by Cherie Blair
Public speaking seemed an ideal way of doing something I felt passionate about while at the same time resolving a pressing financial situation. As a barrister, I am no stranger to making speeches, and I particularly enjoy discussing women’s rights. In America I would speak on these issues and other legal matters at conferences.
Although I still refute the idea that I had no right to be paid for these speaking engagements, they proved disastrous from a PR point of view, particularly the series I did in Australia. I was just one “item” on a road-show agenda that included dinner, entertainment, and an auction. For this I received a set fee, as did the four other “performers” on the program. The road show went to several cities, the idea being to raise money for the Children’s Cancer Institute of Australia, which in the end it did. The tour was far from the disaster the British press made it out to be, and in fact it exceeded expectations. Altogether the profits from the tour of Australia and New Zealand were £350,000, the most money the charity had ever raised. But though being paid a fee to speak at a charity event may be standard practice in the charity world, it was a painful lesson that “standard practice” did not apply to me.
There was no doubt that in April 2004, with Gordon rattling the keys above his head, Tony suffered a crisis of confidence as to whether he was still an asset to the Labour Party. I remained determined that he not resign, that he fight the next election and win, and in this I was helped hugely by our closest friends in the Cabinet. It wasn’t just for the sake of his reputation that he should stay on, but for the sake of the New Labour agenda — most important, for public services. As before, when he had failed to win a seat or when he was uncertain about whether he would win the leadership, I reminded him that he needed to “pick himself up, dust himself off, and start all over again.” Among many others, I was convinced that if Tony failed to stand for a third term, it would be seen as a response to the negative criticism of the war. It would be read by history as a tacit admission of failure. There was a certain type of intelligentsia who would never forgive him for Iraq, even if he were to flagellate himself in front of them, who would just say, “I told you so. We should never have trusted him.” I always felt strongly that he should not apologize for something he believed to be right. He could regret the lives lost in Iraq, but he should not apologize for taking the right decision for the country.
In an interview with Andrew Marr, the BBC’s political editor, on the last night of the Labour Party Conference, Tony said that if he were elected, he would serve a full third term but would not serve a fourth. He also explained that he had a heart flutter and that he would be having surgery the next day. At the same time, Downing Street announced that we had bought a house in Connaught Square.
That Friday evening, after conference ended, we made our way back to Hammersmith Hospital. I stayed beside Tony until he grew woozy, then returned to the room he would occupy after the operation. I went down on my knees with my rosary, and I didn’t stop praying until the garden girl came up to tell me that all was well.
Without support from the government, the London bid for the 2012 Olympic Games could never have reached the starting line, let alone the finish line. And although my husband is not as keen on athletics as I am, he was very much in favor from the beginning, reflecting not only on what it would mean to London and Londoners but also on the impact it would have on young people, on sports in general, and on the country’s own self-image. And then there was what is known as the “legacy,” not only for London’s East End (where much of the necessary construction would be done) but for the country as a whole. As a showcase, it’s hard to imagine anything more globally visible.
For some years Silvio Berlusconi, the controversial Italian Prime Minister, had been inviting us to stay as his personal guests. As Italy was a key player in the International Olympic Committee (IOC), Tony felt that if he played his cards right, there was a good chance we could get its three votes for London. So he had agreed to an overnight visit at Berlusconi’s summer villa on Sardinia. Downing Street was naturally horrified, fearing bad publicity, but Tony was insistent. Berlusconi had stood with us on Iraq, one of the “coalition of the willing,” and if visiting him could get us the Italian IOC votes, Tony would do it, he said, and “bugger the opprobrium.”
Silvio Berlusconi never does anything by halves, and the yacht that awaited us in the harbor at Olbia put the royal yacht in the shade. And there was Silvio, on board waiting for us. Suddenly I felt Tony tense beside me, and no wonder: our host was wearing what looked like a pirate outfit, complete with a multicolored bandanna around his head.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered, as we made our way across the gangplank. “The office is going to have a fit.”
He was right. It had “foolish photograph” written all over it.
“Whatever happens,” I said, “I’ll make sure he stands next to me.” I sighed. Not only did I have to give up time with my children to go on this trip, but I also had to make myself look ridiculous. “At least,” I said, “the boat isn’t exactly public, and nobody knows you’re coming.” Famous last words.
“Now I am going to show you something of the island,” Silvio announced as we swooshed out of the harbor. This wasn’t going to be a beaches-and-headlands cruise, we realized, as the boat raced into a thriving port. “Please excuse me for a moment,” our host said. “I must just go below and change.”
Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Common sense had prevailed. But when Silvio reemerged minutes later, the only difference was that the bandanna was now white to match the rest of his outfit.
The docks were crammed. No way was this going to remain a private visit. There was no possibility that Tony could entirely escape the cameras, but I did as promised, and a casual observer would have assumed I was besotted with our Italian host, as I never left his side.
The port was extremely well-to-do. Rather than ship chandlers, however, the predominant shops were luxury boutiques, into one of which we were propelled. Silvio wanted to buy me some jewelry, he said.
“It’s very kind,” I protested, “but I can’t accept. It’s not allowed. I won’t be able to keep it.”
“What you mean you can’t keep it! This is not from my government; it is from me. A personal gift of friendship, Cherie.”
“I’m really sorry, Silvio, but I can’t.”
“Nonsense. Here. What about this?” He held up a really expensive piece of jewelry. I realized it would have been insulting to keep saying no, so I desperately started looking for something cheap while trying to explain that if he gave me anything over £140, it would go straight into the Downing Street vault.
“Well, this is lovely,” I said, pointing at an insubstantial-looking piece of gold wirework.
“No, no, no,” Berlusconi protested. “This one is so much nicer. Trust Silvio.”
“Honestly, this is much more me.”
He clearly thought I was a madwoman.
Villa Certosa is as extraordinary as its larger-than-life owner. On our initial tour, we were serenaded by Silvio’s personal guitarist-troubadour, and every so often Berlusconi himself would break into song. Many of the tunes, it turned out, he had written. Dinner also came with musical accompaniment, the grand piano being on a raft moored in the middle of a vast lagoon. I had never met Silvio’s wife, Veronica Lario, before. She generally kept a low profile, and Villa Certosa was very much her husband’s project, she said. Their house in Milan was more her domain.
After the meal we had limoncello from Berlusconi’s own lemon groves, before once again music appeared on the menu. “Do you play, Tony? Do you sing?”
“No. But Cherie does.”
Thanks, I thought.
Our host’s face lit up. The pianist would accompany me, he said. Fortunately my expression was hidden in the dark. I opted for “Summertime.” After a few bars he joined in. In fact he has a very good voice of the “O Sole Mio” variety. Then Tony and I exchanged glances. We were ready for bed.
It
was not to be.
“But what about the concert?” Berlusconi exclaimed. The evening’s event was apparently the inauguration of a four-hundred-seat auditorium carved out of the cliff. An orchestra had been flown in especially from the mainland, he said, not to mention the soprano and the tenor. There was nothing to be done. Among the audience were the ’tecs, garden girls, and comms people. I was glad I couldn’t see their faces when Silvio demanded that I do a repeat performance of “Summertime.”
The “just a few fireworks” turned out to be one of the most magnificent displays I have ever seen, lasting at least twenty minutes and ending with “Viva Tony” emblazoned across the sky. So much for discretion. Tony was mortified.
The next morning was a bit lower-key. For me, a whole series of thalassotherapy pools, while Tony played soccer with Berlusconi and the ’tecs. The final hurdle was the masseur. My husband has a horror of male masseurs, but this was the masseur for the legendary Italian soccer team AC Milan. “Look, Tony,” I said. “He does footballers. Believe me, he’s not after your body.” Later he was forced to admit that it was a really great massage.
Was it worth it? As experiences go, it falls into the category of ultrasurreal. As for the IOC votes, Berlusconi promised nothing, and of course the IOC members are independent, but he said he would do what he could. We will never know for sure, but for all his eccentricities, Silvio Berlusconi is a man who does what he says he will.
The 2005 election, held on May 7, was a vindication of my belief that whatever the press might say, the British public still had faith in Tony. Our majority in Parliament was reduced — hardly surprising after eight years in office — but Labour achieved a third successive term for the first time in its history. As for the Conservatives, although they increased their presence in the House, their percentage of the overall vote was below 35 percent for the third time.
During this campaign I made sure that I had no commitments in court and was able to visit fifty marginals, largely on my own, as the party wanted Tony and Gordon to be the story. It was a poignant few weeks for me, as it would be the last time I would be campaigning for the Labour Party in the role of Prime Minister’s wife.
The host of the 2012 summer games would be announced on July 6 in Singapore. As far as Tony and I were concerned, the timing was as bad as it could be: the same day, Britain was hosting the G8 in Edinburgh, seven thousand miles away. The G8 leaders were due to assemble at Gleneagles on July 6. The big question in the run-up to Singapore was, should Tony go? Some voices in Downing Street were saying no: just before the G8, what was the point? Although by now Tony was used to long-haul travel, the constant crossing of time zones — grabbing sleep when you can, grabbing food when you can rather than when you need it — does nobody any good. The risk was that he would end up being tired and unfocused both in Singapore and in Scotland. The 2005 Gleneagles G8 was particularly important for Tony because, in addition to the usual heads of state involved, he had invited the leaders of China, India, Brazil, South Africa, and Mexico — known as G8 + 5 — as well as representatives from Africa and Asia. It was the first time, too, that the focus would be less on the issues of the day and more on the future, namely Africa and climate change. We also knew that because we needed to be back in Gleneagles before the first guests arrived (I was hosting the spouse program), we wouldn’t be able to stay in Singapore for the final vote. But then neither would President Chirac, who would be representing the rival Paris bid.
I remember going through the pros and cons with Tony way into the night. I don’t know what decided him. Perhaps the gut feeling that his presence could tip the balance, that we’d come so far, it was really important to give it a final push. Or perhaps the sense that if he didn’t go and we lost, he would always feel that he could have made the difference. It was a bit like athletics itself. There is no point in competing if you don’t want to win, even though you know you may not — and in this case, the odds were definitely against us. The risk of failure, however, has never caused Tony to back down. He would rather stick his neck out and risk success, which ultimately is what makes him a great leader.
The roll call of support in Singapore covered a spectrum unimaginable in any other world: from Princess Anne to London Mayor Ken Livingstone to soccer star David Beckham, looking wonderful in an extraordinary white and silver tracksuit. We knew we were running neck and neck with Paris, and as this was the third time Paris had been in the last six, there was a real sense that its time had come.
The voting was done by a process of elimination. Round by round, the lowest-scoring city was eliminated. The dark horse was Madrid, which would be heavily supported by Spanish-speaking South American countries, but should it go out before us, the feeling was that those South American votes would come to us rather than Paris.
Tony’s determination to leave no stone unturned — or in this instance, no committee member unspoken to — was extraordinary. Of about 110 IOC delegates, he was scheduled to meet 40. Sitting in adjacent suites, we divided them up between us, one every twenty minutes. With my husband turning on the charm and determination as only he can, I was very happy dealing with the smaller fry — but of course their votes were worth no less.
People really wanted to meet Tony and were genuinely astonished that he was so approachable — very different from Chirac, whom I watched sweeping presidentially through the hall, not staying to mingle, there just to be seen, as if he were doing them a favor simply by turning up. Tony made people feel they were doing him a favor by letting him come along. There was a definite sense that the contrasting styles might make a difference. Chirac’s final blunder may have been Paris’s undoing: on remarking that British cuisine was second only in ghastliness to Finnish cuisine, he waved good-bye to Finland’s two votes.
We could not stay for the announcement of the winner. Rushing on our way, we flew directly from Singapore into Glasgow airport, arriving at Gleneagles at eight in the morning, when Tony went straight into a meeting.
The G8 moves from country to country. We had hosted our first in 1998, in Birmingham. It had been a baptism of fire for me in terms of hosting the spouse program. By then I had two examples to consider. The first was Hillary Clinton’s G7 in Denver, where, in addition to our ride on the train, the wives had been to a craft fair and had had a group discussion. From that I knew we were all intelligent, interested, and, on the whole, educated women. I was determined that when it was my turn, I would treat the ladies as though they had a brain rather than just a husband.
The second example had come just three months later, when Britain had hosted the annual Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting in Edinburgh. Here were fifty women from fifty-two Commonwealth countries, where many of them operated like First Ladies. In Africa, in particular, the role is more like that of a queen: the wife can have real power, initiating and funding really important work, particularly in relation to women, children, and disability. That the Foreign Office had considered us worth only a visit to a tartan factory, a cookery demonstration, and a fashion show was, frankly, patronizing.
Thus, for my first G8, I decided to give the wives a rather more serious program. After dinner a group from the Royal Shakespeare Company performed extracts under the title “Shakespeare’s Women,” which went down very well. Obviously Hillary Clinton and Aline Chrétien (Canada) had no problem with the language. Nor indeed did Flavia Prodi. Like her husband, the Prime Minister of Italy, she was a university professor, and her English was excellent. Although Mrs. Hashimoto and Mrs. Yeltsin needed interpreters, I felt that it was better to aim high than be patronizing.
The next day I had been given permission to use the royal train, and I took everyone to Chequers for lunch. Sticking with what I knew, I invited Rosalind Higgins, a professor at the LSE (later a judge at the International Court of Justice), to talk to us about international human rights. (I don’t believe I am the only wife of a leader whose husband expects her to be able to discuss things with him.)
No
w, in 2005, my general attitude remained the same. After two days of nonstop IOC campaigning, followed by a twelve-hour flight, I was shattered and jet-lagged. Sleep, however, seemed impossible. The vote from Singapore could come in at any time, so I decided to have a massage to calm down. Lying there, oiled up and generally not fit to be seen, I was finally drifting off to sleep when there was a knock at the door. It was Gary, the ’tec.
“Mrs. B? Just thought you’d like to know, we’re in the last two.”
I lay there, the guy pummeling away, every muscle tensed. Another knock.
“Mrs. B? I’m sorry to have to tell you, but . . . we’ve won!”
If I’d been stung by a swarm of bees, I could not have leapt higher. Pulling on my sweatshirt, I hopped to the door and started running down the corridor, Gary laughing behind me, continuing through the public areas to our suite and my wonderful husband.
We were both nearly delirious. “It was all down to you,” I said when we finally stopped laughing. And it was true. However many representatives I had been nice to, it was Tony who had made the difference.
A moment of panic flitted across Tony’s face. “Oh, my God,” he said. “What am I going to say to Chirac?”
The relationship with the French leader was already strained because of Iraq. “Whatever else we do,” he said, wagging his finger and giggling, “there must be no crowing!”
That night the Queen was hosting the dinner. Toward the end of the first course, my Elvis-loving friend Mr. Koizumi leaned across the table, waving his fork.
“What do you think, Jacques?” he piped up, loud enough for everyone to hear, including the Queen. “Very good food here!” At which he began laughing. I looked round at the various faces. Chirac’s was a study in diplomacy. The Queen’s reflected total mystification.
“I didn’t say it,” Chirac explained to Her Majesty.