No life
Abused by Elizabeth
Toby Young
The telephone call from Elizabeth Hur- ley was brief and to the point. 'Toby,' she said, 'you're a complete scumbag, d'you hear me? A complete and utter scumbag.'
Here was an interesting situation. Usual- ly, it was beautiful young actresses who got threatening phone calls from obsessive young men, but here was Elizabeth Hurley abusing me. What was next? Would she loi- ter outside my house, searching through my rubbish? Try to murder my girlfriend? Per- haps I was destined to be the first fan ever to be stalked by an obsessed actress.
Actually, what happened next was that her solicitor called and threatened to start injunction proceedings against me. I should quickly point out that this was in 1994 and Elizabeth had just found out that I intend- ed to print a semi-nude photograph of her on the back of a talking book I was giving away free with the June/July issue of the Modern Review, a magazine I was editing at the time. I knew Elizabeth slightly, having met her through William Cash, and I'd assumed she wouldn't mind. She'd already appeared topless in several feature films and she'd happily recorded the talking book which was a shopping and f***ing novel by Julie Burchill. It wasn't even a particularly racy picture. Admittedly, all she was wearing was a pair of knickers and thigh-length leather boots but she had her back to the camera. You could just make out her left breast.
It was nothing compared to the pictures I could have printed. After the recording, Elizabeth had put me in touch with a pho- tographer called John Stoddart and I'd dis- patched my art director, Oli Claridge, to see if he had anything suitable. Oli returned to the office in a state of some excitement. 'You should have seen the photos this guy had,' he panted. 'They were like something out of Mayfair.' I looked at him expectantly. 'Well?' I didn't think you'd want them,' he replied. I had them biked round in 15 minutes. Oli had been exaggerating, but only slightly. I decided to use one of the more demure shots — Eliza- beth in suspenders and a basque reclining on a chaise-longue — for the cover of the talking book and put a topless one on the back..I filed the rest under 'R' for rainy day. They didn't stay in my filing cabinet long. After the call from Elizabeth's solici- tor I contacted mine and he insisted I bike them round to him immediately. He called as soon as they arrived. 'I can't believe I'm being paid for this,' he said, evidently admiring the photos as he spoke. 'You're not.' I reminded him. He was representing me on a pro bono basis. 'I know,' he replied. but you know what I mean.'
After much deliberation, I decided to cave in. When the June/July issue appeared the talking book was mounted on the cover but it was wrapped in a plain, brown enve- lope marked 'Censored. My reason for printing the semi-nude picture in the first place had been to get some publicity and the fact that Elizabeth had threatened me with legal action was a story in itself. I gave it to the Sun and they ended up running the offending photo to accompany the arti- cle. I even appeared on Channel 4 News to denounce Elizabeth for 'turning on one of her oldest friends'. Okay. I was giving the story a bit of top spin. but I had a magazine to sell.
About a week later I got another phone call. The person didn't identify herself but I knew immediately who it was. 'Just because you couldn't dip your wick.' she began, 'you've dipped your pen in poison ink. Eliz- abeth Hurley's much more talented than you'll ever be .. .
I interrupted: 'Elizabeth. why are you referring to yourself in the third person?'
She hung up. Was she hoping to pass her- self off as an anonymous fan? I switched the answering machine on and waited, hop- ing she'd call back. With a bit of luck she'd leave a whole series of dotty messages and I could put them all on a tape and give it away free with the next issue of the Modern Review: a talking kook. Unfortunately, that was the last I heard from her.
I saw her again two years later at a Ver- sace party in New York. At that time she was thinking of converting to Catholicism — part of her unending quest to pass her- self off as posh — and I marched up to her and pointed out that if she was serious about her conversion she'd have to forgive me. 'I doubt it,' she snapped. 'There's no room for doubt in the Catholic Church,' I replied, but it was too late. She'd already stalked off.
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