It’s that time of year again, the last week of August, and people are already jockeying in order to cash in a year from now, the tenth anniversary of Diana’s death. Tina Brown, a lady who would dumb down Big Brother, was first out of the blocks, her book promising to reveal unheard-of-before secrets. Incidentally, Tina Brown never met Diana and does not know many people who did, but is nevertheless considered a Diana expert. As far as I’m concerned, the only person outside Di’s family who is qualified to write about her is Rosa Monckton, Dominic Lawson’s wife, who not only was a good friend to the tragic one, she also knew about the charade that was Diana & Dodi.
I, too, am cashing in. I am a contributor to the Larry King book on Diana; Larry King being a very popular TV chatshow host based in Washington DC. About 15 years ago, while on a book tour, I appeared on his programme and let it drop that the Chuck and Diana marriage was practically over. King forgot all about my book — the third bestseller in history after the Bible and Mein Kampf — and pumped me non-stop for info. In fact, my segment lasted one whole hour, to the annoyance of some minor celebrities waiting to go on. Mind you, it seems everyone knew about the bad marriage except for 300 million Americans much too busy eating hamburgers, memorising television ads and watching American football.
Never mind. Diana died for a blurry picture, a real insult to a nice but tortured woman who used her fame well. As Bill Deedes correctly said last week, what a disturbing legacy she left behind. The idea that a couple of self-publicists are trying to involve Prince Philip in her death is not only bizarre, it’s an outrage which should be prosecuted. Conspiracy theorists in my book are almost as bad as the crimes they purport to be uncovering.
Ironically, I was among the last to speak to her. I had the great Nigel Dempster and the late Charles Benson staying with me in Gstaad. The papers were full of Diana gallivanting around with Dodi Fayed. I told my two buddies it was all a fake, a publicity stunt. Nigel, a real pro, pushed me to ring her. Which I did. ‘Hello, stranger,’ was her opening line to me. ‘This is a professional call,’ said the greatest Greek writer since Aristophanes. ‘Will you be wearing an abaya soon?’ ‘Now what do you think?’ came her reply. Something in her laugh and voice confirmed that it was all playacting for the cameras and tabloids.
We all know the rest. On the evening of her death, I was dining with Jeremy Menuhin, son of Yehudi, and Oliver Gilmour. My two houseguests had abandoned me for a grand dinner down the road. The subject of Diana came up and Oliver and I got into an argument. We were at my chalet. I went downstairs, turned on the telly, and got the news. When I told Oliver, he felt so guilty he almost broke down. Someone said that beauty is death’s antithesis. I’m not so sure. Beauty deserves a special place of honour in the world, but the uglies don’t like it. Diana proved it. If Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships, Diana’s launched a million tabloid front pages. The celebrity culture began with Jackie KO, and reached its apotheosis with Diana. Now we have Tara PT, Liz Hurley and Paris Hilton. Heaven help us.
The first time I met Diana was at Harry Worcester’s wedding. Nicky Haslam introduced us and I slurred my words terribly. She mistook it for a speech impediment, took my hand and slowly articulated ‘t-a-k-e i-t e-a-s-y’. Nicky ruined it by saying that I was just drunk. The second time was when she dispatched Johnson Somerset to bring me to her table at a Jemima Khan do. I was writing ‘Atticus’ at the time and had suggested she was bonkers. Alas, yet again I was the worse for wear. When I approached, she asked me to sit down but I missed the chair and ended up under the table. She screamed with laughter, looked down and asked me point-blank: ‘Do you really think I’m mad?’ For once I came back with a good one. ‘All I know is that I’m mad about you.’
These are old stories which I’ve written before in these pages, but what the hell. Finding something original to say about Diana nine years after her death is hard work. Not my speciality. My last story involves young Louis Franck — now a major rock-star in the Ukraine — who arrived at my flat after the dinner I gave in order for Diana to meet a few choice editors. He did not know she was there, sat next to her and asked her whether she was Russian. She said no, and asked him where he was from. ‘Gstaad’ was the answer, and then he moved on to other things.
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