High life
Apples of discord
Taki
AGstaad
some of you may remember, at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, Eris — who was uninvited — threw down an apple marked 'for the most beautiful'. Women being what they are, three goddesses, Hera, Athena and Aphrodite, assumed it was theirs, ensuring that Eris (Strife) had accomplished her purpose. Things were about to turn ugly when male gods stepped in, decreeing that Paris, son of Priam, and a terrific lecher, would decide, Hera offered the ne'er-do-well an empire, while Athena proposed military glory. But Aphrodite knew her man. (She could have been dealing with Taki.) She presented him with the most beautiful woman in the world. Helen, and of course Paris judged that the apple belonged to Aphro-baby.
Hence the Trojan War, in which the rejected Hera and Athena supported my lot. Ten years of war and destruction, the death of Achilles, Hector, Patroclus and countless others, the sacking of Troy, all because of female vanity. It is enough to make one forswear women, as so many in the Tory party have. 1, of course, was taught that Paris abused Menelaus's hospitality and kidnapped his wife against her will. Mind you, I pride myself on being the perfect house guest, but faced with the most beautiful woman in the world, I, too, might forget my manners.
Later on, while reading the wops, it transpired that perhaps Helen went willingly. Filthy dirty wops even to suggest such a thing. No woman would leave the King of Sparta for a Trojan playboy prince, although some prick in Hollywood-by-theTiber did just that some 40 years ago. The film was cryptically called Helen of Troy, and it depicted Menelaus and Agamemnon as ugly, bearded brutes. while Paris was played by Jacques Sernas, a French pretty boy whom Alan Duncan would have died for on the spot. Helen was portrayed by Rossana Podesta, in my opinion as beautiful as the mythical Helen, and according to my sources twice as good in the sack.
This was a precursor to the spaghetti westerns, and we poor Greeks were the victims of an international conspiracy by Hollywood and dago producers to reduce us to a bunch of ugly cuckolds. Which brings me to the point of my story. Do any of you remember Rosemary Marcie-Riviere? She is no longer with us, but my trou
bles with her began long before the infamous libel case of 16 years ago which almost bankrupted both the dear old Spectator and yours truly. It was on the French Riviera — where else? — in the house of Rosemary Kanzler, as the much-married Swiss barfrau was then (Ernie Kanzler being Henry Ford's uncle). I arrived for lunch with my then wife. Cristina de Caraman, the prettiest girl around, and noticed a gold-medal-covered, open-shirted, deeply suntanned type hovering about her. It was Jacques Sernas. Jokingly I told him not to try that trick again because, unlike Menelaus, I would squeeze his neck like a chicken (comme un poulet). Alas, he had no sense of humour. In fact, he went running to Rosemary and complained. Jesus H. Christ! Here I am trying to defend the Hellenistic world and Homerian truth, and this frog is crying foul. Let's put it this way. Had I been Schindler. I would have left him off my list.
Forty years later it is all a blur, Except that Eris is still making trouble. This time it is not with an apple, but with Lord Rothschild. Jacob Rothschild, however, has a guardian angel residing at 56 Doughty Street, where the Speccie is located. Let me explain. I ran into Jacob at Annabel Goldsmith's summer party, now an annual event that signals the close of the London season. (And a terrific ending it is, too.) While chatting with him. 1 mentioned how flattering it must be that he has become the apple of discord between two, er, shall we say ladies of a certain age but of untold wealth, Jayne Wrightsman and Lily Safra. 'I wrote about it this afternoon in my column,' I told him. He turned red. 'How embarrassing, can you take it out?"Sorry, the presses are rolling as we speak.' He laughed and we went on to other matters.
The next day I got my Speccie nice and early and turned to 'High life'. Nothing. The whole apple of discord business had disappeared as if Aphrodite had red-pencilled it. All I had written was that Jayne would not see Lily because she considered the latter nouveau and vulgar. Both ladies were competing to be numero uno where the Rothschild charities were concerned. Giving money to charity is not libellous, as far as I know, but then I'm not a lawyer so I tend to deal with the truth once in a while. So I rang the bicycling sainted one, who assured me that the next time my copy is trifled with he will insert the lawyer's private parts into the spokes of his ten-speeder. So there! And poor Jacques Sernas. I've just realised that when I jokingly threatened him I failed to tell him it was all about the Iliad — me Menelaus, you Paris type of thing. No wonder the poor guy cried foul.
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