True, many parties were promotional, but such events were new and thrilling to London—they began after the election of Margaret Thatcher—and there was a ton of champagne to be quaffed. Tom Bell could be counted upon to arrive with a gaggle of women like Mitey Roche and me. Mitey was the daughter of the poet Paul Roche, known for his relationship with Duncan Grant, the Bloomsbury group painter, while her American mother, Clarissa, had been Sylvia Plath’s close friend. Armed by our dyed black hair—the L’Oréal shade was “Brasilia”—and a ton of eye shadow, with prominent cleavage in tow, Mitey and I would make a complete exhibition of ourselves. Such soirées varied in tone, but we always caught attention with our youth and brashness.
Occasionally, we would go too far. Actor Oliver Tobias’s fiesta jumps to mind. Suavely handsome, he was famous for one film—The Stud—that costarred Joan Collins, his older and fabulous-looking lover. Mitey and I managed to break some potted exotic plants and then get locked in the powder room—the place of choice to take cocaine. As a result, we encountered the wrath of the Stud. He told us to fuck off and leave. Far from being terrified, we collapsed in a heap, laughing.
There were also all the evenings spent at 11 Park Walk, the restaurant off the Fulham Road that was run by a group of Italians who had earned their stripes at Mr Chow. The management never fraternized with the customers: an unusual formula. Instead, they were phenomenally efficient and skilled at seating everyone.
There was a mirrored staircase that led down to the eatery where people checked out either their makeup or their noses for white powder traces. On any given night, there were groups of friends who tended to be swigging back the white wine and generally showing off. Few people had money in London then, but those who were wealthy, like Jasper Guinness, the brother of Catherine Hesketh, were fantastically generous. They picked up the bill for twelve people without question.
There was always a sea of social activities, whether it was a crummy but entertaining eighteenth-birthday party in Battersea or a smart drinks party celebrating Wimbledon given by Patricia Rothermere, the wife of the press baron who owned the Daily Mail and the Evening Standard newspapers. She was also the mother of Geraldine Harmsworth, the fourth English Muffin.
Showing customary extravagance, Lady Rothermere—nicknamed “Bubbles” in the press for her love of champagne—gave a party for Andy. As did Lord and Lady Lambton—the parents of Anne Lambton, whom the artist had actually proposed to. “I had just had this massive car crash,” she recalls. “And my father came in and said, ‘You’re not going to marry this Warhol character, are you?’ I was in my hospital bed and said, ‘I don’t think so.’”
Discharging herself from the hospital and wearing a neck brace, Anne had attended her parents’ party for Andy. “It was fantastic,” she recalls. “My mother was dancing with what she thought was a black man.” It was a transvestite. Whereas her father talking to Andy “was like China talking to America. They didn’t understand one word [the other said].” A curious aside: Sabrina Guinness points out, “In London, parties were always being given for Andy and it was an era when people didn’t.” The artist incited that. According to Nicholas Coleridge, the world of Warhol, Fred Hughes, and Bob Colacello was “considered fashionable by Tatler because of the English people working there. That’s what cool girls did,” he says.
One Tatler highlight that lacked Andy and company was the Belvoir ball. Extremely grand and given by the Duke and Duchess of Rutland, it was for their daughter Lady Theresa Manners, who’d been at St. Mary’s Ascot with me. I had never seen so many diamond tiaras in my life. Suddenly women who lived in Barbour jackets and tweed skirts were transformed by the family jewels. The dark side of the party were the upper-class junkies. From a distance they looked Sargent-like and romantic in their white tails or black tie, but when viewed up close, it was obvious their eyes were pinned. I met a society beauty on the main staircase who burst into floods of tears because her boyfriend couldn’t “score,” putting him in a foul mood.
One junkie scene remains stamped in my memory. It happened at an apartment in Earl’s Court. Three guys had just chased the dragon: strips of burned tinfoil were all over the floor. They were watching The Texas Chain Saw Massacre—it was at the noisiest, most violent scene in the movie—and they alternated between nodding off and opening their eyes, showing pale blue, lifeless orbs. Apparently there was a cool factor to heroin, the ultimate escapist drug. I never got it. The self-indulgence and deadbeat, dank aspect defined depressing.
A familiar scenario during the height of taking smack was going to dinner parties where the table was emptied of eighty percent of the guests, who were either taking heroin or organizing their next fix or having a meltdown because someone had stolen their fix. A lot of whining went on, as it can with addictive behavior. One plus point was befriending Robin Hurlstone, the art dealer. I didn’t know who the mysterious, good-looking blond was, but I certainly wondered. Yet again, he and I were left alone at a table, in the company of everyone else’s food, and then he leaned over and said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
09 A Whirl with Michael J
When I had lunched with Andy Warhol, fellow guest Harry Bailey mentioned his portraits of Mick Jagger. He reasoned that the portfolio, done in 1975, was one of his best. Harry was gay, extremely handsome, and a big flirt. When talking, or rather, when gossiping, he asked if I had met Mick. “Nooo,” I said, and pulled a face. As if to say, “Why would I be interested in that old man?” (Mick was thirty-six.) At the time, Mitey Roche and I were really into flirting with skinheads, then a post-punk, apolitical subculture linked to bands like the Specials and other ska music. We did have our standards. They had to be funny, blue-eyed, and extremely cute, as well as look suitably lithe in their white T-shirts and Levi’s. Not that it went anywhere, in my case.
I talked about my skinhead passion to Harry, who dismissed it as being a bit silly and rebellious. He had a point. The skinheads represented a certain shock value. And he kept on about Michael J (this was the nickname my mother later gave to the British-born rock star). “You’ll like Mick,” he said. “He’s funny.” It was strange that he was saying all this under the nose of Bianca, Mick’s first wife, but Harry was a mischievous lounge lizard who liked to stir the pot. Alas, he was also one of the early victims of AIDS, closely followed by his boyfriend Adrian Ward-Jackson. The latter caught the British press’s attention because Princess Diana was at his beck and call.
Six months later, I met Mick on Sam Spiegel’s boat off the South of France. Sometimes it’s odd how holidays turn out. “With freshly inked hair,” to requote Tina Brown, I had gone to Saint-Tropez with my cousin Christabel McEwen. We went by sleeper train—then the cheapest way possible—and took fairly inappropriate clothes, like stiletto shoes and thrift-shop 1950s strapless dresses.
We stayed at Sam’s villa, Mas d’Horizon, which was just near Saint-Raphael. The house party consisted of his teenage son, Adam; one of Adam’s school friends; a nanny; and Margot, a Dutch nymphet and favorite of David Hamilton, the soft-porn lens man. With her white-blond hair and honey-colored limbs, she was fairly typical for a Spiegelette, my nickname for Sam’s gals. When she was not playing topless tennis, she sat alone. After I tried to talk to her, it was obvious that we had no subject in common. She found me trite and I found her humorless.
Still, I was intrigued. Sam became different around her. Initially, he had complained to his masseur that she wasn’t “experienced enough.” Experienced to do what, I wondered. Most afternoons, she and Sam would disappear into his bedroom accompanied by the masseur. And there were also her portraits in David Hamilton’s book, featuring her with long legs wide apart or resembling a provocative milkmaid in transparent white lacy garb.
Two other young women arrived for Sam’s pleasure, but they stayed on Malahne, his boat. They were American college girls who looked terrific in bikinis but resembled hotel hostesses at night: silk dr
esses, elaborate hairdos, and heavy makeup. It was slightly strange considering the heat. Then the dynamics changed when Mick arrived with Jerry Hall and his daughter Jade to stay on Sam’s boat. He had been invited via Ahmet Ertegun, his producer and the owner of Atlantic Records.
During dinner, Mick was his cheeky chappie self. The Americans knew not to engage—Sam was extremely possessive—yet it was very hard not to smile. On form, no one was more bright or entertaining. Mick began to get more and more impish and Sam began to growl. The American Spiegelettes were sent to the end of the table, and suddenly Mick found himself next to Christabel and me. We were having a fine old time until Sam came over and said, “Mick, you are monopolizing my English girls,” and he said, “No, Sam, they’re monopolizing me.” Mr. Spieeegel, as Greta Garbo referred to him, was furious. “How dare he?” he said later, and indeed continued in the same rant while driving us back home to his villa. Meanwhile, Christabel and I sat in the back, refusing to engage.
Fun and games continued when Mick, Jerry, and Jade hit the swimming pool at Sam’s villa. Mick got hold of a giant water pistol and started fooling around. Calmly, I sat and watched him from a sunbed. Running around like a little boy, he was urging everyone to join in. The mix of humor and energy was endearing until he came over and tried to pull Christabel and me into the pool. “No, Mick,” we said firmly. A tug-of-war began. He then rushed off when Ahmet Ertegun—his next victim—appeared. The potbellied musical powerhouse soon had his arms around both American college girls. I wondered if Mick would dare to push him in, but he didn’t. It had been enjoyable spying his antics from a distance.
On Mick’s last night, I sat next to Jerry. From that one conversation, I learned about the fashion world: the relationship among designers, photographers, and models. Naturally, I was delighted when she said that I resembled Esmé Marshall, a dark-haired American supermodel with large eyes and powerful eyebrows. “You both have similar cameo-like profiles,” she said. Jerry mentioned this to Mick, who sort of grunted. Attention could never be off him for too long. Taking it further, Jerry said, “Natasha is so pretty that she should be photographed by Terence [Donovan] or Bailey.” And Mick came out with, “Well, her tits are big enough.” Talk about uncouth. Bristling inside, I ignored him all evening. Since they were leaving in the morning by helicopter, there was an informal gathering of good-byes. I joined in and was surprised when Mick grabbed me and said, “See you in London.” I replied, “Yes, see you with Jerry.” He then repeated, “See you in London.”
I thought nothing of it until a few weeks later when Mum informed that Mick had called. He’d spoken to my sister Rebecca, who had said, “Who is this?” “Mick,” he replied. “Mick who?” she asked. “Mick Jagger,” he said. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,” she said. This still makes me smile.
I called the Chelsea number when I returned to London a few weeks later. It was Monday, and Mick guessed that I’d eaten ham and potatoes. “How did you know that?” I asked. “Because everyone eats ham for lunch in England on Monday,” he said.
Our first date was seeing a Stevie Wonder concert. Robert Fraser, a gallery owner and Andy intimate, accompanied us. It was a relief that we weren’t alone. When arriving at Wembley Stadium, we bumped into Sting, or rather, a contrite and morose-looking Sting came up to Mick. “Listen, I’m really sorry about the NME [New Musical Express article]. I was misquoted . . .” After the apologetic diatribe, Mick smiled and very politely said, “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sting looked surprised. And of course Mick had read the article, was still seething about Sting’s unflattering description of the Rolling Stones, but wisely knew not to engage because it furthered Sting’s awkwardness.
A case of “Don’t mess with the Mick.” Nevertheless, I was impressed and reminded of Harold during that period. Both were kings in their world and knew how to pace themselves and play the role. Like Andy, they had that grounded “I’ve got to keep the lights on” attitude. I mention this because it does take a mix of inner discipline and strength of character to achieve this.
The Stevie Wonder concert was fine. He was an excellent performer, just not my taste. Every other song, he would refer to his friends in the sixth or seventh row. The spotlight would turn, and it was obvious from their way of swaying that they were all blind. “He always does that,” said Mick. “That’s a bit manipulative, isn’t it?” I said. Mick smiled but didn’t say anything.
In the car journey toward 11 Park Walk, Mick occasionally stroked my leg and said, “I’m going to look after you.” It made me arch and made me regret my choice of cheap camouflage skirt, whose zipper kept riding up my thigh. Mick was fun at dinner but slightly cruel to a starstruck couple. When we went to Tramp nightclub, he was more in his element. After a while, I got bored of the fawning conversation and crowd. Standing up, I bid farewell to Mick and headed for the stairs. He looked rather put out, but I didn’t care. However, just as I hit the staircase, “Some Girls” began to play. And I hastily returned to his side. Little did I know that he had already complained about my abrupt behavior. “I wore a suit, picked her up, took her to a Stevie Wonder concert, then dinner, and she leaves like that,” he had said to Robert Fraser, who had been delighted to repeat this to Oliver Musker, Anne Lambton’s brother-in-law, who had been delighted to repeat this to me. And in a nutshell that was the problem of getting involved with someone like Mick. There was no hope of privacy.
Still, that night, I was floating when I left the nightclub. Mick had the power to intoxicate. We took a taxi to his rented flat in the Boltons, he signed an autograph for the cabdriver, and then I freaked when we arrived inside. “Listen, Mick, I’m not sleeping with you,” I said. He was unruffled by my mini explosion. Within minutes, he was helping me brush my teeth, and when the lights went out, my cotton sweater, cheap skirt, and everything else were swiftly whipped off. Mick was very sweet and thoughtful, and made me laugh. I liked being nicknamed “Natty Dread.” (Bob Marley was one of my heroes.) Still, I wasn’t then or ever in love with him. He was a burning light who belonged to Jerry.
Foolishly I had changed schools. I left the regularity of lessons at Queen’s College, overseen by Mrs. Fiertz, the inspired and wonderful headmistress, for reckless abandon at Mander Portman Woodward tutorials. In my last term at Queen’s College, Mrs. Fiertz came up and said, “I hear you’re leaving us, Natasha.” I felt skewered on the spot because she and I had had a lovely rapport. Mrs. Fiertz was direct to the point of bluntness—she thought nothing of asking pupils, “Are you pregnant, dear, or have you just been eating too much?”—but she cared for everyone’s welfare.
However, I wanted freedom that came via Mander Portman Woodward’s schedule, even if I rarely turned up. My absence got to a point that my exasperated mother turned to me during a traffic jam—once again, we had been hauled in to meet with the concerned heads of the establishment—and she said, “I feel that I’m going to this place more than you are.”
In general, Mum rose above my antics and was tolerant of my friends. However, it annoyed her when she found them spending the night. After a while, she attached a large pin that she found in one of my brother’s rooms to her Liberty print housecoat. It stated: Your story has truly touched me to the heart. Never before have I heard such a tragic tale. Now fuck off and quit bothering me. It summed up her growing attitude toward finding sleeping youths, at all hours, in the basement area.
Another place to pass out or eat at ungodly hours was 213 King’s Road, the house belonging to Bindy Lambton, the mother of Anne Lambton, and her brother Ned Durham, who was my contemporary. Whatever the gig, whether the Boomtown Rats (my first rock concert), Chrissie Hynde (her first in London), or the most revered Ramones (I must have seen them about five times), a gang of people that might include Hugh Cummings, Celestria Fenwick, Valentine Lindsay, Christabel McEwen, and Mitey ended up chez Ned and wolfed down cauliflower cheese or other delicious dishes that had been left
out by Maria, Bindy’s Spanish housekeeper.
Ned was paranoid about being taken advantage of. Playing the great judge of character, friends would be “in,” then suddenly “out.” But the appearance of a punkish aristocratic impostor fooled even Ned. The young man claimed to be the son of Spenny Compton, the Marquess of Northampton, an aristocrat who was not in our parents’ circle. He also claimed to have tons of money and dye his hair blue-black when driven to school by the family chauffeur. It all sounded so outrageous and cool. We ignored that his accent was not posh. Nor did anyone bother to look at Debrett’s Peerage—the great tome that records the birthdates of the noble and titled. Had we done so, we’d have seen that Spenny was born in 1946: making him a fourteen-year-old father. Fortunately, our reputation was saved by Kathryn Ireland.
Kathryn has become one of Hollywood’s top interior decorators. At the time, she did public relations at Tokyo Joe’s, a happening nightclub, even if their one record, according to Nicholas Coleridge, was “Celebration Time, Come On.” Being sharp to the ways of the world—imagine “pussy pelmet” dresses and announcing her engagement to Tokyo Joe’s doorman to get publicity—Kathryn nursed her doubts about the aristocratic impostor. When he called his chauffeur, Kathryn picked up the telephone line in another room and discovered that he was actually calling Tim, the talking clock: a number in England that gave the time. Naturally, we were all annoyed to have been conned. The ever-defensive Ned pretended otherwise.
Meanwhile, hanging out with Mick was both a laugh and educational. He’d arrange for Alan, his minder, to pick me up from my home. Early-afternoon screenings were arranged of films like Dog Day Afternoon. The director Sidney Lumet was interested in casting Mick for a role. He took me to see Buñuel’s Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie at the Minema in Knightsbridge. The choice of restaurants, like Ken Lo’s Memories of China, was delicious. He’d talk about upcoming projects like Werner Herzog’s movie Fitzcarraldo. The German director had fallen out with his muse—Klaus Kinski—and wanted to replace him with Mick. Physically, there was a resemblance.
After Andy Page 9