High life
Unromantic Atlantic
Taki
ast Monday I was still fuming over my last Atlantic crossing, and contemplating what to do about Pan American's rudeness — they've yet to apologise — when I heard a sound that reminded me not only of my happy youth, but also of a time when one travelled for the sheer joy of it. Avvocato Agnelli had just flown in and we had gone for a walk along the Riverside when we heard the sound. It was distant, and faint, but it was the customary three long rumbling hoots of an ocean liner's whistle as it departed from the 55th Street terminal on New York's West Side. Hear- ing them made us spend the rest of the morning talking yet again about the good old days.
As a schoolboy, I crossed the Atlantic regularly during the summer holidays, leaving New York some time in July and returning the first week in September. Back in the early Fifties everyone on holiday travelled by ship, while only fore- ign correspondents, spies, and the Boeskys of the time preferred to fly. Needless to say, there were more girls on board those sun liners — as they were called — than there are self-serving, emotional and ex- tremely boring speeches in Hollywood during the Academy awards. The most beautiful girl I ever met on board a ship was a Texan by the name of Isla Cowan. She was blonde, tall, with a Kim Basinger body, a Texas accent, and the reputation of being one of the richest girls of the Lone Star State. I was 15 to her 16, dark, short, poor, but as determined to Conquer her as Santa Anna was to take the Alamo. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, I was not so poor on that trip, because I was travell- ing on my own. My parents were already in Europe and were meeting me in Cannes, which meant I could sign for everything I drank, and for everything others drank, too.
I was seated at Captain Jacobsen's table for my meals, as were the Cowans, those good old days being elitist and the captain not having to eat with everyone who could afford a first-class ticket. I made it a point to offer the captain and the Cowans non-stop champagne, and my ploy worked. Everyone thought I was a millionaire who simply F y looked much younger than his years.
Of course it all ended in tears. Once we dropped anchor in Cannes and my father came on board to collect me, all hell broke loose. Upon seeing the bills I had signed he began to shout, and demanded to see the captain who had allowed it. Worse, he told Captain Jacobsen and the Cowans what a phoney I was. I remember having my last supper at the captain's table next to my father, and seeing Isla looking at me in the manner in which I imagine my old friend Joan Collins must be contemplating the bloated face of her ex across the courtroom just about now. Hell hath no fury like a beautiful woman taken for a ride.
After I left school I continued to cross by ocean liners, the most memorable being in 1957, 7 March to be precise, when Leonida Goulandris, John Zographos and I took the Liberte from Le Havre for New York. Each of us had a suite, and entertained high hopes of romance on the high seas. The Liberte was truly a beauty, with the most wonderful panelling and grand salons. What it lacked on that particular trip was women. There were 80 Vene- zuelan businessmen on board, and c'est tout. Zographos went down to steerage and found a German girl who looked as if she hadn't had a bath since the Berlin blockade four years earlier. He upgraded her to first, took her to dinner in the private first-class dining-room, where Goulandris was sick all over her. While she went to the lavatory to clean up, a drunken Venezuelan assaulted her, and the three of us went to her rescue. I had a broken leg at the time, so I used my crutches against the South American brutes, bending one of my sticks against the hard head of the rapist. Unbe- lievably, we were confined to quarters for the rest of the trip.
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