High life
Splitting on the spouse
Taki
hear that Peter Holm, the Swedish ham who was once married to Joan Collins, is getting £250,000 for spilling the beans about the Dynasty star, which is certainly not as bad as what Judas did 1,954 years ago, but definitely along the same lines.
Vadim, Brigitte Bardot's ex, has also made a tidy sum by telling all about her, Jane Fonda and Catherine Deneuve, which does not really surprise me, as Vadim — a man I know quite well — has always been the type. He was Jane Fonda's guru for a long time, which doesn't explain why Fonda is as ghastly and phony as she is, but does give her some kind of excuse. And then there is Eddie Fisher, the man Elizabeth Taylor dumped a quarter of a century ago for Richard Burton. Fisher is a horrid little man who used to sing horrid little songs, but he came into his own, as they say in Hollywood, when he described in his book how he went to bed with Merle Oberon while her penultimate husband was in the next room. Although I like to think I have a pretty strong stomach, reading Fisher's pathetic prose did make me feel queasy, but what I really wanted to do was punch that indiscreet shit in the nose. (Which I like to imagine would have cost me a fortune, as Fisher's proboscis looks as phony as his name.) Which brings me back to Holm, and others of his ilk. One thing that has always amazed me about film stars of the fairer sex is the low quality of husbands they're more often than not saddled with. I guess it's because no self-respecting man will marry someone who spends all day rolling in the hay with another man while hun- dreds of randy extras are looking on. Whatever the reason, one thing is for sure. There is as much honour and dignity among Hollywood husbands as there is compassion in Tehran.
In Holm's case, not only is he not satisfied with 250 big ones, he also is demanding millions for having been mar- ried to Joan for less than a year. When I read of his demands, I must admit that I whistled that well-known aria from South Pacific, 'This nearly was mine, and then I thought better of it'.
But before any of you suspect that I'm about to join the sleaze brigade, here's a brief explanation: it was during a Spectator lunch nine years ago that Peregrine Wors- thorne turned to me in mock admiration and announced that he was quite impress- ed to find out that I had once been Joan Collins's boyfriend. Now there are few things I've not been accused of in my long and happy life, but spilling the beans about girls is not one of them. So I remember telling Perry not to believe everything he hears, and only half of what he sees (an old Turkish proverb) but he insisted. 'It's right there, in her book,' he told me.
And sure enough it was. As soon as the lunch was over I grabbed a taxi and headed for the closest bookshop downmarket enough to have Past Imperfect on sale. Her version of the time we spent together was pretty much the way I remembered it, except for the fact that she had Nicky Hilton and me fighting in El Morocco over her, when in fact I had fought a man by the name of George de Witt; and another small detail involving an older gentleman.
Back in 1957 I used to get up every morning quite early, just before lunch in fact, eat breakfast and than head for the tennis courts, where I would spend most of the afternoon. Joan would lunch with friends, or go shopping. One day a sudden downpour cancelled the tennis early, and I headed back to the hotel earlier than usual. While entering I noticed Joan having lunch in the grill with . . . my father. I was surprised because I had no idea they knew each other, but appreciative of the fact that he would take the time to keep her company. I also noticed she was wearing a diamond pin in the shape of an anchor.
In her book, the older man was never named, therefore I won't name him either. But because it was so long ago, I might give you a hint. There are more women wearing jewels with a maritime theme around Athens than there are free-loaders at Aspinall's. All this came back to me when last in London I read an article that asked whether Joan must sometimes wonder who is left to kiss and tell. Not to worry, Joanie, this is as far as I'll ever go.
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