Photographer Christopher Makos, who accompanied Andy and Fred, recalls going to lunch at Stanway, the Neidpaths’ Jacobean manor house in Gloucestershire, two hours outside London. “Camping up the fact that she was Lady Neidpath, she made a big fancy luncheon for us,” he says. “And got this big fancy Rolls-Royce to take us there.”
Andy hadn’t attended Catherine’s wedding in July 1983. I did, and also went to a pre-party given by her betrothed. The pre-party left a mark because it was the first time I heard about AIDS. A Time magazine cover was totally freaking everyone out. I didn’t think much about the threat, presuming it would eventually disappear. The phenomenon of Narcotics Anonymous affected me more. Suddenly the worst types of junkies and coke addicts from the upper and middle classes were squeaky clean, vulnerable, and attending NA meetings. The big expression was “Have a cup of coffee and share.” It was positive news on every front. And at her wedding ball, Catherine had included a stronghold of coffee and tea for her NA pals who were either sharing or rustling around in the bushes—having rediscovered the joys of sex.
In many ways, the wedding felt like my last society ball because it included every generation of the smart families I knew, was intimate in atmosphere, and ended with a carefree skinny-dip in the swimming pool. It was the final hurrah before my father died and my life nosedived.
As soon as I heard about the shading on Poppa’s lung, I knew it was curtains. His doctor tried to operate and my father had a stroke. He was installed at St Thomas’ Hospital, across the river from the Houses of Parliament, and I would take the 12 or 88 bus to get there. Like others in my situation, I would sit by his side, take his hand, and talk. Occasionally, I’d say, “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” He did. But ten days later, on March 6, 1984, he was gone. The commiseration letters became a solace. My first was from Kate Morris, one of my best friends; it was popped through the letterbox at midnight. All the others were equally touching, often referring to my father’s principles, courage, and tolerance of the younger generation. Still, I was shattered and suffered a six-month haze of intense sadness that I doubted would ever lift.
That was until Frederick William John Augustus Hervey—aka John Jermyn, aka “the jerm”—announced his engagement. He was notorious for his affairs with Rupert Everett and other gay beauties, so it was quite mad. No doubt, it was a result of becoming the Seventh Marquess of Bristol and deciding that he needed an heir for a family, whose motto was “I shall never forget.”
Needless to say, the men outnumbered the women at the wedding ball in September 1984. Still, I was always grateful for the event because I met Ian Irving, a silver specialist at Sotheby’s. He resembled Paul Newman, but with a certain Botticellian extravagance to his features. As was typical for him, Andy Warhol was chummy with the British-born, New York–based Ian. He had also featured him in Interview. Most important, it was Ian who persuaded me to leave England, recognizing that I was dissatisfied and could do something with my energy in the United States. After my father’s death, I had an urge to break free from family ties and be independent.
“Go and stay with Fred Hughes first,” Ian advised. “Share your plans with him and then come back to live.” Fred had helped many Englishwomen arriving in New York. And according to Vincent Fremont, it used to drive Andy nuts. “He’d say, ‘I can’t believe Fred, he’s paying all the bills.’” There was also the matter of “the whole closet full of women’s clothes” in his house. “Everybody left their belongings there, like it was a hotel,” continues Fremont.
As ever, Fred was a generous host. Naturally, we dined with Andy. But career-wise, Fred suggested that I stick to the agency world. His argument being that I had already stuck at it for a good two years. Before telling Ros and Michael, I received a negative response from Milton Goldman, a top New York agent and a friend of my parents. His loss, I arrogantly thought. By the end of March 1985, everything was sorted. I had sold my British Telecom shares—purchased with the five thousand pounds I had solely inherited from my father—but it was when Annabel Brooks invited me to stay in Los Angeles that my West Coast adventure really began.
Beforehand, I met with two top talent agents in New York, Sam Cohn and Robert Lantz. They were about as keen to meet me as they were to drink ink. But I was persistent, sensing the importance. In spite of my being warned to the contrary, Cohn was delightful. Like director Willy Wyler, he was one of those gap-toothed powerhouses. A star in his game, he was living with actress Dianne Wiest and representing Meryl Streep and directors like Mike Nichols. “Listen, Broadway is dead at the moment and only Hollywood is happening,” he advised. Lantz, who was quite different, Mitteleuropean in style with clients like Liv Ullmann, agreed with Cohn. “Go to Los Angeles, because you’re young enough for a life of swimming pools and palm trees.” He then added, “My only problem is that you seem so calm and the agency business is everything but.” I assured him that since I was English, I hid my inner hysteria. I did, actually.
People often complain that Los Angeles is a boring place to live. Not after quitting England—a liberating feeling that has never, ever left. And not when staying with Annabel Brooks and Damian Harris meant joining their social swirl. It included breakfasts at the farmers’ market, Sunday brunches at director Tony Richardson’s, baby showers and other parties via hip couple Nick and Lisa Love, cozy suppers at Sabrina Guinness’s Spanish Colonial pad, or hanging with actors Rachel Ward and Bryan Brown in Malibu.
The Harris house, situated on Hollywood Boulevard, was described by Catherine Oxenberg, a Dynasty actress, as resembling “a grown-up Wendy’s house.” Light-filled, it was welcoming and childlike because usually some terrible but fairly harmless drama would be happening. In the back, there was a set of apartments rented to actors like Eric Stoltz, who’d just made Mask; the infinitely more wonderful James Spader (his mother was a Canadian Fraser!); and casting agent Andrea Stone, whose Barbie-doll proportions defined California babe.
At the time, Damian, Richard Harris’s son, was preparing “The Nights of the Realm” an unrealized film project that was set to star Daryl Hannah and Rupert Everett and would be produced by Cassian Elwes, Damian’s childhood friend. Annabel, a former model, was taking lessons with Peggy Feury, a great acting coach whose other students included Nicolas Cage and Anjelica Huston. But in no time, Annabel became my partner in crime. We shared secrets but mostly jokes that only an Englishwoman would understand. She introduced me to my first flatmate—a disaster; he turned out to be a 24/7 cokehead. I stopped her from doing a skin flick with a character who insisted that everyone began that way, including Jane Fonda. There was also the time that our Sunday buffet lunch almost poisoned key Hollywood players like the agent John Burnham. Hard to believe, but after making a hazelnut meringue cake, we took the leftover yolks and added them to the mayonnaise for the coronation chicken. The complaints began on Monday and lasted all week.
Just as Damian was broody and intense—imagine Brad Pitt’s features but set off by thick dark hair and blue eyes—the sweet-natured and compassionate Annabel resembled a six-foot Sasha doll, with legendarily long legs and a metabolism that burned up dairy and sugar. The dark-haired and green-eyed Annabel also smoked. Sought out for her prowess on the tennis court, she shocked her fellow players when she lit up after each game and merrily puffed away.
She and I used to swim in the swimming pool of Tony Richardson, the British director who’d won an Academy Award for Tom Jones and had been married to Vanessa Redgrave. His house off Sunset Boulevard—a paradise of lemon trees and well-tended exotic plants—had previously belonged to Linda Lovelace. It was the ideal setting for Tony’s lunches, which included his daughters Natasha and Joely when they were around; artists David Hockney and Don Bachardy; actors Buck Henry and Fiona Lewis; writers like Brian Moore and Joan Didion and her husband, John Gregory Dunne. At the rowdy, casual affairs, the food consisted of quiches and cheesecakes from Tony’s favorite bakery on Melrose Avenue.
At one of Tony’s lunches, I met Jon Bradshaw, an American journalist and writer. Tony couldn’t stick Bradshaw—he really didn’t have much time for macho buccaneer charmers, and preferred his wife, the producer Carolyn Pfeiffer—but Bradshaw became a pal. Viewing himself as my mentor, he used to take me out for tea or dinner and say, “You have to write, it’s ridiculous that you don’t.” He even called Tina Brown about it. Having left Tatler, she was running Vanity Fair. But it was a little early for that.
Another couple who adopted me were Veronique and Gregory Peck. I’d met them through Ian Irving, who knew their daughter, Cecilia. They had lunches in their Bel-Air home, where Hal Ashby had filmed Shampoo. Through the likes of Sabrina and Earl McGrath, a gallery owner, I met quite a few male stars, such as Dan Aykroyd, Warren Beatty, Michael Douglas, Rob Lowe, and Judd Nelson, but no one came close to Gregory Peck. Obviously there was that Atticus Finch voice—swoon—as well as a mix of dignity and humor. As for his French wife, a former Paris Match journalist, she was gutsy. The type to wear a series of Tina Turner wigs at lunch and get away with it.
Via Damian, I became the assistant of Joe Rosenberg, a literary agent at the Triad Artists Agency. In the mid-’80s, it had a roster of über-agents like Arnold Rifkin, Nicole David, Lee Rosenberg, and Ronda Gomez, while their clients included Tina Turner, Sam Shepard, Bruce Willis, Johnny Depp, and Alvin Sargent, the Oscar-winning screenwriter.
A good place to land, Triad was full of young guns determined to prove themselves. I sat in a cubicle across from Joe’s office and would put calls through and keep dragons at bay—like Tracey Jacobs, an excellent agent who I snootily decided lacked manners. That said, I got into trouble for using the c word. There was a look of shocked horror on the faces on my fellow assistants, until Holli, the assistant of agent Ronda Gomez, came over and said, “We don’t use that word in America.” I was mildly surprised, since I thought the endless use of the word “asshole” was a lot more offensive. But I certainly wasn’t going to argue. When in Hollywood . . .
Ensconced at my cubicle, I would argue with everyone about films, books, and actors—I didn’t care if they were senior or important—and it led to my promotion, after only six months. That was the beginning of the end of my happiness at Triad. Officially, I was a junior agent, but unofficially I became a traffic cop for Caitlin Buchman, Triad’s New York–based book agent. I would keep an eye out on books that she was hustling to make into films. It led to a few strange meetings with producers. “I want books like my clothes, I want hip books,” said the producer Wendy Finerman. And having been voluptuous and opinionated at my assistant’s cubicle, I became voluptuous and isolated in my grand office. As for the Triad staff meetings, in order to disguise my inertia and laziness, I spewed out endless nonsense in the best British accent. Occasionally, I would catch the eye of agents Michael Kane, Tracy Kramer, and Bob Hohman. They would smile and occasionally wink. Those guys knew exactly what I was up to but were too chivalrous to blow my cover. Alas, Caitlin, who was physically a cross between Lauren Bacall and Katharine Hepburn, set booby traps at every instance.
Around this period, I attracted the attention of Malcolm McLaren. Kitted out in the loudest flowery surfer shorts, his appearance was nothing like his one in England. “Do I know you?” was how he began our first conversation. “Not really,” I replied. “But my friends and I used to scream at you to make us into a star.” We did. Malcolm would be buying fudge fingers and other candy from a newsagent in South Kensington and we’d be standing outside saying, “Oi, Malcolm, make us into a star.” As already mentioned, he was the punk world’s Andy Warhol and really did have that power to transform lives.
It turned out that Malcolm had a three-picture deal at CBS Studios that included projects like “Surfing Nazi Warlords” and “Art Boy,” and Fans, which he was cowriting with Menno Meyjes, one of Steven Spielberg’s favorite writers. Officially, he was going out with Lauren Hutton, but because she was working more on the East Coast, she was rarely with him. It was also a feisty relationship that was more off than on, or so Malcolm claimed.
He had his own particular way of courting, which was calling on a daily basis and booming, “What’s up, then?” I didn’t mind. And within no time, he joined the Harris family fold. It was hard not to be fond of “Talcy Malcy,” as he occasionally referred to himself; he had a brilliant mind and an excellent sense of humor. Malcolm’s relationship with others was best defined by a tale concerning Chris Blackwell, the owner of Island Records, and his girlfriend Nathalie Delon, a French actress. Chris was driving, Malcolm was in the back, and Nathalie turned around and said, “Malcolm, Chriiis, he ’ate you and he love you.” This used to make Malcolm and me snort. But many felt that about him.
Initially, his two glaring weaknesses were tipping and driving. Malcolm would bum endless cigarettes from waiters and waitresses and forget to tip. This led to my grabbing his wallet, seizing his dollars, and his quickly squawking, “Well, I like the way you spend my money.” As for his frenetic driving, it brought to mind Harpo Marx. As he sped all over the place, I gripped on for dear life. It was crazy that he was let loose on the road.
Whenever Malcolm drank, it led to an incident. On one occasion, he jumped on top of Ileen Maisel, his executive at CBS. It was at the Ivy Restaurant and he called her “a carpet muncher” who dared to steal his ideas. Typically, I didn’t know what a “carpet muncher” was. There was also the time that Daryl Hannah, in a baby voice, introduced herself and said, “Hi, we met with Jackson [Browne] and we ate sweet potato chips and . . .” With a quizzical look on his face, he interrupted her and said, “Don’t worry, I believe you.” Daryl, then a Hollywood mermaid from the big box-office hit, was furious. But Malcolm didn’t care. “She’s going out with Jackson Browne, for God’s sake. MOR [middle of the road], dear, MOR.” Nevertheless, he was shy and low-key when I took him to Swifty Lazar’s Oscar party, the 1980s version of the Vanity Fair one. In fact, it was I who got punchy. Swifty had purposely forgotten to put my name down. He was like that. So I acted tough—pretending that it was a Ramones gig—but super grand. The British accent helped. And like a teeny bespectacled turtle, Swifty appeared and then let me in. The first person we saw was Lionel Richie, who was smooching with Elizabeth Taylor. We were as surprised as pop singer George Michael was. “I don’t know anyone here,” the British singer lamented. He actually did but just wasn’t on first-name terms with them, since Swifty had “more stars than there are in heaven,” to quote studio head Louis B. Mayer.
Most of the night was spent chatting with George Michael, which I found surprising because Malcolm was quite a loathed figure in the music industry. However, I learned a quick lesson about the famous: In a social situation, they will fall and greet each other like members of a lost tribe.
This happened again at the premiere of Alex Cox’s film Sid & Nancy, the biopic film about Sid Vicious that also featured Anne Lambton. The first person Malcolm and I ran into was Steve Jones, a former member of the Sex Pistols. I was expecting an almighty argument. Steve and others from the band had publicly accused Malcolm of running off with all the dosh. Instead, Steve wanted his advice on everything including the fact that his daughter was going out with a “sooty.” “A sooty,” I said. “What’s that?” Steve looked a bit horrified. I guess it was my posh accent and ignorance. In fact, “sooty” was British slang for a black person; it was taken from a TV puppet series.
Malcolm was convinced that, out of his three film projects, “Art Boy” had legs. His argument being that the art world was the new rock and roll. Jeff Koons was getting attention, but it was well before Damien Hirst became famous. However, in his wily way, Malcolm sensed that the art world was about to explode. Naturally, he mentioned Andy Warhol with regard to “Art Boy.” “Everyone wants to be a young Andy,” he reasoned.
Meanwhile, the old Andy was starting to create an impact with his MTV program. Andy Warhol’s Fifteen Minutes started ai
ring in 1985 and featured interviews with the known from the art, fashion, and rock-and-roll worlds, as well as the undiscovered, like Courtney Love or Frank Zappa’s kids. It had endless potential. And when Fred Hughes asked whether I would be interested in getting involved, I jumped at the chance. “You’ll have to move to New York,” he said.
It happened at the ideal moment for two reasons: Triad had fired me—yes, they finally managed to get rid of me—and then there was the birthday party where no one came. I am not exaggerating. It was for a friend from London who had just been chucked by his wife, another friend.
I’d always entertained to great success in London. The word party and the promise of wine and/or food led to droves of pals in the early 1980s. But LA—the film factory in the sun—wasn’t like that. Most people in the business suffered from the “something better” syndrome. So even if they accepted, it didn’t mean anything, especially if something more important turned up. In this case, that night’s superior invitation was Carrie Fisher’s thirtieth-birthday party. Not only was she a huge star and the ex–Mrs. Paul Simon, but she was genuinely popular. As a result, I sat with my newly dumped married friend surrounded by large bowls of chicken drumsticks, corn on the cob, and salads, as well as an enormous birthday cake with loud, colorful icing that seemed to grow each time it caught my eye. At about midnight, Damian and Annabel turned up. And I could hear him saying, “Listen, we’re only going to spend half an hour here and then go.” However, when he discovered that no one had turned up, he went into a Rumpelstiltskin-type rage. “Whaaat?” he yelled. “We just left a really good dinner party.” Annabel, as always, was her adorable and caring self. But the entire experience did make me wonder what I was doing in Los Angeles.
After Andy Page 12