High life
Star of Texas
Taki
ynn Wyatt, the Texas socialite who was Fergie's hostess throughout the week, is not the run-of-the-mill 'trophy' wife. Married to billionaire oilman Oscar Wyatt all her life, mother of two grown children, she is a paradox among those citron-presse types of climbers who periodically enter- tain British royals. She's friendly, bubbly, unpretentious, very Texas-like, and sexy as hell. Although well into her fifties, she looks to be in her early thirties, and not because of face-lifts either.
I first met her in the south of France,
where she has a grand house and entertains in the grand manner. It was about 15 years ago, and she told me to come for 'a small dinner dance for Grace and Rainier, and do bring your girlfriend'. When Alexan- dra and I arrived, the mother of my children-to-be was very pregnant. Being a princess and all that, her bulk raised a few eyebrows, but not from Lynn and Oscar. In fact the latter, a rough diamond, told me that this type of thing happened all the time back home on the range.
I have often been her guest since, and she and her husband are among the few people about whom I have very nice things to say. Oscar, as a matter of fact, once saved my life. I had written something really savage about a friend of his, who actually got angry enough to get a gun and start looking to kneecap me. The trouble was he couldn't find me because I was out all night. (Who says nightclubs are bad for one?) So he went and woke up Oscar and demanded to know where I hung out. Oscar — who has never revealed to me the name of my nemesis — managed to talk him out of it, and more important, to take away his gun. Whew!
Lynn and Oscar are great friends of Princess Margaret, and treat her in the manner she's accustomed to whenever she visits them, which is often. There is no one more difficult than the squat sister of the monarch, and no one more selfish, but she is genuinely fond of the Wyatts. She once told Lynn to make sure to 'call me whenev- er and wherever you are in London next'. Lynn, who is not the pushy type, happened to be in Ascot's royal enclosure about a month later, and seeing PM in her box went up to the guard, gave her name and was immediately admitted. PM was de- lighted to see her, I am told by my spies.
Not so delighted was a certain Lady Wyatt, wife of the then Sir Woodrow Wyatt, who had been invited to go to the royal box on that particular day. When Sir Woodrow announced himself and Lady Wyatt he was told in no uncertain terms by the gruff type at the gate that he could go in, 'hut your wife's already been through'.
Well you can imagine the rest. Lady Wyatt, whom I have not had the pleasure to meet — I remain a great admirer of her daughter — is Hungarian, and Hungarian women are known to eat wimpish types for breakfast. Lord Wyatt had his hands full for a while, but eventually everything was straightened out.
Needless to say, this case of mistaken identity can never be repeated. Fergie's friends are much too common and down- market ever to be confused with Lynn Wyatt, which in a way is a blessing in disguise. Just like the lightning bolt that hit Fergie's aeroplane at 30,000 feet. Being a Christian, I think it was a message to her to stop freeloading and start earning her keep. But perhaps not. It may have been a sign of approval. Thick-skinned people need unsubtle messages.
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