I Once Met Hillary Clinton

It was 2003 and I was working for a national newspaper, now defunct: I’d been literary editor, I wrote book reviews, I interviewed authors; I was a literary flaneur-about-town. So when the paper announced a charity auction of promises, I was happy to take part.

Readers could bid to accompany the arts editor to a theatre first night and meet the cast backstage, or watch a football match with the ace sports writer and meet the teams. Bookish types could bid for the heady prospect of accompanying me to a ritzy book launch, with dinner at the Groucho Club afterwards.

June made the top bid for me. A retired health visitor from Doncaster in her late sixties, she didn’t stand for any nonsense. For her £500, she wanted to meet famous people and that was that.

I took her to the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park where a top publishing house was holding its summer party. June greeted me with, ‘This is for you. Do what you can with it,’ and thrust into my hands a Sainsbury’s carrier bag containing her novel – 500 typewritten A4 sheets, with dried tomato seeds on the title page. I promised to do what I could to hasten its publication.

An hour and three glasses of wine later, I’d introduced her to a dozen writers, none of whose work she knew. I’d pointed out novelists with solid reputations, poets, biographers, historians. ‘Ah don’t know any of these people, John,’ she sulked. ‘But that guy,’ I said, ‘was on the Booker longlist last year. And that’s Doris Lessing...’ ‘Ah’ve never ’eard of either,’ sniffed June.

I began to despair. Then I noticed some new arrivals. Where had they come from? ‘We’ve been to Hillary Clinton’s book launch,’ they said. ‘It’s huge fun. Crammed with faces.’ June clapped her hands like a little girl. ‘Oooh, Hillary Clinton! Ah looove her! Can we go, John? Can we?’

The Clinton launch was only half a mile away at the Orangery. I hailed a cab and we sailed off. Amazingly we were admitted, possibly because of the mad gleam in June’s eyes. The party was wall-to-wall celebrities: Bob Geldof, Joan Collins, Nicky Haslam, Lord Mandelson. June stood rooted to the spot beside her teen crush, Richard Attenborough, until he turned and said, ‘Do I know you, darling?’

Later she spotted Hillary through a window. ‘Coom on, John,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and meet her.’ ‘I don’t think that’s a very good –’ I protested, unheeded.

We inched up the queue of wellwishers. June, having been kissed by Lord Attenborough, was palpitating with excitement. I was weighed down by her novel and sweating profusely after our two-party dash.

Then the great lady was before us, wearing the professional smile of someone recently elected to the US Senate. ‘Hi!’ said Hillary. ‘Ah’m verr-eh pleased to meet you, Mrs Clinton,’ said June, pumping her hand. ‘Ah’m from Yorkshire and we’ve all been followingyour efforts to bring public medicine to America. I’m really impressed by your grit.’

‘Why thank you,’ said Hillary. ‘That’s so nice.’ She looked at me, wine-sozzled and sweating horribly by June’s side. ‘And this is your...’

‘Oh sorry,’ said June. ‘This is John. Ah won him in a raffle.’ ‘What?’ said Hillary. ‘Auction,’ I said, aghast. ‘In a charity auction of promises...’

‘You won this in a raffle?’ asked Hillary, eyes wide with incredulity. ‘It’s a newspaper thing,’ I said firmly. ‘People make bids, you see, for...’

‘You won this?’ said Hillary, laughing. ‘Gee. What was the second prize?’

It was hard, to be honest, to retrieve my dignity after that. But I was glad to have given June some insights into the rarified world of the literary man about

town.