I feel something of a gooseberry as Mikhail Gorbachev and Margaret
Thatcher sit snugly side by side on a sofa in the upstairs room of The Ivy. They are sort of flirting, bonding over old times and cold climes as the magic of their relationship is quickly rekindled. At one moment they clutch each other’s hands, giggling at how they fought their corners in their early talks at Chequers. It is moving to see such intimacy and warmth between these two old titans who together with Ronald Reagan literally changed the world. My fellow hosts, Evgeny and Alexander Lebedev, and I all fade into the background as the Iron Lady and Gorby really only have eyes for each other. At 80 she has lost none of her predilection for scoring points, a sort of political lovebadinage. ‘Of course, it’s a good idea: it’s science,’ she harrumphed. This was a dinner organised for Gorby the night before the launch of his cancer charity founded in his widow Raisa’s name. ‘How effective is research?’ she asked, Paxmanstyle. ‘Has there been a direct reduction in deaths linked to the amount of research?’ she volleyed. Direct talk and direct eye contact at all times.
Mid love-in, Bob Geldof and his girlfriend Jeanne Marine arrive, his tousled hair and scruffy-chic linen suit in contrast to Maggie’s honey-coloured helmet and chic pearls, diamonds and velvet. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Thatcher. So Mikhail, who’s going to win the World Cup then?’ he asked. A few minutes later Fergie, David Frost, Salman Rushdie, the Hollywood actress Claire Danes and Andrew Neil join Gorby and his daughter Irina and two pretty granddaughters for dinner. Quincy Jones arrives unexpectedly. Fergie had breezily told him at a drinks party earlier to drop on by. He comes with a posse of seven. The Lebedevs do not bat an eye. Nothing fazes these Russians who are spearheading Gorby’s charity.
My error at Althorp when I arrive to change at the party. I head for a grand bedroom with a four-poster slept in by countless Spencers, with silk swags and Old Masters everywhere. No, I am told, not Geordie’s room. This is Gorby’s room. I am redirected and take my suitcase up four flights of back stairs to an attic room once used by housemaids. There is vodka and Evian in the room — so who could complain? One of the Russians is having problems with his white tie. Gorbachev looks despairingly as the man holds up a white piece of cotton helplessly. He nods to me and I tie it into a cravat of sorts. He had ordered white tie in Paris but has been given a morning suit with a weird sort of bandage. Gorbachev tells me he has never even worn black tie and so has ducked the white tie dress code, but does have a brand new Savile Row suit with a normal red tie. We head downstairs to meet and greet the guests. Some women curtsy, forgetting that this is not a czar but the man who directly succeeded a line of rulers who had executed the Russian royals. Ballerina pole-dancers writhe on podiums above the tables, wild wolves strain leashes on the lawn. There are Cossacks riding across the park, a camel on the loose, and this is all before the Black Eyed Peas play live and Bono’s video homage is relayed from Dublin to Gorby’s guests.
Five a.m. and the party is over and I am completely lost trying to get from Althorp to Wantage to stay with my twin sister Laura. Text messages keep coming in from the diehards who are still partying. Also the news that nearly £1 million has been raised tonight to fight child cancer. It has been beyond surreal, watching the former leader of the totalitarian USSR being beckoned into dinner by silent children dressed as fairies, in Caribbean weather in Northamptonshire just a few hundred yards from where Princess Diana is buried. Rock stars and hedge-fund dynamos dancing in white tie to a mesmerising performance by the Black Eyed Peas. The generosity of the Lebedev family in underwriting this event is extraordinary, just as it is that Alexander Lebedev, aged just 46 and now owning 30 per cent of Aeroflot, started his professional life in the Russian embassy in London until the Gorby-initiated perestroika revolution propelled him into fiber-capitalism. Such musings and dreams are short-lived. At 6.15 a.m. my twins, Monica and Octavia, burst into our bedroom and want their sixth birthday celebrations to start. They have no time or sympathy for hangovers or lack of sleep. Have I been to a silly pantomine? they ask, seeing my white tie and tails flung over a chair. Out of the mouths of babes.... Anyway, there are serious things to be discussed, such as is it really true that witches have blue breath and do unicorns really exist?
Five a.m. Monday morning and I could shoot my alarm clock. Off to Rome on the early flight to see the fashionistas at Fendi who are sponsoring the Tatler summer party. Omigod it’s all about to start again. How the hell did Mrs T get by on just a few hours a night?
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