Less than a week later, I opened an envelope from Tracey containing two poems written in her distinctive sloping hand. I asked the furniture design duo Precious McBane to make a new bed for me, and they embroidered Tracey’s poems on the headboard:
Oh God you made me feel so beautiful
And then I wanted to feel it again and again.
And then the lines that expressed it all:
With myself, by myself
Never forgetting.
Next I visited Grayson Perry in his house in east London, thinking that a Grayson urn for my ashes on the mantelpiece would be a solid reminder of mortality.
‘So Vanessa, tell me, what’s going on in your life?’
‘Well Grayson, I don’t know really where to begin…’
A month later I picked up a giant pot of glorious playfulness. On the lid Grayson had crafted a ridiculous masturbating ape burnished in gold. Scratched into the pot were images of Prince Charles, his hat embossed with the word ‘tampon’, motor bikes, photos of alluring young women with pouting lips labelled ‘marriage wrecker’ and drawings of fat middle-aged men with drooping breasts and sagging scrotums. On the front of the pot was boldly written: ‘Homage to the Midlife Crisis’. Oh joy.
Walking into the Sadie Coles Gallery, I was confronted with a huge photo of Sarah Lucas, her naked bottom barely covered by a T-shirt with ‘COMPLETE ARSEHOLE’ scrawled on the back. As my depression began to lift, art was taking on meaning again.
Lawyers had told me I would be within my rights to restrict Robert’s access to the children to one night every other weekend, but I knew that would do no one any favours. Robert was a good father, and the kids needed him. Instead, he came to the house to take them to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, put them to bed on Wednesdays and had them to stay in Sussex every other weekend. We agreed to share the holidays.
Previously, except for the weekends when we’d gone to Morocco and Italy, I’d rarely spent time apart from the children – my world was bound up in their rhythms. The first weekend they went to Sussex, I tried to sound excited for them as I strapped Ivo into the baby-seat in the back of Robert’s Shogun, reassuring them that I was going to have a lovely weekend too, and waved enthusiastically until they were out of sight.
Then I walked back into the house, leaned against the front door and unable to deal with my misery, screamed so hard that I had a panic attack and collapsed on the floor. From then on, knowing that this was a faultline in my self-control, I set myself a routine: I’d wave them off, go back into the house, make myself a cup of tea and a plate of Marmite toast, take it up to my bedroom, light the fire, close the door and climb into bed to watch a DVD. Two hours later, I’d emerge, ready to face the weekend.
Generous friends offered me hospitality with open arms but, without my children I felt the urge to break free from family life – it was time for me to do things for myself. The problem was, I didn’t know how. The idea of lighting a candle in a room with only me in it seemed ridiculous. Selecting a film to watch on my own became a conundrum of significant proportions, though Simon from Video City on Notting Hill Gate patiently recommended film after film having witnessed me staring blankly at the brimming shelves. I’d never bought food with only myself in mind before and had never planned a weekend or gone to an exhibition without first consulting Robert, or family or friends. I’d barely ever slept in a house on my own, let alone spent a whole weekend alone.
On returning to London one weekend, I was appalled to see that a new neighbour had felled a magnificent, protected plane tree, which had screened out a block of flats and made our garden feel like an ancient wood. In London, if you cut a tree down without the permission of the borough council, you face a £20,000 fine – a drop in the ocean when you stand to make a couple of million pounds on the house you can build in its place. After the previous six months of deception, I’d become hypersensitive to anyone who wasn’t straightforward with me. I walked around and rang the front door, and my new neighbour answered. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My name is Vanessa and I’m your neighbour.’
He put out his hand, a smile on his face. ‘I’m Igor,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Would you mind telling me what happened to the tree behind your house,’ I asked calmly.
‘Oh, that tree,’ Igor replied. ‘I’m afraid the builders cut the roots by accident and it died.’
I put my hands on either side of Igor’s face, grabbed his ears and shook his head with all my might. ‘Don’t you lie to me!’ I shouted as his head bobbed up and down. Then, not knowing what to do, I just let go of his ears and walked away. For years afterwards, before we eventually became friends, he would cross to the other side of the road if he saw me coming. My new sensitivity to dishonesty became a twitching antenna and was to get me into trouble more than once.
One night, my friend from New York, David Teiger, invited me to the Savoy for a glass of champagne before we went on to a grand dinner. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, and I smiled, knowing that this was always his opening line. ‘Now, tell me, Vanessa, how have you been?’
I had plenty to tell him, but found it hard to know where to begin. Years earlier, he had taken Fiona Whitney and me out for dinner in New York. We’d chatted away all evening and told him our impressions of America, two naïve girls throwing around superficial opinions with little respect for our cultured host. During coffee, he had written something on his paper napkin and pushed it quietly towards me. ‘Don’t Tell, Ask,’ it said.
Now, remembering the napkin, I responded, ‘David, you tell me your news first.’
‘I’ve been buying Sarah Lucas over Tracey Emin – her work seems to have more substance. What do you think?’
‘I find it hard to have a subjective opinion. I love Tracey’s straightforward honesty – she speaks to the crazy, vulnerable, hormone-driven side of all of us.’
‘Ah,’ said David, ‘so life’s not exactly on an even keel.’ He ordered a bottle of Krug and I filled him in on my latest sorry tales. As we stood up to leave for the dinner, I wobbled on my heels. ‘Steady, Vanessa – maybe you should eat something,’ he said.
Our taxi swept through the grand entrance gates to Number One, London, the Duke of Wellington’s London residence, and David steadied me as I negotiated the steps. The dinner was to celebrate the achievements of the Tiger Fund, an investment vehicle that had made colossal returns for a few chosen investors, largely as a result of the CEO’s relationships with world leaders and opinion-makers. David introduced me to our host, who then introduced us to Margaret Thatcher, who in turn simply ignored us. ‘One sip of wine before dinner won’t hurt,’ I thought as I grabbed a glass from a passing waiter.
I don’t remember much about dinner other than listening to the speech by Julian, the Tiger Fund CEO, as he detailed the fund’s mind-boggling success; the contented murmurs of the diners laughing at his self-effacing quips and the applause as he assured them that their fortunes were going to grow exponentially and all they had to do was take pleasure in spending the money.
I looked around at the crowd’s taut faces, sequins, perfect postures jutting clavicles and coiffed hair, and turned to the man sitting to my right. ‘Are you absolutely loaded, too?’ I asked. He looked a little surprised. ‘I mean, I know you must be if you’re here, but I just want to know – where does the growth come from? What makes all this money make 10–15 per cent per annum? The profits must be coming from somewhere – someone must be losing . . .’
The man still said nothing, but I couldn’t stop myself. For some reason I thought continuing would give him something to latch onto and he could explain. Then David was at my side, his hand firmly taking my elbow and raising me up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a pleasure, but I fear we have to go.’ He smiled and the table all nodded to him, bidding us a relieved goodbye.
‘David, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I tried the old “Don’t tell, ask” routine, but I just don’t get it. Som
ething’s wrong – I just can’t stand half-truths or people who won’t face up to the truth. I let you down, I’m so sorry.’
David said very little but seemed amused. ‘Let’s talk about this in the cold light of day,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek and sending me towards the main door as he re-entered the banqueting room. My heels were far too high, my dress was too thin and it was raining.
‘I’m afraid there aren’t many taxis tonight, miss,’ said the doorman. Two other men were also leaving early, and their car swooped into the courtyard. ‘Please could you give this young lady a lift, sir?’
‘Only if she doesn’t mind going via Claridge’s,’ came a curt, American-accented reply.
The younger of the two men jumped into the front seat and I got into the back with the other as the doorman leant through the rear window. ‘Goodnight, Vice President Gore,’ he said.
I tried to pull my little red dress down towards my knees. ‘What an incredible evening,’ I said to break the ice.
‘The food didn’t agree with my stomach,’ Al replied.
I thought I’d try to entertain him – and for some reason chose to share the story of my recent dinner with Gore Vidal. David’s ‘Don’t tell, ask!’ was screaming caution, but still I launched in. ‘A few weeks ago I had dinner in Ravello with Gore Vidal…’ The vice president didn’t encourage me to continue. ‘Sorry, the story only makes sense if I give you some background.’
I could see we were approaching our destination, so I talked even faster. ‘The thing is, my husband had been seeing a young trollop and was agonising about whether to run off with her or stay with me and our four kids. We were in Ravello to rekindle some romance.’ The young man on the front seat sat rigid and Al stared straight ahead as the limo stopped at a red light. Should I open the door now and quietly slip out? No, I had to finish the story.
‘Anyway,’ I pushed on, ending with Gore Vidal’s advice that ‘you seduce his lover’, just as we pulled up to the hotel entrance. I looked towards him, waiting for a little vice presidential chuckle, but instead he and his preppy intern leapt from the car with a swift ‘Good evening’ and almost fell over each other as they pushed through the revolving door.
I wanted to call someone to gleefully share in my humiliation. ‘It’s a shame I can’t call Robert,’ I thought, as the limo swept away under the dripping Bayswater plane trees. ‘He would have loved it.’
***
A major benefit of not having a partner was becoming apparent: a single person has so much more time to nurture old friendships and embark on new ones. I often went to stay with Shelagh and Matthew Bannister, and Shelagh and I tended to speak daily, either in person or on the phone.
In 1996 they experienced the agony of giving birth to a baby boy, Gabriel, who had died two weeks before he was due to take his first breath. I watched as they carried their son’s tiny white coffin to his resting place in Redford Cemetery, while crows cawed plaintively overhead. On holiday a month later, we were on the beach and Shelagh mentioned that her breasts were bleeding. The doctors had said it was due to her milk drying up after the stillbirth, but she was clearly worried.
She had every right to be – on our return she was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a double mastectomy, but unfortunately the cancer had spread to her lymph system. The doctors were cautiously optimistic but recommended chemotherapy. Shelagh never complained or panicked. She was disciplined with her diet, exercise routines, cold caps and alternative therapies. She didn’t want her illness to define her – she was determined to keep it on a parallel track and not take over her life.
My God, she was brave. Her silent suffering made me love her completely. She’d call me with the results of her three-monthly check-ups; when they became six-monthly, it seemed that her disciplined approach was working. However, a dark cloud still hovered and we began to mark every occasion as if it was our last. Shelagh’s heightened state of being gave us permission to buy not just any old plonk but good-quality wine and treat ourselves to the odd fancy frock, and when it came to booking holidays, she didn’t want to waste time going anywhere less than perfect.
A year after Robert left us, I was still struggling, and I defy anyone else not to. The children were so young – Ivo was just two – and it made my heart ache to see them making such an effort to control their sadness. I was facing the first summer holiday without them – two full weeks. We flew from Necker to Miami; Mum and Dad were taking the children back to the UK to meet up with Robert, and I was going on to LA to meet up with Fiona. At Miami Airport, as I was waving them all off at the international departure gate, Louis took fright and refused to leave me. He lay on the floor, clinging onto my ankle and wailing uncontrollably. My parents tried to pry him off. Then the other children began to cry, while Mum bit her bottom lip.
‘Come on, little chap,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll take care of you. Come on, little chap.’ Then, finding the emotion too much, my usually restrained father stood up and said under his breath, ‘That fucking man – how could he do this to his children?’
Eventually the exhausted party left hand in hand, and I made it to my flight just in time.
Fiona picked me up from the airport. ‘My God, Ness, you look absolutely dreadful!’ she said as I walked into Arrivals. ‘Brown, but skinny as anything.’ Driving along the highway she continued. ‘What you need is a nice little boob job!’
‘Fiona, don’t be so ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘It’s the last thing I need.’
‘Don’t be such a prude, Ness. Everyone does it here.’
‘That might be so,’ I said, ‘but I’m completely against plastic surgery. It’s superficial and everything I don’t believe in about the consumerist society. And anyway, I’m rather fond of my boobs – they’re just a bit deflated because I’m so thin.’
Fi was focused on her goal. ‘I know this brilliant surgeon in Beverly Hills. He does all the stars. Honestly, Ness, he’s brilliant.’
‘Fi,’ I replied, already feeling somewhat worn down, ‘I’m honestly not interested.’
The next day we were sat in Dr No’s office. I was slightly taken aback by the fact that he was wearing cowboy boots, and before I knew what was happening, he was drawing dotted lines around my bosoms with a Magic Marker.
‘Vanessa is more interested in the Meg Ryan than the Dolly Parton’, I heard Fi saying.
‘Please, I’m really not sure,’ I said lamely.
He took us past a number of curtained cubicles where ladies lay on their backs after Botox treatments, dabbing bloody tissues at their foreheads.
‘Lydia,’ said Dr No to one of the women, ‘would you mind showing your breasts to these two prospective patients please?’
Still lying down, Lydia raised her T-shirt with one hand, exposing two of the most perfect, soft, nut-brown mounds of flesh I’d ever seen.
‘See how great these little puppies look?’ the doctor said gleefully. ‘I use this special technique and go in under the muscle. You see? There’s no line, and the breasts feel completely natural.’
With that, he walked up to Lydia and began to knead her exposed breasts. ‘Come and have a feel,’ he barked. I put out a rather tentative hand and felt a bosom while trying to look serious. Only in LA.
In the car on the way back to Hancock Park, Fiona banged on. ‘Come on Ness. He said he would give us a two-for-the-price-of-one offer, or four for the price of two. That way, I sneak in free!’ Now I felt under pressure. ‘What’s more,’ she said, ‘he has a cancellation tomorrow morning.’
I took my tapestry into the clinic, thinking that when I came around from the procedure I could do some sewing. I went in first. After an hour or two in the theatre, the doctor went to check with Fiona what size implants I’d asked for. ‘Ness asked for Meg Ryans,’ she told him. Apparently he went ashen and rushed out. It appeared he had made an error and implanted some Monroes in there. The pain I felt on regaining consciousness was indescribable. My chest was in spasm, my blood pressure b
egan to drop alarmingly and I was losing the ability to speak. ‘I think I’m going to die, Fi,’ I whispered.
Dr No didn’t want to lose a patient, and nor did he want to be seen to be having an emergency. Paramedics jammed me in the service elevator and wheeled me out of a back entrance to the ambulance. All I can remember is the pain.
In intensive care in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, I blew up to such an extent that a nurse had to cut off my rings and my plastic hospital wristband. My liver was struggling, along with my kidneys. Dr No came to visit and defensively explained that my post-op collapse was my fault for not telling him how much I’d been drinking. A few years later he would lose his licence to practise medicine. Fiona visited me somewhat sheepishly and I couldn’t stop looking at her breasts. She hadn’t intended to go for the full Dolly but due to some miscommunication, the full Dolly she had. Her magnificent new appendages were going to get her into all sorts of trouble over the years – once a little too close to home for comfort – but what are friends for if not to challenge us?
Do I regret the episode? Well, it would have been a bloody silly way to die. Apart from that minor detail, to regret anything, for too long, is a mistake. There is no going back and I also learned a great deal. It’s true that, if I hadn’t been in that vulnerable emotional state, I would never have elected to do something so invasive, but I have to admit just one thing.
My new little puppies knock Lydia’s into a cocked hat.
6
AND ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN MERELY PLAYERS
Morocco, November 2017
‘Oh, you little devil,’ would be Mum’s response if I told her someone had caught my eye, before adding, ‘But what fun!’
She and I are sharing a room at Kasbah Tamadot, Richard’s hotel in the Atlas Mountains. Richard, his kids Holly and Sam and my son Noah are hosting a hiking and biking expedition up Mount Toubkal to raise funds for the family’s ‘Big Change’ youth empowerment organisation. There are thirty-five go-getting entrepreneurs in the party, while Mum, at ninety-three years old, is in her element and happily flirting with them all.
One Hundred Summers Page 26