During Jane Austen’s time, their roles would be reversed. Lady Annabel Goldsmith, who left us last week at 91, would be Darcy, with Mark Birley and Sir James Goldsmith as Elizabeth Bennet. Both her husbands were womanisers, well-born, but of inferior birth to her. I met her around 60 years ago, and she was as aristocratic as they come, and as down to earth as her puckish irreverence would take her. A quick smirk, a raised eyebrow would turn into something prurient and funny. Wonderfully mischievous, she enjoyed revving it up when the Austro-Australian Princess Michael would complain about me at Annabel’s annual summer party. Annabel would listen to the Austrian, then seek me out, come very close and whisper: ‘The Kents simply adore you.’
Her summer party, by the way, was the last of its kind. Society died long ago in America and is on its way out in Britain. Annabel’s bash in her large and magnificent garden in Richmond mixed a few brainy types, journalists of the better kind, her young brood and their friends, a couple of dukes, some playboys and politicians, and a rogue or two. The food and drink were as good as they get, and in all the years I attended I cannot remember a single one that was rained off.
Annabel had Lady Thatcher and Sir Denis as regulars, and she made sure no lefty type embarrassed them. Not that there were many lefties around her house. Her two great loves were the two men she married, and she had three children with each one. Her bad luck was that womanising of theirs. But good women, and she was among the best, are known to forgive womanisers, because womanisers tend to adore, understand and worship their wives. I happen to be speaking from experience.
Annabel cherished her children like no other. I had the sad duty to write in these here pages about the death of her firstborn, Rupert, off the African coast back in 1986. She wrote me a thank-you note that was heartrending in its beauty and elegance. Rupert was the best-looking young man in England, and he and I became close buddies after I threatened him when he was very young with a baseball bat. ‘Never come within 50 yards while I’m with a girl,’ I warned him. He wrote and sent me books when I was staying with the Queen 41 years ago. I had the same problem with Zac many years later – another great looker. I could not find the bat, so I offered money this time around.
Annabel’s temperament was almost oriental in its outward impassivity. Civility and basic respect for others was a must with her, but she was subtly provocative and had a wicked sense of humour. Asked by her son Robin what exactly Marie-Christine of Kent had against Taki, her reply was curt and to the point: ‘Does the ham like the knife?’
She did better with Claus von Bülow. An old friend of hers before he was accused of trying to murder his rich wife in America, Claus was found not guilty on appeal. Old jokes by John Aspinall and Jimmy Goldsmith about Claus had surfaced, and the know-nothing press was writing terrible things about him. Claus’s godfather was not Goering, and he was definitely not a necrophile. Aspers had spread that particular tale because some had found Claus rather boring, ‘so I decided to give him some exotic glamour…’ Oh well. Gossip writers, especially left-wing ones, are notoriously petty and know very little, and took some of the outrageous jokes seriously.
Poor Claus had been run out of New York because of his conduct during the trial – he moved his mistress into his wife’s Fifth Avenue apartment, shocking the Yanks. Once he returned to London not every door was wide open to him. But Annabel’s certainly was. He was an old friend. I was there when she gave a coming-home party for him. It was a hot sunny day, we were all in our summer whites, and Claus was beaming as Annabel had her arm entwined with his, taking him around and introducing him. What he didn’t see was her other arm, index finger to be exact, that was pointing to a large yellow pee-pee spot on Claus’s trousers in case anyone missed it. It was a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie.
She enjoyed revving it up when the Austro-Australian Princess Michael would complain about me
Harsh, aggressive women spouting stupidities were not her cup of tea. She made a special effort for Lady Thatcher’s dinner neighbours; they had to be intelligent above all. Today’s so-called society hostesses suffer from an unquenchable craving for publicity. Annabel was the exact opposite. Her grandest love and passion were her children, a rare trait among women of her class – but perhaps, like Rick in Casablanca, I’ve been misinformed.
Annabel also tended to befriend men and women who had many redeeming vices. So-called bad boys and naughty girls were never snubbed by her. She stood out in this heedless society of ours, and Robin, Jane, Zac, Jemima and Ben will now face life without her. They will find it tough, but time will help.
What remains for me are those whispered memories of our youth and good times. Goodbye dear Annabel and, as we Greeks say, may the earth that covers you be soft.
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