From Hollywood to Devon...and a sheep named Casserole
Last week, Brianne Leary told how she went from a Hollywood career, via the Afghan war zone, to a successful business in New York with her dog, LuLu. But after being robbed of a fortune by her partner, and now in danger of losing everything, she returns to the story as she seeks solace in Devon – and finds heartbreak and, finally, true happiness
An hour before landing at Heathrow, a cheer from the other passengers woke me up. Barack Obama would be the 44th president of the United States. The man next to me offered me some of his champagne. ‘Here’s to change,’ he toasted.
Ahh, yes… change. A year ago, I had an apartment on Central Park, a successful business and not a care in the world. But for now, after a business partner had stolen all of my money, all that had… changed. Would I be able to rebuild my business and my life an ocean away from home?
My friend, Marty, met me. We retrieved my dog, LuLu, and headed for the Highbullen Hotel in Devon. I was exhausted when we arrived, and collapsed on to the bed. But when I woke the next morning, there, outside my window, lay… Oz. Stunning, technicolour shades of green and a cornflower-blue sky.
By midday, after hours on my computer, I was packing up when a voice asked me if I wanted tea. In the doorway stood a rumpled guy in stockinged feet, holding a pair of well-worn wellies. I recognised Chris, Highbullen’s estate manager, from earlier visits. Over tea, we reminisced and when he waved goodbye, he said he would see me… anon.
Very quickly, LuLu and I settled into a routine. Up at five in the morning for a quick walk, then off to do battle on my computer and later, afternoon cups of tea with Chris. A week turned into two, then three. In their emails, my New York friends began to refer to Chris as my hunter/ gatherer.
‘Don’t get too excited. We are just friends. Chris is divorced and 54. He has blonde hair, an outdoor complexion with a handsome, lived-in, ruggedness. Daniel Craig morphed with Crocodile Dundee. His farm and 16th-century cottage are centuries away from Manhattan. His living room looks like a set from Hitchcock’s The Birds. LuLu finds it very disconcerting.
‘He cooks for me on a prehistoric stove called a Stanley. I’m guessing he bought it at a Flintstones yard sale. Chris says the secret to a perfect crumble is all about gently blending sugar into the butter and flour with one’s fingers. Not too fast, not too slow, just even, consistent, gentle movements. Hmmm. I don’t think he’s talking about making crumble any more.
OK, fine, I have a bit of a crush. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t? No firewood? No problem! He just nips outside with an axe and soon all is warm and toasty again. When he opens a bottle of wine to let it breathe, I have to catch my breath.
‘Last night he kissed me. One of those soft, tender kisses… the kind of kiss that can make all reason and willpower crumble.’
Was I telling them or myself? At the worst time in my life, I had met the kindest man, who looked incredibly sexy in wellies. But surely this was silly. I lived in NY in the 21st century. I couldn’t be falling for this nutty Englishman.
I stayed, however, and January turned into February. It was time for one of those uncomfortable, grown-up conversations: no expectations, no strings and let’s just take this, whatever it is, one day at a time.
In the summer, I returned to New York to check on my real life – and I slipped straight back into it. With each day, I missed England less and less. However, I was missing Chris more and more. To make any decisions, I needed to see how Chris would cope with New York.
Chris arrived just as the leaves were turning in Central Park. LuLu was ecstatic to see him, sniffing at his boots. We did all the silly touristy things. We had picnics in the park, drinks by the Hudson and fabulous dinners with the NY gang, who gave my hunter/gatherer a big thumbs-up. Now, we just had to figure out the logistics. My fantasy was that we could live in both places. Keeping one foot in the 21st century and the other dipped in my rather rustic English idyll. But it wasn’t easy. My next visa application was denied. It was my fault – I had mistakenly applied for a business visa – but there was no reprieve; I could apply again in a year.
And so Chris started coming to New York every three months. And with each visit, we grew closer and he was loving life in the big city. In May 2010, Chris proposed in Grand Central Station. Of course, I accepted. But just a week after Chris returned home, he was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. His prognosis was not good. He was very calm, but his voice cracked when he said he didn’t expect me to marry him as he would no longer be the same man. I replied that I had every intention of marrying him. We would get through this. A few days later, I was back in England – and meeting Chris’s surgeon, who said he needed dramatic and life-changing surgery. We had 72 hours to decide.
Against the advice of all around him, we sought a second opinion from a German cancer specialist recommended by my American friends. And so, at 4am one July morning, like thieves in the night, we drove to Birmingham to catch a 9am flight. Twelve hours later, we were sitting in a darkened room staring at a monitor showing Chris’s insides. The cancer specialist was smiling. No metastases, and the tumours had not broken through the colon or bowel. This meant that, in their opinion, such radical surgery was not necessary. Instead, they recommended trying to shrink the tumours with radiotherapy and chemotherapy.
Exhausted, but happy, we arrived back at the cottage at midnight. Mission accomplished… decision made.
Chris informed his doctor that he wanted the radiation and chemotherapy option, and so it began with trips to the hospital – every day. Chris was tired but felt good and happily intact. He never once complained. His final radiation treatment was in September, and a follow-up scan was scheduled for October. But then LuLu fell ill – and she died, in my arms, on the morning of the scan. It was cancer. There were no words, only sobs.
Chris dug a grave in the orchard as the rain poured down. And that was that. My precious LuLu was gone. Silently, we got in the car and drove to hospital. Scan done, we returned home and I crawled into bed, heartbroken and angry.
The following week, however, we got the scan results – and it was ‘all clear’. There was no sign of cancer, only scar tissue. It was a miracle. Slowly, Chris got his strength back, and we began looking forward to a November wedding. Until the rug was pulled out from underneath us… again. His cancer had returned with a vengeance, this time in his lungs. Chris was advised to ‘get his affairs in order’. Surgery was scheduled and performed with intensive chemotherapy to follow.
Undeterred, we moved the wedding forward to 21 August 2011. We’d marry in the back garden, with a sunflower theme. Our pet sheep, Casserole, would be Ewe of Honour. Two weeks before the wedding, however, Chris’s oncologist called with the results from the lung biopsies. She told us that there was no cancer, after all. It had been misdiagnosed. We were shocked – but relieved.
Our wedding day was the most joyous of days. My wedding gift from Chris was a puppy, a Wheaten Terrier, like LuLu. I named her Crumble. And this month we celebrate our second anniversary, our second chance at life and love. Five years ago, I believed my world had ended. Instead, my real life had just begun.
Brianne is currently working on a book of her experiences.
An hour before landing at Heathrow, a cheer from the other passengers woke me up. Barack Obama would be the 44th president of the United States. The man next to me offered me some of his champagne. ‘Here’s to change,’ he toasted.
Ahh, yes… change. A year ago, I had an apartment on Central Park, a successful business and not a care in the world. But for now, after a business partner had stolen all of my money, all that had… changed. Would I be able to rebuild my business and my life an ocean away from home?
My friend, Marty, met me. We retrieved my dog, LuLu, and headed for the Highbullen Hotel in Devon. I was exhausted when we arrived, and collapsed on to the bed. But when I woke the next morning, there, outside my window, lay… Oz. Stunning, technicolour shades of green and a cornflower-blue sky.
By midday, after hours on my computer, I was packing up when a voice asked me if I wanted tea. In the doorway stood a rumpled guy in stockinged feet, holding a pair of well-worn wellies. I recognised Chris, Highbullen’s estate manager, from earlier visits. Over tea, we reminisced and when he waved goodbye, he said he would see me… anon.
Very quickly, LuLu and I settled into a routine. Up at five in the morning for a quick walk, then off to do battle on my computer and later, afternoon cups of tea with Chris. A week turned into two, then three. In their emails, my New York friends began to refer to Chris as my hunter/ gatherer.
‘Don’t get too excited. We are just friends. Chris is divorced and 54. He has blonde hair, an outdoor complexion with a handsome, lived-in, ruggedness. Daniel Craig morphed with Crocodile Dundee. His farm and 16th-century cottage are centuries away from Manhattan. His living room looks like a set from Hitchcock’s The Birds. LuLu finds it very disconcerting.
‘He cooks for me on a prehistoric stove called a Stanley. I’m guessing he bought it at a Flintstones yard sale. Chris says the secret to a perfect crumble is all about gently blending sugar into the butter and flour with one’s fingers. Not too fast, not too slow, just even, consistent, gentle movements. Hmmm. I don’t think he’s talking about making crumble any more.
OK, fine, I have a bit of a crush. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t? No firewood? No problem! He just nips outside with an axe and soon all is warm and toasty again. When he opens a bottle of wine to let it breathe, I have to catch my breath.
‘Last night he kissed me. One of those soft, tender kisses… the kind of kiss that can make all reason and willpower crumble.’
Was I telling them or myself? At the worst time in my life, I had met the kindest man, who looked incredibly sexy in wellies. But surely this was silly. I lived in NY in the 21st century. I couldn’t be falling for this nutty Englishman.
I stayed, however, and January turned into February. It was time for one of those uncomfortable, grown-up conversations: no expectations, no strings and let’s just take this, whatever it is, one day at a time.
In the summer, I returned to New York to check on my real life – and I slipped straight back into it. With each day, I missed England less and less. However, I was missing Chris more and more. To make any decisions, I needed to see how Chris would cope with New York.
Chris arrived just as the leaves were turning in Central Park. LuLu was ecstatic to see him, sniffing at his boots. We did all the silly touristy things. We had picnics in the park, drinks by the Hudson and fabulous dinners with the NY gang, who gave my hunter/gatherer a big thumbs-up. Now, we just had to figure out the logistics. My fantasy was that we could live in both places. Keeping one foot in the 21st century and the other dipped in my rather rustic English idyll. But it wasn’t easy. My next visa application was denied. It was my fault – I had mistakenly applied for a business visa – but there was no reprieve; I could apply again in a year.
And so Chris started coming to New York every three months. And with each visit, we grew closer and he was loving life in the big city. In May 2010, Chris proposed in Grand Central Station. Of course, I accepted. But just a week after Chris returned home, he was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. His prognosis was not good. He was very calm, but his voice cracked when he said he didn’t expect me to marry him as he would no longer be the same man. I replied that I had every intention of marrying him. We would get through this. A few days later, I was back in England – and meeting Chris’s surgeon, who said he needed dramatic and life-changing surgery. We had 72 hours to decide.
Against the advice of all around him, we sought a second opinion from a German cancer specialist recommended by my American friends. And so, at 4am one July morning, like thieves in the night, we drove to Birmingham to catch a 9am flight. Twelve hours later, we were sitting in a darkened room staring at a monitor showing Chris’s insides. The cancer specialist was smiling. No metastases, and the tumours had not broken through the colon or bowel. This meant that, in their opinion, such radical surgery was not necessary. Instead, they recommended trying to shrink the tumours with radiotherapy and chemotherapy.
Exhausted, but happy, we arrived back at the cottage at midnight. Mission accomplished… decision made.
Chris informed his doctor that he wanted the radiation and chemotherapy option, and so it began with trips to the hospital – every day. Chris was tired but felt good and happily intact. He never once complained. His final radiation treatment was in September, and a follow-up scan was scheduled for October. But then LuLu fell ill – and she died, in my arms, on the morning of the scan. It was cancer. There were no words, only sobs.
Chris dug a grave in the orchard as the rain poured down. And that was that. My precious LuLu was gone. Silently, we got in the car and drove to hospital. Scan done, we returned home and I crawled into bed, heartbroken and angry.
The following week, however, we got the scan results – and it was ‘all clear’. There was no sign of cancer, only scar tissue. It was a miracle. Slowly, Chris got his strength back, and we began looking forward to a November wedding. Until the rug was pulled out from underneath us… again. His cancer had returned with a vengeance, this time in his lungs. Chris was advised to ‘get his affairs in order’. Surgery was scheduled and performed with intensive chemotherapy to follow.
Undeterred, we moved the wedding forward to 21 August 2011. We’d marry in the back garden, with a sunflower theme. Our pet sheep, Casserole, would be Ewe of Honour. Two weeks before the wedding, however, Chris’s oncologist called with the results from the lung biopsies. She told us that there was no cancer, after all. It had been misdiagnosed. We were shocked – but relieved.
Our wedding day was the most joyous of days. My wedding gift from Chris was a puppy, a Wheaten Terrier, like LuLu. I named her Crumble. And this month we celebrate our second anniversary, our second chance at life and love. Five years ago, I believed my world had ended. Instead, my real life had just begun.
Brianne is currently working on a book of her experiences.