Having peaked a little early, she is helped back to her room by one of the hotel’s gentle Berber waiters. When I go and check on her before dinner, she’s curled up under the duvet, fully dressed, with the light on. As I tiptoe in and bend down to turn off her bedside light, she sits bolt upright.
‘Oh, Nessie,’ she says, ‘why have I always been so, now what was it? P and P?’
‘Sorry, Mum – what’s P and P?’
‘Oh, I remember,’ she says. ‘Why have I always been so prim and proper?’
We both giggle before she burrows under the duvet again and instantly falls back to sleep.
***
This takes me back to our story, and a point where one miserable chapter ends and an altogether more optimistic one begins.
My life was gaining some traction once again. You won’t be surprised to learn that this had more to do with my decision to stop drinking after my near-death experience, rather than my new boobs. Embarking on a period of sobriety provided a foundation for more positive behaviour: less lamenting and remorse, and more energy, confidence, self-esteem and fun.
I made an unexpected connection with a Nigerian prince on the Virgin Atlantic flight back from LA, a powerfully built, smooth-talking giant of a man. I flew on to join the Ryles and the Bannisters at a rented villa in Tuscany for the weekend. Shelagh was livid with me for actually electing to have breast surgery, but she forgave me and she and Sallie were soon helping me choose delicate new lingerie from La Perla and Prada, while singing ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’.
I wasn’t exactly the ‘catch of the century’ with my little ‘gang of four’ all under the age of ten, but I could live in hope. They say that to get over an old partner you’ve got to get under a new one, and it’s true. I realise now that it was not so much that I yearned to be loved but that I was missing having someone to love.
I needed to dip my toe in the water again, so to speak – get back on the horse, more like. The prince was the perfect person to get started on and provided me with enough stories to entertain my girlfriends for months. This being a family-friendly book prevents me from going into all the details of my years of dating, but here are one or two brief insights into the complications of finding love again.
Prince M. asked me out for dinner on a night when Robert’s redoubtable Aunt Marion was visiting, so I invited him to join us for supper at home instead of going to a restaurant. The three of us had a surprisingly relaxed meal and then Marion decided that we should watch Bill Clinton’s live confession following his affair with Monica Lewinsky. Watching it with these two was surreal, to say the least. Marion took herself off to bed. I was seeing Prince M. out, when he thrust me against the front door, pushed my feet apart with his and held my hands above my head with one hand while simultaneously frisking me with the other, LAPD-style. He ran a hand down my arms and my back and over my buttocks, feeling his way first down the outside of my leg and then, more slowly this time, up one calf and inner thigh and down the other.
‘How do I know you’re not bugged?’ he whispered in my ear, before scooping me up, my legs locking around his waist, and kissing me on the lips. After he left, I rushed upstairs into Bodley’s room and woke him up with, ‘Bod, Bod, I’ve just kissed the prince!’ The poor chap rolled over and managed a thumbs up before going back to sleep.
Lindy invited me around to supper to introduce me to a softly spoken windsurfing champion who’d recently split up from his girlfriend. He was a complete Adonis and in a moment of madness I slipped my phone number into the breast pocket of his shirt. He rang to arrange a date. Before we met, I joined a friend in the pub and told her about the impending liaison.
‘Be warned, Vanessa,’ she cautioned. ‘The first time I went to bed with a man after my divorce, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I just couldn’t stop crying.’
I met the surfer at a bar, determined to feel strong and confident. We had no foundation for a relationship, having barely spoken, but rather hastily found ourselves back at Lindy’s house, kissing and losing ourselves in each other’s chemistry.
‘I can deal with this,’ I thought, as I ran my hands up and down his delightful muscular arms. ‘I’m not going to cry.’ I looked into his dreamy blue eyes. ‘Hey up, what’s that?’ I thought, a little confused. ‘Is that a tear I can see?’ I could feel his body emit a barely disguised sob.
‘I’m so sorry, Vanessa,’ he said. ‘It’s just too soon for me. I miss my girlfriend.’ I felt instant relief as we blew out the candle beside the bed and snuggled down, spooning like two children on a sleepover.
Those who haven’t been rejected for someone else, especially someone eleven years younger than them, will have no idea how much courage it takes to open up your heart again and expose your vulnerability to another. There’s also the real fear that you might fall in love again. The brittleness that comes from self-protection is not attractive. It’s all too easy for heartbroken girls, nursing glasses of white wine, to get into the habit of telling endless stories against men – I did this myself, but without the drink I could fight against the urge to pick the low-hanging fruit from the lemon tree of bitter jokes.
Three months later, however, I slipped off the wagon. Sallie had taken me to one side at a wake after a funeral.
‘It’s not that you’re not good fun when you’re not drinking,’ she said, taking two glasses from a passing tray and handing me one. ‘It’s just that I can’t stand the idea of you never drinking again.’
She had a point. I’d begun drinking with enthusiasm after Robert had left. For the first six months, my system was flooded with adrenalin, which cushioned the negative effects of the booze, but as the months passed, although I was rarely drunk, being continuously topped up drained me of self-esteem and, sometimes, of self-control.
After I stepped over that ‘going sober’ line and called it a day, with no particular period in mind, I became calmer, more focused and energised. I drank a glass at the funeral, but by this time my frame of mind was stronger and I could stop after one or two. Chilled Chablis has always been my weakness, but now, when I’m pulling the cork on a fresh bottle, I hear Shelagh’s Scottish wisdom ringing in my ears: ‘Ness, without a little self-denial, nothing has a value.’ She had a point.
My confidence was beginning to return, if somewhat slowly. Having reluctantly accepted an invitation to a wedding in Kent, I found myself seated next to the groom’s brother. The groom’s very handsome brother. ‘He’s bound to be married,’ I said to myself as we tucked into the first course. Talking came easily while candles flickered in the marquee. His seven-year-old daughter came and sat on her father’s knee, wrapping her arms around his neck and staking out a claim to his attention.
‘Of course he’s bloody married,’ I thought, my heart sinking. But then he told me his wife had recently left him. An hour later we were kissing behind the marquee alongside a gaggle of snogging teenagers. The following week, he called and suggested we meet at Claridge’s for a drink.
My girlfriends were all aligned in their advice. ‘Play it cool, Vanessa. Don’t let him know how much you like him!’
‘I promise I won’t blow it this time,’ I replied.
I walked into the bar, sat down opposite him and he ordered us a drink. We stopped to look at each other. Without thinking, I said, ‘My God, you’re beautiful.’
He suggested we take a room upstairs immediately – this wasn’t quite going to plan. Luckily, I was able to report back to my friends that I’d had to fulfil a previous commitment and go to another dinner.
We did meet up subsequently though, without telling a soul. I’d go to his flat, where we would talk and make love under the stern gaze of his ancestral portraits. Then we’d lie together, our heads propped up at each end of the bed with our legs entangled, and talk some more, both of us grieving the loss of our previous partners, our innocence and our family expectations. When we made love, he would flare his nostrils like a thoroughbred stallion.
R
ich and joyous memories were beginning to obscure the wretched ones – it was time to gather the reins a little tighter.
The millennium was drawing to a close. I felt the weight of its significance and was excited by the zeros in 2000 and losing the ‘19’. The potential new leaf to turn over was massive, with the slate wiped clean and the canvas primed. With the children all at school or nursery, I had time to work for the first time in years. I cut out a headline from the Guardian and stuck it on my fridge: ‘GIVE UP MEN AND TAKE UP THINKING INSTEAD.’
I first had an inkling of the importance of the looming millennium in 1990, when I was invited by John Whitney to take part in a brainstorm at the Royal Society, investigating how the UK should celebrate this monumental moment in history. About thirty of us, mostly from the arts, spent a day dreaming up big ideas. The Millennium Commission, funded by the National Lottery, was going to hand out enormous grants, but how should they be spent?
Nearly a decade later, we were seeing the fruits of all that creative thinking. Rather than squandering the money, much of it was allocated to capital projects. Every museum and sports organisation in the country had applied for grants to build or refurbish galleries and stadiums. Much of the country was encased in scaffolding, ready for the big unveiling in 2000.
Nick Serota, the director of the Tate Gallery, had asked if I would help fundraise for Tate Modern, the vast new gallery planned for the redundant power station on the South Bank. As soon as he showed me the hanger-like space of the old turbine hall, the thrum of engines still pulsating through the building, I sensed the excitement that this project could bring to London. To gather support for the gallery was as easy as falling off a log and I’d soon introduced Michael Bloomberg and Peter Simon to the project, both of whom went on to become major supporters.
Another project I became involved with was the Tabernacle, a community centre in the heart of Notting Hill. This quirky Victorian temple had recently been taken over by a charismatic, energetic former teacher called Gill Fitzhugh, who asked me to be a board member during their lottery application and refurbishment. The Tab was essentially a police no-go area – drug dealing was rife and the risk of violence ever present. Gill, standing all of five feet tall, set about cleaning the place up. She told me that the first dealer she’d approached had thrown her off balance somewhat. ‘From now on,’ she’d told him in her most teacherly manner, ‘the Tabernacle is going to be a drug-free zone. Would you leave now, please?’
The man dug his heels in. ‘No, I will not leave,’ he yelled. ‘Because I’m not a fucking drug dealer – I’m a fucking burglar!’
The transformation of the Tab into the thriving community centre it is today was largely due to Gill’s courage and tenacity, as well as her ability to love and smile. Once the building work was finished, I interviewed a number of candidates for the post of running the gallery space. Peter Simon, who had made his fortune from the fashion chain Monsoon, generously sponsored the director’s salary. Kate MacGarry was the clear choice and went on to hold some remarkable exhibitions, including the then-unknown Yinka Shonibare. Kate’s eye was second to none. I loved her energy, and her enthusiasm reminded me of when I first started my gallery fifteen years previously. After a couple of years running the gallery at the Tabernacle, Kate told me she had found an East End space of her own, and I was happy to help put together a consortium of like-minded people to support her. Her gallery, with its close-knit stable of artists, has continued to thrive to this day.
I also joined the board of the North Kensington Amenity Trust, an organisation set up to manage the twenty-five acres of land and buildings underneath what is known as ‘the Westway’ to those living under it and ‘the M40’ to those driving over it. The trust managed community centres, skate parks, offices of not-for-profit organisations, nightclubs, cafes, a riding stables, a travellers’ caravan site, gyms, workshops, shops and parks. The meetings, though long and sometimes contentious, were never dull. My parents’ conviction that engaging in civic life was an obligation and not an option enriched my life, as well as providing me the satisfaction that I was doing the right thing.
Prue O’Day and I have remained firm friends ever since our Portobello Arts Festival days. On 1 May 1999, while on an early-morning walk together, we had the idea of inviting sixteen people to pool some money over a five-year period, which we would use to put together an art collection on their behalf. Having owned galleries ourselves, we understood how difficult it was to engage new collectors and thought that choosing people with no previous interest in art would make the challenge especially rewarding. It was a dazzling May day, and everyone we invited to join, whether strangers at a lunch party or friends on the school run, said yes.
The Wonderful Fund was a joy. Aware of our responsibility to our collectors, Prue, who was by now a respected art adviser, and I scoured the art fairs in New York, Basel and London. We also visited as many exhibitions as we could and held talks with our group to discuss their purchases. In contemporary art terms, our resources, at just over £50,000 per year, were meagre; the thrill was in the challenge of buying work before the artists became internationally recognised. Tracey Emin, Antony Gormley, Wolfgang Tillmans and Michael Craig-Martin graciously came to give talks at dinners for the group at my London home. The collectors didn’t know their luck and nor did our children – by sitting in on the talks, our daughter Florence soaked up extraordinary insights into the artist’s mind as if she was being read a bedtime story.
The Wonderful Fund was, however, misnamed – though it was indeed wonderful, it was never intended to be a fund but was rather an exercise to provide a snapshot of the emerging artists of the millennium. After the collection had been shown, first at the Marrakech Biennale and then at the opening exhibition of the newly refurbished Pallant House Gallery in Chichester, the 120 works were distributed among those involved through a combination of a silent auction and pulling straws. Everyone received their initial investment back, as well as a number of works of their choice.
My friends continued to be endlessly welcoming in the two years after Robert left home. I was aware that it was quite an ask to have all five of us to stay for weekends, but I had no intention of buying a house in the country myself. Then, one Saturday in the spring of 1999, I saw a photo of a Sussex farmhouse, surrounded with fields stretching down to the sea, that was coming onto the market. The Bannisters encouraged me to go and view the house immediately. Then I made the mistake of calling Mum and Dad, who’d moved into an old manor house in West Wittering to be near Lindy and her gang, a mere mile or two from this property.
We all met up. It was a ridiculously pretty day, with blue skies, skiddy clouds and a gentle breeze. The birds were singing and the daffodils were dancing. The house itself was perfect, modest in scale but with plenty of bedrooms, rambling outbuildings and room for improvement so I could make it my own. There was absolutely nothing that I could find fault with. I had no excuses to give.
Mum and Dad turned on me as the agent drove back down the long drive. ‘Ness, you’ve got to put in an offer today,’ said Mum, while Dad chuckled but said nothing. He too was desperate for us to move close by, but Mum’s pressure was enough. I was but a lamb to the slaughter in the face of her enthusiasm and resistance was futile.
‘I’m not sure I could cope with the responsibility of such a large piece of land.’
‘Don’t be so namby-pamby – of course you can cope,’ Mum replied exasperatedly, as if worrying about borrowing a shedload of money and taking on a working farm was ridiculous.
‘Let’s think this through,’ she said, barely containing her panic. ‘It’s going to go, Ness. It’s going to go, unless you buy it today. Call the agent now, saying you’ll offer the asking price if they take it off the market immediately.’
I looked at Dad who gave a devilish grin, shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
‘Mummy, I can’t do that.’ I smiled at her, hoping she would understand.
‘Oh yes
you can – just have courage, Nessie, courage.’
***
The children and I all camped in the one-bedroomed farm office while the building works on the main house were completed. The novelty of one-room living was heaven; they’d run around on the open rafters while I’d sit nervously below, wondering if I could catch them if they fell. We were a gang and the farm was to become our place of play and creativity. Inspired by Charleston Farmhouse, the cottage rented and decorated by Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant, the kids chose bright colours for the walls, which we decorated with wild patterns. Beezy Bailey, one of the South African artists I’d shown in my gallery, came to stay for a week and, helped by Caragh Thuring and Luke Gottelier, constructed outlandish sculptures on the rooftops.
My fortieth birthday was fast approaching, and I was planning to plant a wood to mark the new millennium, our fresh start, my new decade and above all, to celebrate friendship. Anyone coming to the party was asked to buy a sapling or two from my list, and the eccentric garden designer Ivan Hicks had come up with a planting plan that was part-wood, part-maze. It featured avenues of trees spiralling out from a central pond, a question mark of hazel, circles of yew, towering Lombardy poplars, a spiral of heritage apple trees, entwined aspens, hedges of field maple and copses of evergreen oak.
A decade later, when I was planning another wood for my fiftieth birthday, the issues of food shortages and climate change had come to the fore and this time it felt imperative to plant an orchard, of fruit and nut-producing trees. What a difference a decade makes.
Overwhelming sadness would still catch me unawares, a sickening, all-encompassing grief that I couldn’t throw off, however much as I battled against it. I latched on to simple platitudes such as, ‘accept and be free’, ‘concentrate on the positive’ and ‘think of others, not yourself’, and would repeat them to myself in the hope of keeping depression at bay. Each night before turning in, I would creep into the children’s rooms and kiss each sleeping beauty and remind myself not only of my responsibility but of my good fortune.
One Hundred Summers Page 27