Life Worth Living (30 page)

Neither I nor any of the other experienced fund-raisers had much patience with people who saw themselves as Lady Bountifuls. We were there to raise funds, not to stroke egos, unless those same egos were offering a fat cheque, in which case we oiled our fingers and started massaging. I had a great deal of fun, but in the final analysis my colleagues and I were there to produce, and produce we did. A journalist from the Express once sat in on a meeting of the Red Cross committee. ‘You ladies are so capable you could run companies,’ she told me afterwards.

It was refreshing to see how realistic the successful fund-raisers were. Charity work had evolved during the 1980s from a traditional occupation for ladies into a cut-throat business where positive elements like altruism were intermingled with bullshit, status-seeking and rampant social climbing. That, however, only made it more interesting for those of us who were not snobbish. Another type whose motives were often mixed was the showbiz celebrity. Some of these people, of course, were genuinely altruistic, but most displayed nothing more than a profound desire for a photo opportunity to show the world how wonderful they were.

One particular, and genuine, sport – in those days, anyway – was Joan Collins. I met her in 1979, when she and her third husband, Ron Kass, attended the premiére of
Oklahoma
to help raise money for one of my charities, KIDS. Their daughter Katy was then in hospital with brain damage, having been run down by a car. The committee had delegated me as the committee member most suitable to tuck her under my wing, and I could
not sing her praises highly enough. Throughout a long evening – pre-performance champagne reception, first half of the musical, royal interval reception, second half of the musical, post-performance royal party – she was the soul of cooperation. She charmed everyone she should have and a few she didn’t need to. She even displayed a touching insecurity, getting me to rehearse her curtsy and mode of address before I presented her to Prince and Princess Michael of Kent.

Regrettably, La Collins’ modesty did not outlast her change of status from national to international star. The next time I saw her was just about the time
Dynasty
was ending, when she attended a cocktail party given by my stepmother-in-law, Margaret, Duchess of Argyll, whose life story she was rumoured to be interested in bringing to the small screen. Margaret reintroduced us, and she was cordiality itself until Charles Beresford, a close friend of Margaret’s, joined us. Now that she had an audience, she turned before my eyes into a more competitive and insufferable prima donna than I had hitherto had the experience of encountering socially. At first I could only stare in disbelief. I took in her beautifully preserved face; looked at the over-made up green eyes mirroring a soul I would much rather not have been glimpsing; shifted my gaze to the dark brown wig, bound by a white polyester headband that matched a ruched, figure-hugging dress of the same synthetic material; stared at the grotesque plastic hooped earrings as she continued in Alexis vein. Eventually something within me snapped. ‘I’ve had quite enough of you,’ I said, and stormed off, relieved to be rid of Mme Superstar’s brand of charm.

For real personal enrichment, the charity work that proved the most rewarding was one that brought no recognition or spin-off benefits. This was my involvement with the International Organisation for a Just Peace in the Middle East, a pressure group which operated in strict secrecy. The organisation was started shortly after the Intifada began by a few like-minded people of Middle Eastern origin who believed that the cause of peace would be best served if we could convince both sides in the conflict that their ultimate interests lay in living together in harmony. That required, as a first step, the Israelis and Zionists to recognise the rights of the Palestinians, and the Palestinians to acknowledge the existence of the state of Israel. The second step was the one the peace process is now at, and the third will, one day, be the creation of a sovereign state of Palestine.

Our work required absolute discretion. Many people on either side of the divide who actually sympathised with the aspirations of the other side could not say so openly, for obvious reasons. Many diplomats and members of the governments we dealt with also had to play their cards close to their chests, as did many influential businessmen and other opinion-formers.

One of the initial hurdles we faced was the negative image the PLO had in the West. Unless we could help to wash off some of the mud which had stuck to what was effectively the Palestinian government-in-exile, there was no prospect of a peaceful solution. This we sought to accomplish in a variety of ways. Some were straightforward, like writing or meeting journalists who were in a position to write articles which might further the cause of peace; others were more meandering, like having
publishers and writers to dinner and courting them over a glass of champagne and a leg of lamb.

Another barrier was the hostility of the Zionists, even moderate Zionists like the Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, to any settlement involving reconciliation with the Palestinians. I was appalled, having written to Lord Jakobovitz asking for his support, to receive a reply which I considered to be wildly inappropriate in view of the fact that he was a man of god, and that the Palestinians undeniably had rights which remained valid no matter how loudly the Zionists shouted. We did not lose heart, for we were already in touch with prominent Jews, Jewish lobbyists and people of Jewish ancestry who would reassure their fellows and, wherever possible, promote our cause.

Moreover, the Zionists could remain militant only as long as the American government gave them unstinting support, and we were already in touch with that same government, as were other organisations involved in the peace process. It was only a matter of time before the US government forced the Zionists to acknowledge the aspirations and rights of the Palestinians. In work of this kind, you cannot see the results of your labours as immediately as you can with fund-raising. There were times when I felt I was pushing against a mountain instead of an anthill, and wondered if it was unrealistic to expect my paltry efforts to make a difference. Ultimately, you have to have faith, to trust that your pressure will have a cumulative effect. And if it does not, at least you know you have done your best.

F
or some women, their thirtieth birthday is the milestone that precipitates an examination of their lives. This did not happen to me, because I regarded my thirties as my prime. Instead it was turning forty that prompted me to take stock. I hated looking older.

Between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine I did not age at all; then one morning I woke up and saw that crow’s feet were eroding the deep-set eyes and high cheekbones that are a characteristic of the Ziadie family, and that laughter lines had appeared from nowhere. But if I felt very lucky indeed to have got this far with what I regarded as a minimum of wear and tear, I realised that the time had come to think about what I wanted to change and to act on it, for soon the die would be cast and it would be too late to alter the course of my life.

Glamorous as my life was, being a socialite had never been compatible with anything but a tiny part of my personality. It was not satisfying my need for human interchange on a deeper level. What I really wanted – had always wanted – was my own family. It was unlikely that I would have my own husband, partly because I was having a relationship with someone else’s, but largely because of my resistance to going back into the lion’s den after the mauling I had taken from Colin Campbell. However, the world had changed to such an extent that there was no reason why I could not become a single mother. I decided to adopt a child, beginning a process so arduous that only the most tenacious hang in there to a successful conclusion.

When I took my first steps towards motherhood I had no idea how completely perverse the system in Britain is. Each council has its own rules and regulations, so what is acceptable to one can be and often is anathema to another. Some councils, for instance, will not allow single women to adopt, while others positively encourage them to do. Some would sooner place a baby with a poor family than a rich one, on the politically correct premise that an ‘ordinary’ life is more desirable than a ‘privileged’ one. Most councils have rules governing age differences between parents and children, though some, sensibly, do not adhere to them. This is just as well, for few prospective adoptive parents fall within the guidelines: by the time most people realise they cannot have children of their own, they are too old to qualify. And the age requirements do not apply to foster parents, which can mean that councils which rigidly adhere to their age rules end up paying out vast sums of money to have children brought up by foster parents who are even older than the prospective adopters they have turned down.

Of course, I didn’t know how mad the system was when I put out feelers to the adoption and fostering departments of several councils and various agencies, and I was optimistic that I would find a child from the massive pool I knew existed. Most of the councils I contacted wrote back with information and advice,
and I thought them most helpful – until I embarked upon the next stage, which was applying for specific children. Details with photographs of these children were to be found in the
Find a Family
newspaper, or in equivalent books published by adoption and fostering units. There were few babies available, and those that were went to married couples, so I knew there was no likelihood of me getting a baby. Although I would have preferred a baby, I was happy to take a child as long as it was not too old. There seemed to be a lot of children available who had passed the toddler stage, most of whom had been messed up by years of being shunted from foster home to foster home so that they would not become too attached to any one family. I applied for a few, but in only one instance was I even invited for an interview (the little boy was placed elsewhere and I have nothing but praise for the social worker at Ealing who dealt with me then). In practically every other case I was informed that a more suitable match had been made – and then I would see the children mentioned again, exposing that response as a complete lie.

Gradually, I realised that the children were being used to meet the employment needs of the social workers who were responsible for finding them parents. If too large a percentage of the children in care were adopted, the adoption and fostering units would be deemed overstaffed, and cuts would be called for. The social workers’ job security therefore required that the majority of the children be deprived of the prospect of a permanent family and rotated from foster home to foster home until they were old enough to enhance the careers of other social workers: those who would be responsible for them in residential homes, or their probation officers, when they were older.

After two years of naïvely trying to bend myself into this insane system, I looked at adopting from abroad. Romania was then much in vogue, South and Central American countries such as Ecuador and Costa Rica were also possibilities, and there was the USA as well. A friend of mine, who provided invaluable help, had adopted her daughter in the US, and she kindly offered me access to the channels she had used. Before deciding how to proceed, I needed a home study, which is an in-depth report from a social worker detailing the prospective adopter’s lifestyle, her reasons for adopting and her suitability to be a parent. No adoption can proceed without this all-important document. When I got in touch with Westminster City Council, which had a duty to provide me with a home study as I was a taxpaying resident of the borough, I was informed that the charge was £2,750.

‘This is an outrage,’ I said to Bridget Ward, the social worker to whom I spoke. ‘The fact that I can afford to pay such an extortionate sum in no way alters the gall the council has in pitching the cost so high that adoption is put beyond the reach of the average person. The message I’m getting is that Westminster has decreed that only the better off can adopt. That is a violation of the rights of the less well off, and it is inhumane to the children who need homes. How
dare
the Council condemn orphans in Romania to a lifetime of institutionalisation and deprivation when there are people out there who can give them a good and loving home but can’t
afford to cough up £2,750 for a document we should be getting for nothing?’

‘We don’t do the study ourselves,’ Ms Ward explained. ‘We get an outside agency to do it.’

‘Well then
they
have a hell of a nerve, and so does the council for going along with them. What are we talking about here? Ten hours of work, maybe twenty at the most. Are you telling me any social worker’s time is worth between £150 and £300 per hour? You’re not models, for god’s sake.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said.

‘I do. It’s a disgrace, and I shall be writing to Virginia Bottomley to register a strong protest.’

This I did, requesting that she not burden me with a reply, as it would be nothing but a self-serving catalogue of excuses, but instead used her time and energy to change the system in general and that aspect of it in particular. Needless to say, she did reply – with a self-serving catalogue of excuses. At present the government is looking into ways of improving the system so that the rights of adoptive parents and children will be better served, so who knows? Maybe those of us who protested were heard.

While all this was going on, I set the wheels in motion to put myself in a stronger financial position. It was one thing for me to live, as I had for the last several years, on a wing and a prayer, but quite another to bring a child into my life and then burden it with financial insecurity. I needed enough money to move to a larger home, to employ a nanny to take care of the child while I worked, and to spare my family from having to rescue me if the overdraft became too big.

As luck would have it, the ideal vehicle for providing me with my ‘baby money’ now hove into view. The year before, I had been having lunch with Kate Mancham and Alan Frame of the
Daily Express
, who loved to hear all the gossip about the royal family I picked up on my social rounds. I was obliging him with the latest story when he suddenly cut in: ‘I’ve got the most fantastic idea. You shouldn’t be buggering around writing books on etiquette. With your connections, what you should be doing is a biography of the Princess of Wales. It’d be a real money-spinner.’

Kate flashed me a smile. ‘He’s right,’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Writing about the royal family is always so difficult, and they’re so boring. I might jeopardise myself socially, too.’

‘You’d make so much money that wouldn’t matter,’ Alan said. ‘I promise you, Georgie, you’d have an international bestseller on your hands.’

For months I turned the idea over in my head. Attractive as the potential earnings were, I was reluctant to put my social life on the line. Then one day, at a committee meeting of one of the
charities I supported and of which the Princess of Wales was patron, I had a brainwave. Why couldn’t I write an official biography that focused on her charity work and lightly touched upon other aspects of her life. I could direct most of the earnings to that charity and to others on which the Princess and I agreed, and that way, everyone would benefit. I would have a good steady income for the next few years, the charities would have handsome donations and Diana would have a biography that focused on her most positive accomplishments.

When dealing with the royal family, the first step is always to sound them out unofficially. I got in touch with a friend of mine who is a good friend of Diana’s and asked him to approach her. I was told that she liked the idea and would give a positive response if I made an official approach. I wrote to her private secretary, Patrick Jephson, and received a reply from Dickie Arbiter, her press secretary, asking me to make an appointment with him to discuss the idea in more detail. Some time between that letter and my arrival at Buckingham Palace in August 1989, Diana had a change of heart. The result was that Dickie Arbiter was no longer co-operative, and I was back to square one. What now? Should I take up Alan Frame’s suggestion and create a comprehensive portrait of Diana? This book would bear no resemblance to the official biography I had envisaged. It would undoubtedly cause a stir, and sell better than the charity fund-raiser, but did I really want to jeopardise the serenity and structure of my life?

I knew that some of Diana’s friends were prepared to impart a wealth of information to me about her private life, most of which was so sensational that I would have been staggered myself had I not known it already. Friends of the royal family do not cooperate with a controversial book unless they have the express permission of the royal in question to do so. This gave me a valuable insight into Diana’s character, which I was rapidly discovering was more complex than I had hitherto thought. Certainly she did not play by the rules. This might have been bad for the royal family in general and Prince Charles in particular, but it was good for any writer who penned the first biography that showed her in her true colours.

It takes as much courage to accept the consequences of a courageous decision as it does to accept those of a cowardly one. And cowardly choices always compromise an individual’s integrity. I had tried the smooth way; now I’d take the rough. ‘Baby money’, I called the biography which my English agent soon placed with Robert Smith of Smith Gryphon publishers. From the outset, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that we were dealing with dynamite and that the book was destined to be an international bestseller.

Before getting down to work I had to fulfil a commitment I had made in 1990 to the drug- and alcohol addiction charity the Chemical Dependency Centre, to organise a large fund-raising ball at the Hippodrome nightclub in London’s Leicester Square, which the Duchess of York had agreed to attend as guest of honour. No sooner had I begun the arrangements in earnest – it takes six months to properly plan something with over a thousand guests – than the Gulf War broke out. Charity after charity cancelled functions they had been planning for a year,
but I decided that we would steam ahead with a two-pronged approach. The war might end before the date of the ball, 30 April; if it did not, we would approach one of the armed forces charities and offer to give them some of the funds raised. As the date loomed and the war continued, I contacted the Soldiers’ Sailors’ and Air Forces Association, and Colonel Pat Reger, who was in charge of their fundraising, was happy to benefit from the event. Indeed, everyone at SSAFA was such a delight to work with that I was happy they were going to share the kitty, even though in the end the war was over before the ball came off.

The Maypole Ball took place to much acclaim and was hailed by the press as one of the social functions of the year, which pleased me no end, though not as much as the tens of thousands of pounds my committee, my assistant, Roger Day, and I raised for the two charities. Between organising the ball and researching
Diana in Private
, as the biography was ultimately called, I was so busy that I seldom had time to see James. This turned out to be a propitious development. Time had been a corrosive factor in our relationship and James had been taking me for granted for at least a year. His attitude seemed to be: ‘We’ve been together for so long, we’ll always be together.’ I tried time and again to warn him, but all my attempts fell on deaf ears. Then, in October 1990, he said one morning while we were running in Kensington Gardens, ‘I have some good news. I’ve been asked to open an office in Hong Kong. I’ll be going at the end of the year.’

I was stunned. ‘That’s good news? What about me?’

‘Nothing will change between us. I’ll be over several times a year. I’ll also go to Switzerland. You can join me there, or come to Hong Kong and visit.’

I was so staggered that I went home and headed straight for bed. The idea of living my day-to-day life without James being readily accessible was distressing in the extreme until I actually faced the prospect. Then I realised that although I was still in the habit of loving him, I was no longer in love with him. He was no longer necessary to my life. It was not because our relationship had ceased to be good, but because he had fulfilled me so effectively for so many years that he had freed me from needing any man ever again. He had replaced the emotional void created by my father with a solid serenity, and the irony was I would never have noticed it had he not made the two simple mistakes he did: taking me for granted, and forcing me to become aware of the independence with which he himself had endowed me.