After Andy

by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni

  My fascination for foreign stemmed from having never left the shores of Britain and longing to do so. Money intrigued because, as a family, we really didn’t have it. My parents always seemed to be scrimping and saving to send us to private schools. A member of Parliament made famously little then, while my mother’s flush from Mary Queen of Scots seemed to wax, then wane, then wax, as it can with bestselling writers. I remember the issue consuming me. It got to a point that the parents of one classmate, Lisa Loudon, complained that I spoke “much too much about money.” I was not one of those children who feared the plight of poverty. Never. I just wanted to meet or know about people who were rich!

  In general, Mum viewed my love of the foreign and exotic as romantic and my excitement about titles and money as a phase. However, it annoyed my sister Flora, who viewed herself as antiestablishment and left-wing. She found my address book—I was beyond proud of all the neatly written entries—and wrote RP (for “rich pig”) by the names of my titled or well-heeled conquests. To paraphrase Warhol, I had a chronic case of “social disease.” Well, the junior version. At least Andy had paintings to sell.

  Regarding my social disease, I was in pig heaven at Lady Eden’s School, which managed to be both socially mobile and international. (“Where are your plaits?” I asked one girl, newly arrived from Mexico. Fortunately, she was amused.) The parents included aristocrats, politicians, diplomats, businessmen, and Harry Saltzman, coproducer of the James Bond movies, who was then a household name. Lady Eden, the sister-in-law of former Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden, had begun the establishment in the 1920s. Sophisticated, she had encouraged creative self-expression via Russian ballet, handicraft, and painting. Fifty years later, it was less innovative and resembled other London establishments. Nevertheless there were quirks, such as the lacquered straw boaters, plays performed in French, skating presented as a winter sport, and weekly ballet lessons given by Miss Vacani, who famously taught the royal princesses: Elizabeth, the future queen, and her sister, Margaret.

  To my delight, Mademoiselle—the French teacher—cast me as Le Chasseur (the Huntsman) in our form’s production of Blanche Neige (Snow White). “It’s because you have such a kind heart,” she had said. Words that still reverberate and began my long romance with La France. Great pleasure was also had from organizing my birthday party. Since we were six children, we were allowed a major one every other year. Nevertheless, my mother’s birthday gifts tended to be memorable: a doll’s house that was an exact replica of Campden Hill Square, and a custom-made prima ballerina outfit that had an embellished pink satin bodice and pink diamanté crown and a wand.

  Like many little girls, I didn’t want to invite everyone. Possessed with a rare moment of power, I tried to exclude one or two enemies. (I remember loathing a certain Arianne Napier for borrowing my Skippy doll and undoing her braids.) Still, my mother was adamant: Everyone in my class had to receive an invitation that I would handwrite and then leave on their little wooden school desk.

  The party was always held at our family home in Notting Hill Gate. Rich kids who lived in either Belgravia or Chelsea would have Smarty Arty, a popular children’s entertainer. He would create dogs out of balloons and do other party tricks. We tended to have a fancy-dress parade. In wobbly procession, my friends would walk through the kitchen into the dining room’s left door and then leave through the right, and my mother would pick out the best costume. A tea followed. The table would be covered with sandwiches, biscuits, Twiglets and crisps, paper cups and plates. A huge ice cream birthday cake from Harrods was presented. I blew out the candles, and while cutting into the cake that was striped with vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream, I screamed to get rid of the devil. (A tradition that seemed to exist only in our family and my mother’s.) Afterward, we went to the drawing room, where a film from the St. Trinian’s series—movies about mischievous English schoolgirls—was screened. Having large reception rooms, Campden Hill was and remains an ideal place to give parties. Like perfect Lady Eden pupils, my entire class was beautifully behaved. We made up for the hooligans my brothers tended to invite, who ran riot and always managed to break the black leather sofa in the nursery. That said, my favorite fancy dress costume was worn to my elder brother’s party. Wearing blue tights and a painted bare chest, I went as a devil with wooden fork in hand. Being extremely proud of my black eye makeup, I wiggled around madly and got on his friends’ nerves.

  My birthday parties also had to take place on Sunday. Mum flatly refused to organize them during a weekday. It was a bone of contention because a lot of my friends went away for the weekend to family homes in the countryside. Lady Eden’s even finished at lunchtime on Friday in order to allow the chauffeur of “mummy and daddy” to drive their darlings there. This infuriated my mother. Yet all in all, Lady Eden’s suited. Like my father, Sir John Eden, the founder’s son, was a conservative MP; there was also the convenience of the location—it was fifteen minutes away—and academically it did pretty well. The best students got into St. Paul’s and other top schools.

  03 Early Lessons in Style

  My mother dressed according to her mood. She often wore big earrings and rings and managed to look glamorous during the day and romantic at night. Several outfits come to mind: a black suede waistcoat and matching skirt piped with black leather; a white blouse, wide belt, and midi-length stripy black-and-white skirt; a camel-wool tunic with matching trousers, jazzed up by an Ethiopian Lion of Judah medal given to her by Haile Selassie. Nevertheless, my favorite dress was a green taffeta ball gown inlaid with ivory lace, designed by Miss Dior. She wore it in a Norman Parkinson shoot for British Vogue. Photographing her in the square outside our house, “Parks” had used smoke bombs to further her allure. Among all the numerous portraits by the likes of David Bailey, Patrick Lichfield, David Montgomery, Jerry Schatzberg, and Lord Snowdon, Parkinson’s remains my favorite.

  My sisters were Biba babes, Biba being the hip and happening London boutique of the late ’60s. Occasionally, I was dragged to the boutique on Kensington High Street on the weekend. Pandemonium—the atmosphere was frenzied and the queues to buy were ridiculously long.

  Still, there was an activity that was not the case for the rest of the boutiques near the end of Kensington High Street. And I knew them by heart because every time our Scottish nannies—Caroline Cameron and Margaret MacDonald—received their paychecks, they would head on down there. Upon entry, there was a smell of burning joss sticks, or incense, and a lineup of the dreariest-looking display of tunics, flares, and maxi-skirts in crushed velvet, nylon jersey, or crumpled exotic Indian print. About eight boutiques, or so it seemed, were selling exactly the same types of hippie-drippy clothes, and Caroline and Margaret left no stone unturned. Those trips put me off shopping for life. It was the sameness, the exhausting lack of decision, the utter lack of quality in the product, and the hideous shades of browns and purples that were the bane of that period.

  I greatly preferred Caroline and Margaret’s taste in music, which included Rod Stewart—I knew all the words to “Maggie May”—and Jim Reeves, the American country pop singer who had died in a plane crash. His “Please Release Me” has to be one of the all-time-greatest love ballads. Caroline would listen to it endlessly and cry. Her tears, however, were nothing in comparison to mine when hearing “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” I couldn’t bear the idea that it didn’t have a home. And then several years later there was Harry Nilsson wailing “I can’t live if living is without you” on Top of the Pops. Staring at the screen, British schoolgirls would line up and blub. If this behavior sounds quite mad, there was a strong element of that in London during the late sixties and early seventies. Music was of the most utmost importance. It was possible to loathe someone because of their record collection.

  As periods go, it was a pretty miserable one in England. The writer Nicholas Coleridge describes it as “a long period of recession and grayness.” Then at Eton College, t
he establishment boarding school attended by most of England’s conservative prime ministers, he recalled how “the famous three-day week” meant “two nights of no electricity” and led the privileged pupils to “sitting in the dining room and doing all their homework by candlelight.” There were endless strikes, three-day power cuts, the beginning of the Irish Republican Army terrorist attacks, and most people had no money. Or the super-rich had fled because the government was taxing ninety-eight percent on the pound. Hence George Harrison’s song “Taxman.” Still, the television—particularly the comedy programming—was sensational, as was the pop music. It was the beginning of David Bowie and other extraordinary talents.

  Across the board, David Bowie broke boundaries. His album Space Oddity was a commercial hit and considered the coolest. It was endlessly played in most hip households, and ours was no exception. On his following album, Hunky Dory, Bowie sang, “Andy Warhol looks a scream, Hang him on my wall.” According to Catherine Hesketh, the Factory’s second English Muffin, the Pop artist thought it was “depressing and really rude. He really minded that Bowie wrote that song, and did not like him because of that,” she says. However, it probably introduced a younger generation to Warhol if they hadn’t already read about him in one of the weekend color-supplement magazines. I remember staring at the Hunky Dory album cover and finding it both arresting and weird. Bowie resembled a woman and looked out of it. It was everything I couldn’t cope with at the age of nine. Best explained that I had become appallingly conventional.

  I wonder if it was the result of becoming very podgy. Having been fairly average in weight, having been a popular bridesmaid as well as photographed for Vogue by Norman Parkinson, and having appeared on Whose Baby?, a successful TV game show, I blew up. Attempts were made for me to lose the puppy fat. On my first diet, I retaliated by eating thirteen oranges in quick succession. This amused Tessy, our Filipino cook, but appalled my parents. Child psychology was a little lacking in various quarters in our household. There just wasn’t the time.

  I once spoke about this to the actor John Malkovich, who had also been a childhood blimp. I began with “Wasn’t it awful? Could you believe the lack of sensitivity?” and he cut me to the quick. “Oh, come on, Natasha, we would have been impossible if it hadn’t happened. Besides, it gave us a great sense of humor.” Certainly a different take! Still, I thank John for that because he has a point, particularly about the latter. Humor is the best way to deal with humiliation until discovering the benefits of self-forgiveness and so forth.

  Nevertheless, in spite of the criticism toward me, around me, and about me—it’s amazing what people feel they can say and get away with if you’re labeled as fat!—I sensed that I had an eye. My mother was the first to encourage it. When she was going out and having her hair done by her hairdresser Mr. John, I would come in, look at her red jewelry box, and pick out her accessories for the evening. She accepted all my choices. I even drew and designed an entire wardrobe for her. A little too American and 1950s in feel; a cake-baking outfit was hardly her scene. Nor was a loud pink golfing ensemble. But it had been an enjoyable exercise.

  Mum also allowed me to have a Barbie doll. Hard to believe, but certain British mothers prohibited Barbie because of her tremendous chest. Instead, they opted for the flat-as-a-pancake Sindy doll that lacked Barbie’s legs, glamorous wardrobe, holiday camper, sister, and boyfriend Ken. To be honest, I think Mum preferred my Sasha dolls because they were ethnic-looking with coffee-colored skin, long limbs, and tons of hair. Still, Barbie was never verboten.

  Meanwhile, the appearance of Camilla Mavroleon, one of the mothers at Lady Eden’s, fixated me. She looked like no one else. Her choice of wardrobe suggested a different world that I later discovered meant skiing at St. Moritz in the winter and vacationing on a private island in the Mediterranean during the summer. I’d heard that her husband was Greek. And during that era, only the Greeks were seriously rich. No mention was made of the fact that her grandfather was W. Somerset Maugham, the world-famous novelist. Nor would I have gotten the importance. Camilla would speed in with her blond coif, lightly made-up face, and slim racing-horse legs to collect her adorable younger daughters, who had shiny, straight hair and nut-brown skin. I remember her turtlenecks and a fur coat that looked light in weight and fell mid-thigh. This was in contrast to most of the other mothers, who wore heavy-looking mid-calf mink ones. Camilla’s aura was understated. It was my first encounter with international chic.

  As much as elegance impressed, I was embarrassed by the untidy ways of my family. In order to feel grand, I occasionally lied. A whopper concerned having tea with the Queen. “Really?” said the nanny of Camilla Lawman, a classmate. “And what does the Queen eat?” Her question rather threw me. “I guess she has sandwiches and biscuits like everyone else,” she continued. I hastily agreed and knew to stop boasting about the dear Queen and me. Another occasion concerned Michael Heseltine, the father of another classmate. Later christened “Goldilocks” by the English press, he was a wonderful-looking member of Parliament noted for his thick blond hair. He’d driven me home and, being a gent, walked me up to the front door. To my horror, there was a large green crate outside filled with grubby milk bottles. “Well that’s convenient,” he said, and meant it kindly. But I immediately invented some rubbish about a new servant making a mistake. I wish! But it demonstrates what a heinous little snot I had become.

  During this phase, I took to wearing kilts and matching Shetland wool sweaters. Beyond unflattering even if I was convinced that I looked tidy and smart: both being my goal. My new friend was Cristina Zobel, whose father was the Filipino ambassador. And I reveled in going to her house, which was on Millionaires’ Row off Kensington High Street and had high ceilings and several elevators. She and her younger sisters—Monica and Sofia—had their own personal maids who wore pale yellow uniforms with starched white aprons: my idea of bliss. In their company, I pretended that I was living their existence, when my reality was Agnes, the new Scottish nanny, who flaunted her F-cup bosom and claimed that she had exactly the same hair as Princess Margaret. A strange boast, even if it looked to be the case. I wonder if Agnes thought she had royal blood. The poor woman was adopted and slightly deluded. A lazy slob, she taught me how to cook so she wouldn’t have to. Never bothered to buy loo paper, rarely cleaned up, and would bring strange men back to the house. “Who’s there?” I once asked, knocking on Agnes’s bedroom door. “I’m the milkman,” came the reply, followed by her saucy cackle.

  Riding lessons were my other bid for a conventional existence. Every Friday, I would accompany Lady Susanna Ward—one of my best friends—and her younger sister Melissa and be driven to Richmond Stables by their parents’ chauffeur: heaven!

  The Ward girls resembled dolls. They had long hair and wore Petit Bateau vests and pants—then an extravagance—that suited their coltish limbs. I really was twice or even thrice their size, a fact that was demonstrated by my jodhpurs. In appearance, I resembled a character from Thelwell, a British cartoonist whose specialty was drawing messy, plump girls on Shetland ponies.

  Susanna had a voice that was distinctly upper-class yet sleepy and sweet. She always had her nose in a book and excelled in English lessons. My silly stories made her laugh even if there was a mystery and remoteness to her. That said, there was innate gentleness; she never snapped or hurt my feelings. In many ways, she was like her father, Billy Ward, who was the Fourth Earl of Dudley.

  Like mine, he was an older father. However, unlike my father, he had inherited a great deal of wealth from both sides. Maureen Swanson, Susanna’s mother, was Billy’s second wife. She was a Glasgow-born dancer who had appeared in Carousel in the West End when she was nineteen. She had Snow White coloring and feline features—a pair of daring green eyes—and certain admirers described her as a young Vivien Leigh.

  After a small role in John Huston’s Moulin Rouge, a fairly busy career ensued for her until 1960 when she met Billy,
then Viscount Ednam. An affair began, and he divorced his first wife, the daughter of the Argentinean ambassador and mother of his son and heir and twin daughters. Not everyone approved of the match. But I was mad about Maureen. She was my very first rags-to-riches adventuress. A breath of fresh air, Maureen was frank as well as quite vulnerable. At her children’s parties, she showed all her old films, as if to remind what she had done. I understood and cheered on such behavior, even if others were surprised. Maureen also admitted to eavesdropping outside Susanna’s door, convinced that her daughter preferred her husband. Being touched by her admission, I tried to console her and convince her that it wasn’t the case.

  Nevertheless, Maureen had tremendous confidence in her taste. Her bedroom was a symphony in pearl-gray satin, which felt smooth and cool to the touch. When I first entered her bedroom, I stared at the opulent display of curtains, pelmets, tassels, and large embroidered M’s. It was worlds apart from what I had grown up with. Nineteenth century–like, it was showier and more Parisian in decor than London homes, which were reputed for their low-key, effortless attitude. At a loss for words, I was in a state that can only be compared to Kay’s when he climbs into the sleigh of the Snow Queen in Hans Christian Andersen’s tale.