BRUTAL, BITCHY WORLD OF THE BILLIONAIRE WIVES
After marrying media tycoon Conrad Black, Barbara Amiel revelled in her new-found wealth, spending tens of thousands on bad jewellery and bedlinen. But as she reveals in the rollicking final part of her no-holds-barred new memoir, she soon confirmed that money can’t buy true friends
IN OUR first extract from her blistering new memoir, Barbara Amiel, wife of media tycoon Conrad Black, recalled how she and her husband — once the toast of London and New York society — became social outcasts after Black was jailed by a U.S. court for fraud and obstruction of justice. In today’s gripping and deliciously candid final instalment, she explains how, after their marriage, she struggled to make the transition from jobbing journalist living on ready meals to the socially cut-throat world of billionaires. As she reveals with mordant self-deprecation, no matter how much she spent, she never fitted in and found herself mocked for everything, from having the wrong jewellery to misunderstanding the etiquette of what to give the man — or woman — who has everything ...
Back in the late Eighties, I was a journalist living in a rented London flat on a diet of ready- bought roasted chickens, which I alternated with two packs of Lean cuisine chicken à l’orange.
Occasionally I would see the multimillionaire newspaper proprietor conrad Black and his wife Joanna at parties. I already knew him a little from a lunch and a dinner party in canada, where I’d spent most of my working life, and he was always friendly and appeared to seek me out.
Then one evening, at a cocktail party at the american ambassador’s residence, Winfield House, in Regent’s Park, he beckoned me. ‘Is Joanna here?’ I asked. ‘We’re separated,’ he said. ‘She will not be coming back to live in London. Our marriage is over.’
I had no idea of the reasons for the break-up but I suspected — correctly, as it turned out — it would not have been conrad’s idea.
‘I’m usually in New York for weekends,’ I told him, ‘but in the unlikely event you find yourself lonely with the children gone, I’d be happy to accompany you to a movie.’
In the meantime, I was enjoying a relation
‘If it didn’t work in bed, what was the point?’
ship with the Oscar-winning screenwriter and novelist William Goldman, who lived in Manhattan and paid for me to fly over to spend weekends with him.
God, I’m practically Joan collins, I’d think as I sashayed into the concorde Lounge, becoming a regular. Best not get too used to this.
One Sunday when, for some reason, I was not in New York with Goldman, conrad took me to lunch at arnold and Netta Weinstock’s country house in the Shires. Weinstock was still in charge of General Electric, the enormous company he had built, but our talk was of a shared passion — opera.
Driving back to London — being driven back by conrad’s chauffeur Sid — conrad worked on various memos and lists. His briefcase was open on his lap and it was, I noticed, incredibly neat, with a fountain pen set in the little round leather holders of the cover. I had never seen anyone actually use those holders. He turned to me: ‘ are you all right?’ he asked conversationally.
This is scarcely a passion-packed line, and the enquiry is a routine enough question. The words were voiced, however, in a way that made it sound as if he actually wanted to know if I was tired or thirsty or needed anything.
I knew that for the duration of the drive, inside the world that was the back of a Bentley on a Sunday afternoon, I would be taken care of — aspirins, coffee, doughnuts. It was an intoxicating feeling.
‘I’m doing the seating for the Hollinger International dinner,’ he said, referring to the annual topdrawer shindig he threw. ‘Is there anyone in particular you’d like to be seated next to?’
‘Yes, actually. could you put me next to Robert Maxwell?’ ‘I could. But why?’ ‘Well,’ I explained, ‘I’m planning to live with William Goldman in New York. When I last saw Maxwell he mentioned that I could work at the New York Daily News, which he had just purchased, if I ever came there.’
‘Mmm.’ Pause, pen taken out of holder and something scratched. ‘Done,’ said conrad.
Later he told me this was the moment he decided he had better corner me before I got married again.
as it worked out, I didn’t sit next to Maxwell because he didn’t turn up, so there was an empty seat to one side of me.
conrad’s appearances multiplied. I managed to snooker a pair of opera tickets for a performance with Plácido Domingo, and I asked him if he would like to go. He turned up to my flat early, which I thought was incredibly rude.
after I quickly got ready, he led me to my sofa. Then came the most god-awful torturous speech in haute conradian style. I was completely flummoxed. He seemed to be asking me to have some sort of relationship, but he might have been describing his relationship with the great literary figures with which his speech was peppered — Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Héloïse and abelard.
Perched on the edge of a cushion, I tried to get a handle on what the hell was going on. I began to grasp that he wanted to start taking me out romantically, which was simply not on my radar.
‘Look, conrad,’ I said, ‘I’m really not in the market for an affair.’ after all, he knew I was involved with William Goldman.
‘I’m not asking you for that,’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand? I’m asking you to marry me.’
We had not exchanged so much as a kiss in all the time I had known him.
‘This is displacement,’ I told him. ‘You’re on the rebound from your broken marriage and I feel comfortable to you. You should be going out with younger women. Or see a psychiatrist.’
conrad called me a day or so later. ‘I have been to see the head of the Tavistock clinic and he is a reader of your columns and has seen you on television. He asked me to tell you that there is absolutely nothing mad about my wanting to marry you.’
The snag obviously was that while having two eligible and highly accomplished men interested in me, I did not love either of them, which even to me felt a bit thick. conrad was undeterred.
Gradually, I began to view him through a different lens. The more I looked, the more I enjoyed myself. God, he had me in stitches, and he had that great smell — a man’s natural scent either turns you on or is in deadly need of lashings of acqua di Parma.
after I ended my affair with Goldman — who reacted with explosive fury because he assumed I’d been conducting a clandestine affair — action was required. The simple solution was to ‘quickstart’, as my treadmill button puts it, my relationship with conrad.
Once he had fully appraised my
50-going-on-51-year-old body sans the camouflage of clothing, the glamour would vanish rather quickly. This appraisal was a step I felt I should take with all due haste. If it didn’t work in bed, what was the point?
I drove apprehensively to his house in Highgate the day before he was leaving for a trip to Australia.
My conversion to witless and in love was sudden, swift and horrible. Now that the impossible had happened, the notion of being in reciprocated love with a man who, at 47, was younger than myself by four crucial years and was funny, kind, tall, rich and armed with massive brainpower, was worrying.
Conrad’s courtship was not quite your standard date, dinner and a movie — and not in a good sense. We’d go to dinners at exquisite London homes of families who decorated their houses with items of a quality I normally saw in museums.
Frankly, the whole thing was a waft of wealth, fascinating to inhale but in large portions rather queasy-making.
Hanging out with [financier] Gilbert de Botton and his wife in Belgravia — where, going upstairs, you passed directly next to huge canvases by David Hockney and Picasso, only to sit with a live Bryan Ferry darkly glowering in person — was pretty extraordinary, but frankly not so much as my utter disbelief that the first Mrs de Botton had put revolving racks for her clothes in their several heated mews garages across the way.
Each outfit was numbered and could be viewed on a closed-circuit video system together with the appropriate accessories.
Conrad and I got married in 1992 at the Chelsea Register Office. All auguries pointed to a life of unbridled happiness. But the price tag for true love was about to catch up with me: Conrad’s world revolved around the stomachchurning need for ‘us’, i.e. me, to give dinner parties.
At 51, I had managed to avoid this disease and manoeuvred through life giving only two. To say I would have preferred working in a salt mine may be a little over the top, but not much.
There was no transition, not a
‘God, I am practically Joan Collins, I’d think as I sashayed in’
whisker, between the days of heating up Lean Cuisine dinners for myself to those of entertaining a prime minister, HRHs, industrialists, celebrities and aristocrats of all sorts, society ladies and attached husbands, Great Thinkers and film stars.
The set pieces of our entertaining were the summer and Christmas drinks parties —with summer’s being the most important. Out went the invites on goldbevelled cardboard stiff enough to be used as a diving board. ‘Mrs Conrad Black At Home’ the card announced with more confidence than Mrs Black felt, who prayed she would be out. On t the other hand, some of the social so compensations of being b Mrs. Conrad Black were w terrific. I began to enjoy en making entrances and se seeing heads turn. I was somebody: so it was fun. You get ge used to it very quickly, and an I positively swished. As A I settled into my new position, po I began to get oxygen deprivation de at the thought of the steep domestic mountain in front f of me. I was consumed by fear of not doing it right. I was wa no bloody savage, but now I Iw was gathering up homes of monumental mo size in London, Palm Pal Beach and Toronto, all requiring req ‘decoration’.
Having H not decorated one room in my entire life, this would all have h been hilarious had I not taken take it so seriously. Like a homing hom pigeon, at the suggestion of new ne friends, I found my way to Léron Léro linens in New York. The trouble was, I never asked the prices — I mean, how much can sheets be? I just saw their exquisite designs, handmade sheets to fit your antique fourposter. They saw me coming.
‘ Shall we look at the colour schemes and furnishing in your bedrooms and fix a motif for each one?’ asked the clever saleslady/ design consultant, who quickly summed me up as a brand-new wife with wallet and no experience, alone, stumbling and without guide dog.
Then came the invoices for tens of thousands of dollars per set. With a minimum of two sets per bedroom, sometimes three sets, every bed a different size thanks to our decorators, and about 12 bedrooms, the cost was colossal. And the invoices didn’t arrive until the work was done.
‘Great beds,’ said every guest, consisting almost exclusively of people who had never known much more than drip-dry sheets.
I practised the talk with the interior decorators. At first they trod carefully, an initial parry in which a killer word lurked.
‘ Yes,’ they might muse thoughtfully as we talked about a new room. ‘ How do you see that corner?’ I did not ‘see’ corners. ‘Perhaps a directoire tôle peinte in ormolu and enamel with snuffer on a gueridon? That could be pretty,’ they might venture.
They watched your face, and if you couldn’t respond knowledgeably they knew they had you, hence another 60 per cent on your bills.
There were so many new unwritten rules. Once, I was chastised by the wife of billionaire investor and philanthropist Sid Bass for wearing white highheeled shoes. ‘ You don’t ever
‘My address? Yes, it’s Park Avenue...’
wear white,’ Mercedes told me. ‘It’s for salesgirls.’
The Basses were important members of the small number we saw regularly on our visits to New York and who I unoriginally termed ‘the Group.’
If you wanted to pal around with the Kissingers — which Conrad did — and the philanthropist Jayne Wrightsman — which he enjoyed — you had to take the whole package, which included the spiteful and opinionated Mercedes.
In Manhattan, we bought a $3 million apartment on Park Avenue. One of the first things I did was apply for credit cards — Saks, Bergdorf’s, Lord & Taylor, Bendel’s, Bloomingdale’s. I did this largely because it was fun to go into the customer service office and, when asked for my address, say ‘635 Park Avenue’ very casually.
Worse, I followed this up by offering a Palm Beach and a London address if they wanted: this was like name-dropping, only better.
We slotted into the Group, which was headed by Jayne, had its nucleus in Mrs Henry Kissinger