High life
For better, for worse
Taki
Iam not one for big weddings. The idea of signing away one's liberty in front of all those people seems almost obscene. Girls, however, cannot do without them, and I don't blame them. Winners traditionally celebrate their victories with a bash, and in front of as many witnesses as possible. The first time I surrendered unconditionally was 10 January 1965, a day that shall live in infamy. It took place in Elizabeth, New Jersey, a town that Frank Sinatra once accurately described as the armpit of the world. Cristina, my first wife to be, had given me an ultimatum. She had just turned 21 and was eager to leave her mother's house. We had been seeing each other for about two years, and she couldn't stand climbing back through windows at the ungodliest hours of the morning any longer. 'You either marry me or I can't see you any longer,' was the way she put it. Cristina came from an old family full of tradition, and therefore used the tradition- al form of blackmail (none of this cheap I'm pregnant stuff). To be honest, I was as eager to get married as I am to have Carter-Ruck or Richard Hartley to dinner, but, unlike them, Cristina was young and beautiful. And charming. In fact she was the prettiest girl in Paris. So, just like the gallant Japanese after Nagasaki, I threw in the towel. Cristina turned 21 on 10 Octo- ber 1964. I asked for and got a three-month stay of execution so I could put my affairs in order. I then left Paris and went to New York to try and squeeze into three months what I was about to miss for the rest of my life.
Looking back, it was worth it. As Dr Johnson once said, it is amazing how the impending loss of freedom can concentrate a man's mind on having fun. Needless to say, I managed to fall in love just as the stay was nearing its end. Mimi was very pretty, half English, completely mad, and totally unaware that I was about to be married. And being the moral coward that I am, I remained as quiet as, say, Harold Macmillan was in 1945 when we were sending back the Cossacks to their certain death. Cristina arrived on 9 January and checked into the Sherry Netherland Hotel. I was living there also, but on another floor and with Mimi. Needless to say, I was extremely nervous, but determined to have one last night of fun. So I made up a story about a bachelor's party, and the bad luck it was to see each other the day before the wedding, and went out with Mimi to El Morocco. I had asked Porfirio Rubirosal the great playboy, to be my best man. Rub' was at Elmo's that night and although he was no angel he was appalled when he realised what was going on. In fact he ruined my last night of freedom with a lecture in front of Mimi. Mimi's last words to me were, 'Did you really think that you could get away with it?' The next morning, Rubi, Cristina, Nel- son and I drove to Elizabeth where a federal judge stopped handing out life terms long enough to declare me and Cristina man and wife. (There was a major Mafia trial going on at the time; everyone got off but me, and ten years later the judge was indicted for corruption.) When we got back to the hotel, Minn was waiting in the lobby. She came up and, sweetly asked my bride whether we had just been married. When she heard the word yes, she kicked me as hard as she could on the shin, and walked away. I guess I deserved it, but when Cristina, too, began to abuse me, I knew I had made a major miscalculation. It was all downhill from then on. (Incidentally, Mimi and I are now good friends, although she still goes on about how untrustworthy I am. Cristina and I are on far better terms now than we ever were while we were married.) My second humiliation took place in New York City, on 5 March 1981. Alexan- dra insisted we get married in order for our children to have a chance of getting into a good school. For some strange reason Americans insist that parents should be married, a middle-class attitude to say the least. I tried to keep it as quiet as possible as I was working on certain projects at the time. So I arranged for yet another federal judge to come down to my father's lawyers' office and perform the deed. Afterwards I asked for one month's leave in order to recover from the ordeal, and Alexandra very kindly granted it. Well, some of you know the rest.
The moral of all this is that I'm wrong. Perhaps big weddings are for the best. Especially for male chauvinists who are slow to get the message. And speaking of chauvinists, I offer a great apology to my friend Sally Aspinall for last week's fiasco. I had reported on the Aspinall ball, and failed to mention that it was she and Lynne Lawrence, and six girls who had slaved throughout the previous day in order to recreate a Sumatran rainforest. Her hus- band, a male chauvinist if there ever was one, forgot that tiny detail. So next time I get married I shall make sure all flowers come from the Curzon-Lawrence flower and I'm sure that they will make a difference.
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