Low life

Poor girl

Jeffrey Bernard

NOW that Barbara Hutton has followed cold on the heels of Olga Deterding, the time has ,ome for me to make a public plea to any )nor little rich girl who is lonely, unhappy, rnsunderstood and frightened who might Iced a cuddly friend willing to sit up all tight over the gin and tears and listen to ales of just how tough it is at the top of a 60 toot wallet. Anyone out there about to give he undertaker a sharp reminder of his craft Ind who has more than £1 million in their =urrent account plus a desire to bore the pants off someone with stories of an Inhappy childhood and broken marriages !lay get in touch with me at Great Shefford )39, can undercut those who received $1000 Per night from Miss Hutton and my ear may be bent for a modest £250 a night. I only Mish it could be the other way around. Anyone who can buy their friends can count hemselves truly lucky. But what a scene 'rid what a job. By my reckoning, and glowing how people hate to be interrupted 'hen they're talking about themselves, rou'd only have to open your mouth half a lozen times during the entire psychotherapeutic vigil. There I am having just been ushered into the hotel suite of the Poor Little Rich Girl. A waiter wheels in refreshments, makes us comfortable and then I go to work.

J.B. 'You poor little thing. Tell me all about it.'

P.L.R.G. 'Oh my Gahd. I hardly know where to begin. Well, as you prahbably know, I had this absolutely crazy daddy who left me General Motors and Metro Goldwyn Mayer. I was his only child and when he jumped out of a Wall Street window when I was only 161 inherited $120 million.'

J.B. `Well done.'

P.L.R.G. 'Don't say that. It was turruble. From that moment on I got this really crazy idea — you know, like a goddam obsession — that men only liked me for my money.'

J.B. 'That's ridiculous. You're obviously a very wonderful and interesting person in your own right.'

P.L.R.G. 'Say, d'you really mean that?' J.B. 'But of course. You're extremely attractive too.'

P.L.R.G. 'I think you're kinda crazy, but I think I like you. Anyway, I met this Hungarian prince two years later and we got married. We had a lotta laughs, a few drinks and we went round the world so many times we practically got dizzy would you believe, but it didn't work. He was only there for the ride and for my money of course.' J.B. 'How utterly despicable.' P.L.R.G. 'Then you musta read about my second husband, Comte Roland Jean Pierre Zaragossa?'

J.B. 'Of course. Yet another cad unaware of the sweetness of an unselfish life.'

P.L.R.G. 'You can say that again but he was positively angelic compared to the third husband.'

J.B. 'My God. You mean Field Marshal the Duke of Berkshire, "Buffy" to his friends and one of the greatest big game shots since Colonel Sebastian Moran?'

P.L.R.G. 'The same. Hey, ring for some more gin willya? Yeah, that was Buffy alright. An alcoholic with about as much virility as a comatose dormouse. Jeez, where do I get these guys? '

J.B. 'You must be a deeply unhappy woman. I'm fearfully sorry.'

P.L.R.G. `So am I. Say, put some gin in this goddam tonic willya? Tell me something. Have you ever cried yourself to steep? Have you ever woken up in the morning knowing the only trip you're going to make is to the bank? Have you ever experienced the crashing boredom of knowing that you can get just about anything you want? Well?' J.B. 'No. I haven't. It must be awful. If there's anything I can do. . . ?

P.L.R.G. 'Say, what the hell is your name anyhow? You never told me.'

J.B. 'Actually, I'm Crown Prince Brigadier Hugo Stanislau Van Cavendish-Rubirosa.' P.L.R.G. 'Whatdyaknow. How's about us getting hitched?' J.B. 'I'd be delighted. Your happiness is my sole concern. Shall I ring for some Louis Roderer Crystal Brut and a cheque form?'