'm still in shock. I can't believe James kidnapped me over a boob job. I'm trying to get my life back on track but there's one thing for certain. Despite everything, I'm definitely having that boob job. He's not going to stop me feeling good about myself. And hopefully next time, it won't cause such a bust-up.
Read other bizarre stories only in Pick Me Up magazine:
My son was too big to live
Whatever happened to... The Teletubbies?