Why I turned down Simon Cowell's offer of a TV job

By Katie Piper


Last week, Katie Piper told how she was raped by her former boyfriend and then had acid thrown in her face.

Here, in our final extract from her courageous new book, she relives the agony of having her face rebuilt and the trauma of standing up to her merciless attackers in court.

And she tells how the scars she calls her 'badges of honour' have turned her into a stronger - and better - person ...


Helpful: Simon Cowell offered to help Katie Piper find a job as a TV presenter after seeing her documentary


It had been more than five weeks since the attack and I had not once thought about leaving the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. I just assumed I'd be there for ever. I was accepted. I was safe. Which was why, when Mum said they were planning to discharge me soon, I crumbled.

'No way,' I shook my head. 'But you have to come home at some point, darling. Don't you want to see Barclay?' Mum cajoled. 'He's missed you.'

'He won't even recognise me,' I said, picturing our chihuahua-cross.

During the three-hour car journey from London to Hampshire I crouched down in the footwell of the car like a frightened animal, terrified that people would see me.

At home, Barclay looked at me for a moment then jumped on my lap. 'You know it's me, don't you?' I cried. 'Good boy!'

I wandered from room to room. All the photos of me had been taken down. The mirror in my bedroom had gone too. Mum and Dad must have thought it would upset me too much
I gave my parents a list of demands: 'No one's allowed to answer the door or the phone. All the windows have to be locked all the time, and I don't want any candles lit, either.'

I was petrified of getting burned again. Every time the phone rang, I jumped out of my skin as it reminded me of Danny Lynch, the ex-boyfriend who raped me in March 2008 and then arranged for another man to throw acid in my face. I was terrified of opening the door.


I spent hours studying my face in the mirror. It looked even worse than the first time I'd seen it in the hospital. 'Don't worry,' one of the other patients had said to me. 'You'll look much better once you've had your skin grafts.'

'I've already had them,' I had whispered. 'My whole face is a skin graft.'

Any time I walked through the hospital to one of my appointments, strangers turned to gawp at me. In a perverse way, it was like the old days when I made heads turn in the street, only now I attracted horror, not admiration.

Just over eight weeks after the attack, the clear, plastic mask I would have to wear for 23 hours a day for the next 18 months was ready. It covered my face, with a hole for my eyes and deformed lips to poke through, while two straps went round the back of my head to hold it tight against my skin to smooth out the joins in the skin grafts. It felt like a hand pushing down on my face.

I fought to stem the tears, but then defiance rose up. 'You might not be beautiful any more,' I told myself, 'but you're not blind and you're not dead. Don't let Danny win.'

Clothes hung off my emaciated frame because the acid burns in my throat stopped me eating. I weighed 6st and for eight months I had a feeding tube inserted into my stomach.

However, I managed to go out for brief walks and to wash my hair. I started painting my toenails and fingernails. They were among the few parts of my body that had survived the attack unscathed.

And I was given a boost by a visitor. Pam Warren had suffered severe burns in the 1999 Paddington rail disaster in which 31 people died. After 22 skin grafts she had had to wear a mask like mine for 18 months. She looked normal. Better, she looked attractive.

She showed me photographs: her burns had been horrific. I looked from the pictures to her face in astonishment. 'You've healed so well,' I stammered.

' Yes, but I never thought I'd look like this again,' she said. 'I plummeted to the depths of despair, but the hospital team who worked on me were amazing and the mask really helped too. I know what you're going through, but I'm living proof that this does get better.'

Pam showed there was hope, as did my brilliant surgeon, Mohammed Ali Jawad. He organised treatment for me at a specialist rehabilitation clinic in the French village of Lamalou-les-Bains, near Montpellier. The treatments - physio, hydrotherapy and endemology - made a visible difference.

I'd never had a hero before this nightmare started, but now I had him; this big teddy bear of a man, who also worked for nothing in Pakistan to help victims of acid attacks. Mr Jawad is involved in a charity called Islamic Help.


Courage: Despite the horrific attack, Katie consoled herself that she 'might not be beautiful anymore', but she wasn't blind and she wasn't dead


They work with acid attack victims - often women who have been accused of adultery - who are treated as outcasts and don't have access to the wonderful treatment I'd received. I became the charity's ambassador to help raise awareness for it. Mr Jawad made it his mission to rebuild me. The police also did their job.

Stefan Sylvestre, who had thrown the acid in my face after Danny had raped me, had pleaded guilty to grievous bodily harm (GBH). Danny pleaded guilty to actual bodily harm for attacking me in a hotel room but innocent to GBH and rape.

His trial took place in September 2008. Watching the video evidence I had recorded in hospital just days after the attack, some of the jurors cried. The tears rolled down my face too. They collected in the bottom of my mask, a little salty pool at my chin which stung a little, but which I couldn't wipe away.

Danny's barrister tried to make out that I was the controlling one, whose obsessive behaviour had tipped Danny over the edge. He alleged I was a typical model, thoughtless and demanding.

Danny was found guilty of GBH with intent but the jury couldn't reach a verdict on the rape. I was determined he would not get away with it. I'd give evidence at the retrial.

I started thinking about telling my story. It would mean waiving my anonymity as a rape victim, but I was sure it would give hope to other burns victims. A film-maker said he was interested in my story. It meant a crew would film me going about my everyday life. I felt I could cope.


Support: Paddington train crash victim Pam Warren showed Katie that there was hope


The retrial began in March 2009. I again faced ridiculous allegations that I was
obsessed with Danny, that we'd only had a tussle in the hotel room, that we'd had consensual sex. After three days of not letting Danny's barrister bamboozle me, I was done.

I was in France for more treatment when Mum phoned. 'The judge has said he'll accept a majority verdict,' she said. 'Your dad's in court and he'll let us know straight away.'

An hour later, my mobile rang. It was Dad. I quivered with nerves.

'Guilty!' Dad exclaimed. Pure, exquisite joy washed over me. 'It's over, it's really over!' I exclaimed, bursting into tears. They believed me. All the shame faded away. I wasn't dirty or disgusting - I was free, unfettered.

A month later, Danny was handed two life sentences. He must serve a minimum of 16 years before he's eligible for parole. Stefan was sentenced to life too, with a minimum of six years.

In the previous 12 months, I'd seen humanity at its worst, and its best. I was almost blind in one eye and I was disfigured. Had it made me a better person? Had it made me more 'beautiful', in a way I'd never imagined? It was time to move onwards and upwards.

The documentary team had started filming me just before the sentencing and after the film - Katie: My Beautiful Face - was screened on Channel 4 in October 2009, my phone rang. 'Hi, Katie. Simon Cowell here,' said the caller. It really was him.

'I watched the documentary, and I really felt for you. What do you want to do with your life?'

'Well, er, I'm not really sure,' I managed.

'Why don't you come to my office? I'll text you my number and we can sort something out.'

The next week I went to meet him in Sony's swanky Kensington HQ. 'You look great!' Simon smiled, shaking my hand. 'How are you doing? Are you OK being out of the house?'

'I'm good. The documentary-finished a while ago, so I've come on a bit since then.'
'I was so impressed by you, Katie. Are you still interested in presenting? If so, I could help you find a job.'

Wow. Once I would have sold my soul for an offer like that, but now I wasn't tempted for a second. I was so different, and those ambitions had died a long time ago.

'Thank you so much, Simon,' I smiled shyly. 'But I want to do something to help people. Something that really matters to me.'

Two weeks later, Dad, Mum, my older brother Paul, my younger sister Suzy and I took Simon up on his offer to go to one of the The X Factor live shows.

Simon invited us backstage. We made our way to his dressing room and found him inside with Sinitta and Rihanna. 'Lovely to meet you,' Rihanna smiled, kissing my mask.

Simon made me laugh by showing me his bathroom, saying: 'I like to lie in the bath and watch cartoons on my plasma TV. Helps me relax.'

I was on cloud nine as we travelled home again.

When I launched the Katie Piper Foundation in December 2009 to help burns victims, Simon agreed to be a patron and let us use his offices for the launch party. The charity takes up much of my time.

I have also moved into my own flat - a very big step for me. I still have bad days, when I'm unhappy with how I look, but every girl has those.

I embrace my scars, because they are my badges of honour, my war wounds from the battle Danny had waged but hadn't won. He had tried to destroy me, but he had only made me stronger. I am a better person now, less self-obsessed, less superficial. I want to help people and make a difference to the world.

Who knows where I will be in ten years' time? Married with children? I hope so, but I am not sitting around obsessing over it. I have so much love in my life already.


Brave: Katie shows the scars of the attack arranged by her ex-boyfriend

I had to tell my new boyfriend I'd been raped

In June 2009, while having a drink with friends, a guy at the bar started talking to me. Over the next half hour we chatted as if we had known each other for ages. Jonathan was from a neighbouring village and was a recruitment consultant.

I didn't for a single second think he fancied me until, at the end of the night, he suddenly leaned in and kissed me.

'Oh my God!' I thought. It was the first time I'd been kissed since the rape in March the previous year. 'I'm actually kissing someone.'

'Can I have your number? I'd really like to see you again,' he asked. It took a while for him to persuade me to meet him for a date. I was convinced if he saw me in daylight he would go off me. But he was persistent and I eventually agreed to meet him.

We started chatting about our college days then I suddenly blurted out: 'My ex-boyfriend got someone to throw acid in my face.' He blinked in shock. There was a moment of charged silence.

'I hadn't been going out with him for very long. He also ... he raped me. I just thought I should tell you,' I finished, cursing myself. Any minute now, he'd probably get up and walk out. But Jonathan didn't get up. He asked if I wanted another drink. I nodded. I felt so relieved I'd told him.

After that, we saw each other a few times a week. I met Jonathan's mother and he met my parents.

Jonathan and I became a proper couple. It wasn't easy being intimate with him, at first, but I wanted to have a normal relationship again so badly.

I trusted Jonathan implicitly - he was gentle and understanding. I still didn't feel sexy, but I felt safe and loved. Jonathan was always telling me I was beautiful, even when I had my mask or no make-up on. He accepted me, and even though I didn't realise it at the time, I started accepting myself too. I even bought a huge mirror.

'He's actually the best boyfriend I've ever had,' I told Mum. 'How ironic that I should meet him now, when I look like this.'

However, when I launched the charity, our relationship began to suffer. My days were now chocka-block with activity. He wanted to settle down, but I didn't, not yet. I didn't want to relinquish the little bit of independence I'd regained.

I didn't want to rely on any man at all - even one as lovely as him. Jonathan had been like an emotional defibrillator. He had breathed life into my heart when I thought it was dead.
'Look after yourself.'

We kissed one last time, and then it was over.

There has been one guy since. He asked me out after we met in a pub but when he saw me in daylight, I could tell he was shocked by my scars. He cancelled our next date, and the one after that. My self-esteem was knocked badly.

I am almost 28, and I want love as much as the next girl. I want a family one day; I want a man to desire me, to support me, to protect me. Even though I will probably look lots better in a decade, when my injuries have healed more, I want to meet someone now, so I know they love the real me.

I know I can't change attitudes overnight. Disfigurement just has to be normalised and accepted - that is one of the aims of my charity, and it will probably take years and years.


Source:Dailymail