Ewan reunion with wife after lover ‘ditches’ him
ACTOR Ewan McGregor has linked up with his estranged wife – just hours after being dumped by the woman he left her for.
The Scot’s high-profile fling with Fargo co-star Mary Elizabeth Winstead is said to be over because she hated being branded a “home wrecker”.
A dishevelled McGregor, 46, was spotted at the Los Angeles home of his wife of 22 years, Eve Mavrakis, 51, before she went out and he played with the youngest of their four daughters, Anouk, seven. A family friend said last night: “This should not be seen as a quick fix for the marriage.”
Eve was devastated after pictures emerged last October of the Trainspotting star kissing his costar. In January the actor filed for divorce.
The couple’s 15-year-old daughter Esther posted a song on Instagram with the lyrics: “Seeing those pictures, they’re making me cry.”
Now Mary, 33, stunned by the reaction, has ended the affair.
A source said: “Mary hated being labelled a home wrecker.
“A year ago Ewan and his wife were in great shape and then he decided to throw it all away for Mary. Now it looks like he’s lost them both for good.”
OMG! I can hardly believe it. The fantasy of every faithful long-serving wife peremptorily ditched for a younger model, the one we thought exists in dreams but rarely if ever in real life, has finally and gratifyingly publicly come true.
The younger woman has risen up and dumped the older bloke who thought he’d scored a blinder when he installed her in place of his wife. Yes, 46-year-old Ewan McGregor’s fresh new squeeze Mary Elizabeth Winstead, 33, the trophy he took home for tea with his wife and kids and paraded across the globe, has given him the Big E.
Who’d have thought it? She’s only been and gorn and done to him exactly what he did to his wife: upped and offed and left. Talk about great huge dollops of egg blobbed all over his face!
Apparently Ms Winstead can’t stand being branded a home-wrecker. You might think it something of a shame she didn’t think of that before she waltzed off with another woman’s husband. Her pretty shoulders, it seems, aren’t broad enough to shrug off the world’s opprobrium. She doesn’t fancy being a baddie.
At least that’s her official explanation. Who knows if Ewan simply didn’t deliver? Perhaps life with a bloke whose children won’t have anything to do with him and whose charming, multilingual, dignified wife has commanded the sympathy and respect of all who heard of her abandonment isn’t exactly a riot?
Maybe being Ewan’s Other Half was much less fun and frolicsome than being his side-piece? We all know of course, courtesy of the late Sir James Goldsmith, that when the mistress becomes the wife it creates a vacancy. Could it be that poor Mary Elizabeth was warily eyeing up Ewan’s latest co-stars, nervously anticipating substitution?
What Evie McGregor, jettisoned after 22 years of marriage and mother of McGregor’s four daughters aged from six to 21, must be feeling can only be imagined. She has been quietly selfcontained about her devastation. When McGregor saw fit to thank both Winstead and herself in his Golden Globes Awards acceptance speech she commented only: “No, I did not like his speech.”
His daughters have been more forthright. Esther, 15, posted a song on Instagram which includes the lyrics: “Seeing those pictures, they’re making me cry. And I don’t know how to forgive. And I don’t know if I can.”
BEING a formerly spurned wife myself – at the time I was only 37 and hadn’t even realised I was an older woman until he left me for a 26-yearold – all I can say is there must be something restorative to the spirit in knowing your ex is enduring the living hell to which he subjected you.
Even if deep down you still love him, even if you don’t have a vengeful bone in your body, the knowledge that he has become the deserted not the deserter must provide just a modicum of “serves you right” consolation.
There’s nothing quite so unusual, yet quite so nourishing to the soul, as a right stinker getting his just deserts.
CAN WE ALL KEEP THE NOISE DOWN?
VETERAN thespian Martin Shaw complains that coughing in the theatre during performances is growing louder every year. He’s right but the increased decibel level isn’t confined to dramatic productions. In restaurants people laugh at a souped-up volume. On public transport they bark and yell into mobile phones. The stage whisper of old has morphed into a migraine-inducing howl. The idea simply of conducting yourself quietly when outside your own home is defunct. Unbridled behaviour of all varieties is the order of the day and the perpetually headphone-wearing generation, hearing woefully distorted, hasn’t the faintest clue how to wind its own hellish cacophony down a few vital notches.