Mel B, 50, flaunts her curves as she and her pals perform dance routine on her bachelorette ahead of wedding to Rory McPhee, 37
The singer, 50, who is set to marry fiance of three-years Rory McPhee, 37, later this year, shared a clip of the group wearing her leopard-print swimwear as they danced to Beyonce 's End Of Time.
Mel led the performance wearing a thong bikini accessorized with a wedding veil and garter, as well as white lace kimono which she removed before strutting her stuff with her friends.
The huge group danced on a deck overlooking the stunning ocean while soaking up the tropical sun and celebrating the Spice Girl.
Scary captioned the post: 'HEN DO TIME WITH THE MOST AMAZING GROUP OF 36 WOMEN !!!!!!!'
Meanwhile, Phoenix, 26, who Mel shares with ex Jimmy Gulzar, took to her Instagram Stories with an equally eye-popping bikini snap before sharing a glimpse of bash's lavish menu.
Last month during an appearance on the BBC's The Tonight Show Mel revealed that she'll be tying the knot in London's famous St Paul's Cathedral, the same historic landmark where Princess Diana and Prince Charles tied the knot in 1981.
Mel said she would be 'humbled and honored' to have her wedding there.
While having the wedding there is certainly an honor, she did open up about some very strict rules that must be abided by.
She even got in a little practice walking down the aisle, saying 'I do' and throwing a bouquet thanks to some lucky audience members.
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EXCLUSIVE FIONA PHILLIPS: I know my memories are there but they skip away from me like £5 notes on a gusty day... MARTIN FRIZELL: Being brutally honest, I wish she'd got cancer instead. Then there might be a cure...
Imagine having a nightmare where it's pitch black and you are desperately searching for someone you love in a house, wandering from room to room. When I finally think I've found the right room, I start scrabbling in my handbag for the door key. It takes me ages to lay my hand on it, but eventually I pull it out and try to fit it in the lock. I push it in one way and then another. Finally, it clicks into place and I turn it. I gently push the door open, but then, in that very moment, I sense the person I love has disappeared again. They're gone. The memory has gone. And I'm all alone. And that's how it is for me now, living with Alzheimer's. While writing this book, my husband Martin and I have gathered on our kitchen table a huge pile of old magazine and newspaper cuttings from the past 40 years of my life as a television presenter and newspaper columnist. There's a picture of me in a very Nineties red power suit with my GMTV breakfast show co-host Eamonn Holmes's arm draped around me (who thought that was a good pose?!). And there are some hilarious snaps of me, all hot and sweaty, when I appeared with Brendan Cole as my partner (for a few weeks, at least) on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing. On the shelf along the kitchen wall are framed pictures of my family. There's me and Martin, smiling outside a film premiere. And another of us with our gorgeous boys, Nathaniel and Mackenzie, when they were little on the beach in Dorset, where we used to go on holiday. Everywhere I look there are memories. I know they are there. And yet so many of them feel out of my reach now. It's like I stretch out to touch them, but then just as I'm about to grasp it, the memory skips away from me. And I can't catch up with it. Like trying to chase a £5 note that's fallen out of your purse on a gusty day. Each time I think I've caught it, it whips away again. I couldn't be writing this at all without my husband Martin and my closest friends, who are helping me articulate more clearly the thoughts I once had that are now harder for me to reach. I used to be able to talk to anyone about anything (a skill inherited from my mum) and then I made a career out of chatting to people on television. Nowadays, I can find talking about my life agonisingly difficult. Sometimes I get halfway through a sentence and I can't remember where I was heading with it or the word I was looking for. It feels awful. Gradually, Martin and I thought maybe I should start telling more people. Martin felt that if more people knew what was happening to me then they wouldn't judge me if I did ever start behaving unusually – not that I thought I did. It was hardly like I was going down the street half-clothed, yelling at people. But he and the doctors, who I was constantly backwards and forwards to see, would say that I kept repeating myself and that sometimes I forgot what I was doing or where I was going. The strange thing was I had no awareness of that. As 2024 progressed, all the things we enjoyed doing together – eating good food, drinking nice wine, going to lovely places, travelling – started to become too difficult for Fiona. By the summer of 2024, we had adjusted to a new routine. I would wake at seven and go downstairs to make a coffee. If Fiona heard me, she might come down, too. I was in control of all her medication to ensure she took the correct amounts, so I would give her an antidepressant tablet and make her a cup of tea, then get myself ready for work. Fiona would often say to me: 'What shall I do now?' 'Why don't you go back to bed for a couple of hours?' I'd say. 'It's still early.' 'Where do I go to bed?' she would ask. 'In the bedroom,' I'd reply and point her back to the staircase in her own home. It was becoming harder and harder for her to remember people and places. She was also becoming confused by text messages, unable to remember who had sent them to her and why. We feared it would strike our sons We did tackle one fear and talked to Fiona's consultant about whether she had inherited the illness from her parents. She then had a genetic test, because if she carried the gene for Alzheimer's there was a danger the boys would have it, too, which in turn might mean them thinking about IVF if they wanted children, in order to break the genetic line. Thankfully, the test was negative. That meant she didn't carry the gene so the boys wouldn't either. But the doctor said she was clearly predisposed to Alzheimer's. I didn't entirely understand what he meant. How could someone be 'predisposed' to a particular disease if there wasn't something in their genetic make-up that determined it? But he assured me this was the case. While Fiona's chances of getting the disease had always been a lot higher, that didn't mean she would pass it on to her children. A few months later we told the boys what was happening. By then, she was even more withdrawn and forgetful and they knew she'd had a series of hospital appointments. Rather than the terrible news landing on them like a bomb, I'd gradually shared with them the sense that something was very wrong. When the moment came and I used the dreaded 'Alzheimer's' word, I think they were prepared for it – however awful that news was. They were just heartbroken for their mum, though she didn't want to make a big fuss about it all. She was able to dismiss it from her mind and so the conversation quickly moved on. It may sound strange, but that is how it was. She gave up reading or sending emails or looking at magazines, so she didn't really do very much. That was the pattern day after day – not much happened – and Fiona didn't want anything to happen. After we ate dinner, I might read or check my work emails and Fiona would sit next to me. When I got in from work, it seemed she would rarely leave my side. We might watch television for a bit, but Fiona wasn't able to engage with what was happening – I think often it was just bright colour on a screen to her. Every evening she would ask: 'How did your show go today?' I'd talk about what happened, but then literally 60 seconds later she would say again: 'How did the show go today?' And again I would explain how it went. By the fifth time she had asked exactly the same question, I'd just say 'fine'. I tried so hard to remain patient, but it was difficult. And I'm only human. Anyone who thinks they could endlessly explain the same thing over and over again without ever becoming frustrated or losing their patience just needs to try it. Not once, not now and again, but every single day. At weekends we might go for a drive together or I could sometimes persuade her to go for a walk. 'Which season is it?' she would ask as we were strolling across the Common. I was busy with work at that time. We'd had big changes at This Morning with Phillip Schofield leaving, Holly Willoughby stepping down after the pressures of a serious kidnap threat, and Cat Deeley and Ben Shephard becoming the new hosts in March 2024. But being that busy actually helped me. I loved going into work – not because it was an escape from what was going on at home, but because it gave me structure and normality. And it meant that I didn't have time to think about what was to come for Fiona. For both of us. It is January 2025 as I write this, and Fiona needs a lot of help. She needs help showering and brushing her teeth. She can do these things physically, but is unable now to think about how she should do them. I wash Fiona's hair because she wouldn't know what shampoo or conditioner to use or how wet her hair needs to be or that she must rinse the soap suds out afterwards. And most nights I'll say, 'Right, we need to brush our teeth before we go to bed,' and I'll put the toothpaste on the brush and hand it to her. She is still very stubborn and doesn't like brushing her teeth or feeling that she is being told what to do, so she rails against it. But this has to be the way, because the worst thing that could happen would be for her to get some kind of tooth infection when she is vulnerable. She can put clothes on, but may not put them on the right way around, so she does need help dressing. I try to lay out clothes for her to put on in the morning, but she tends to get attached to particular items of clothing and will wear them over and over again. One man Fiona did recall was Huw Edwards Occasionally Fiona would pick up things she might have heard on the radio news such as 'What's all this with Huw Edwards?' So she knew exactly who the lead presenter of BBC News At Ten was and understood he was involved in a story that was quite big, but she wasn't aware of why he was being talked about. I would tell her what the Huw Edwards story was and she would say, 'Oh gosh, that's awful,' but two minutes later it was gone again. Fiona's specialist explained to me that her long-term memory was functioning better than the short-term so yes, she could remember who Huw Edwards was and, yes, she was aware that he was involved in some kind of scandal because it was on the news. But what was missing was the ability to retain the recent memory of the cause of the scandal and that was what she had to keep being reminded of. There have also been things I've had to do for her that are far worse than putting toothpaste on her brush. I'd ask myself: 'Can this get any worse, can this really get any worse?' But then it does. And that becomes routine. I'll think to myself, 'Well, I don't want anyone else to have to do this for Fiona, so there's no option but to keep going.' I'm just trying to give her the best care I can and to make her feel as safe and secure as possible. Being brutally honest, I wish Fiona had contracted cancer instead. It's a shocking thing to say, but at least then she might have had a chance of a cure, and certainly would have had a treatment pathway and an array of support and care packages. But that's not there for Alzheimer's. Just like there are no funny or inspiring TikTok videos or fashion shoots with smiling, healthy, in-remission survivors. After someone is diagnosed with Alzheimer's, they are pretty much left to their own devices. There is nothing more that can be done and you are left to cope alone. Bit by bit, it takes everything. Through time, even the most glamorous, glittering star – such as Fiona was – will be wiped away. As time has passed, I have come to understand that if I were to fall ill or worse, the whole house of cards would collapse. I have had to stay well for Fiona. Sorting the bank accounts, utility direct debits, hospital appointments, clothes, washing, parking permits, shopping, cooking, tidying the house – in fact, all the stuff I took for granted because Fiona dealt with it (as well as her own career) – became my responsibilities, along with a seven-day-a-week job. It was knackering. There were times I felt drained, physically and emotionally. On top of the stress, the boys and I are enduring a kind of living grief – a slow goodbye to the woman we love. Just before Christmas 2024, I decided we had to get some additional help with caring. Mackenzie was taking on a lot of the responsibility for looking after Fiona when I was at work, but I didn't want him to become his mum's full-time carer at 23 – we desperately needed a bit of support. Because Fiona had insisted she didn't want or need a carer, I said that I had decided to employ a housekeeper to help us keep on top of the washing and cleaning. In reality, the lady who came to work for us was a trained carer, but I couldn't tell Fiona that as she would have been appalled. She gets up later now. She has her own room and sleeps through until mid-morning. Then she will come downstairs and see who is in the house, which will be either her carer or Mackenzie. They will make her something to eat and drink, as she is no longer able to work out how to do that. If Fiona is in the kitchen, it wouldn't occur to her to make a cup of coffee. I don't really worry about her being unsafe in the kitchen now, as she would never think to use the appliances or the oven. Those are just some of the many things that are now outside the range of what she understands. There have been some episodes of extreme confusion. One night she became incredibly distressed: 'I just want my mum and dad,' she kept saying. 'Oh, Fiona, your mum and dad haven't been with us for many years,' I replied. But that just made her more agitated. 'You're lying,' she shouted. 'Get me my husband!' All I could do was to keep trying to calm her down – 'Fiona, I am your husband,' I said. 'No, you are not,' she insisted. The experts say you are not supposed to challenge someone with Alzheimer's when they're saying things that are completely wrong, but it's very difficult. What am I supposed to say when she says: 'You're not my husband!'? Some men might find that painful – and obviously it's not nice – but I don't feel hurt by it because I know that isn't Fiona talking: it's the illness that has taken her mind. Fiona lives in the present and just comments on what she sees going on around her. She doesn't have a future – I mean she can't think about or imagine a future. And she doesn't have an immediate past – anything from 30 seconds ago or five minutes ago. So really it's just existing: she is existing in the present. I'll talk about anything and everything to distract her mind from the situation she's in. And I, too, repeat stories and anecdotes that I think she will like because, if she's forgotten them, what does it matter? It prevents her from thinking about Alzheimer's for a short while and the darkness she lives in. But it's tiring. Exhausting. And some evenings, if Fiona is complaining, I'll say, 'Oh, maybe you should go to bed.' Then I hate myself for saying that and for suggesting that she leave me alone. But it's the only relief I might get from the constant repetition of 'I feel awful' and 'Please help me'. However many times I try to reassure her, she has forgotten that reassurance moments later, so I have to do it over and over again. There's no escape. There's no doubt that some people we used to know don't get in touch as often. The dinner-party invitations have dried up and it can feel isolating. It's not that Fiona would even want to go out for dinner but sometimes it would be nice to be asked. I don't think people are deliberately trying to exclude us, they're just not sure what to say and so they say nothing at all. And it does feel lonely. It feels selfish to say that because this is not about me – it's about Fiona and she's the one who is really suffering in all this. She's the one who feels lonely and scared and is often in pain. Sometimes when I'm going out she will say, 'Please don't leave me,' because she wants me to be close by. And it breaks my heart that my strong, independent wife has become so vulnerable. This might sound very strange, or maybe not to other couples going through this, but since her diagnosis we have not once discussed Fiona's illness. Obviously, we've both been in the room when the doctors are talking to us about how she's getting on and we have discussed the logistics of administering her injections and tablets; we have also worked together shaping this book, but writing it down is easier than talking it through step by step. But the big issues around what is happening to her – and what will happen next – we have left untouched. And, really, where's the benefit in us talking about it? I mean we have planned together around the practical things such as getting our finances in order and family paperwork, but then it's really a case of 'let's just wait for it to come'. Talking about it isn't going to make Fiona feel better. She finds any mention of it upsetting and so we just get on with life around the edges of what is happening. At the time of writing, I have just finished my almost-ten-year stint as editor at This Morning. I'm proud of what I achieved – the longest tenure of any boss and seven consecutive National Television Awards during my run – but it was time to go. It became impossible to work the schedule I imposed on myself and also be the principal responsible adult for someone with Alzheimer's. I could manage three or four days perhaps, but not the full-on white heat of running what many see as a national institution. I want to continue working and am setting up a small podcast project that I hope might become big. What I really want is distraction from all that is going on – and interesting conversation, which I'm lacking more and more in our isolated lives. I'd like to tell you Fiona is content in the situation into which she has been forced. I'd like to give readers some sense that she is at peace. But that wouldn't be the truth. She isn't – she is frustrated every single day. And depressed. I can see her searching for the thread of a conversation, but then it's gone and that's incredibly hard. At that point, she will give up and crumple. She tries to fight it, but it's too hard. Every day, several times a day, she'll say, 'Hey Google, play The Stylistics,' as she's transported back to her safe space, her teenage bedroom in Southampton. She begins to sing, word perfect and I stroke her hair as she says: 'Please don't leave me.' 'Why have I had such bad luck?' she will ask me sometimes. What can I say? It is just the worst luck. I miss her. I miss my wife. As for me? What do I really think? I think: 'F*** you, Alzheimer's!' © Fiona Phillips 2025. To order a copy for £18.70 (offer valid to 31/08/25; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to or call 020 3176 2937.
