Part 20 (2/2)

Sarah howled with laughter as she delivered the punch line, which startled one of her hostesses. ”She certainly wasn't what I expected of a d.u.c.h.ess,” her hostess said carefully, ”but she was lively and always sent us a thank-you.” Sarah's letters, mailed from Buckingham Palace, arrived on her personal stationery, which featured a small crown atop a large ”S.”

An accomplished impressionist, Sarah also entertained her new friends with impersonations of her in-laws. She imitated Prince Philip by goosestepping around the room like a German soldier, barking out orders. Then she scrunched her face into a scowl and said, ”This is Her Majesty when we call her Miss Piggyface.” She mimicked the Queen's walk with her handbag dangling from her arm. Next, to the astonishment of her audience, she picked up a kitchen knife and knighted her host's dog. As she placed the stainless steel blade on either side of the pup's ears, she piped, impersonating the Queen, ”Arise, Sir Rutherford.”

The d.u.c.h.ess met her match for outrageous behavior at a New York City dinner party given by her first literary agent, Mort Janklow, who seated her across from author Norman Mailer.

”I've never read any of your books,” she admitted, ”so which one should I begin with?”

”Tough Guys Don't Dance,” replied Mailer.

”What's it about?”

”p.u.s.s.y,” he said.

There was an audible intake of breath from the writer Tom Wolfe, but the d.u.c.h.ess did not blanch.

”You know, Mr. Mailer,” she said, ”the most interesting thing for me at this moment is watching everyone's face at this table.”

Mailer was impressed by her quick response. ”She fielded it nicely,” he said, recalling the evening with a tinge of regret. ”I had a devil in me that night.... I said the book had an interesting discussion of the differences between p.u.s.s.y and c.u.n.t. I must say she was terrific. A lot of people were offended, but Sarah Ferguson couldn't have been nicer about the whole deal, making a point of telling a lot of nice Nellies she wasn't the least bit offended, and I felt bad about it afterward because she got trashed in the papers, and I expect it didn't do her any good in England.”

When Sarah returned to her office in Buckingham Palace, she was greeted by the unsmiling face of Sir Robert Fellowes, who had been promoted to the powerful position of the Queen's private secretary.* He walked in brandis.h.i.+ng a pile of press clippings. He walked in brandis.h.i.+ng a pile of press clippings.

”Well, we didn't do very well again today, did we?” he said, shaking his head with disapproval. He dropped the stack of newspaper stories on her desk as if they were dead mice. She glared at him.

”Oh, Robert, really,” she said with exasperation.

”This must be such a disappointment for you,” he said, peering over his steel-rimmed gla.s.ses. Turning to leave, he added, ”I know it is for Her Majesty.”

Fellowes, or ”Bellowes,” as Fergie called him, was her father's first cousin and a man she came to detest. She dreaded his visits to her office. He always arrived looking dour and brandis.h.i.+ng a pile of clippings that chronicled her latest misadventure. She told friends she got a stomachache as soon as she saw him approaching her door. ”He could hardly wait to show me the story of the MP who said I was flagrantly abusing the royal name,” she said.

”He was her Lord High Executioner,” said a New York businesswoman whom the d.u.c.h.ess had adopted as her unofficial adviser. ”Bad-news Bellowes, as we called him, made Sarah's life a living h.e.l.l. She had to stand alone against that unremitting Palace machine which wanted nothing so much as to extinguish her delightful spirit. She had no one to help her. Not even her husband. As much as Andrew loved Sarah, he would not defend her against the courtiers. He was simply too terrified of them.

”She felt the weight and power of the monarchy cras.h.i.+ng down on top of her; she knew she was in trouble, but she had no adult in her life to advise her. No one in the Palace wanted to help her. The Queen adored her, but the Queen is not the power in the Palace. Prince Philip runs everything, and once he had decided that Sarah was not worth the trouble she was causing, she was finished. Away at sea every week, Andrew was never there for her. Neither was the Princess of Wales, who saw her as a rival. Sarah's mother was dealing with a dying husband in Brazil. Her sister, Jane, was dealing with her own divorce in Australia. And Sarah's father was no help whatsoever after he became involved in his own s.e.x scandal. So, as her friend, I stepped in and tried to help.”

The New Yorker advised the d.u.c.h.ess to improve her image by performing more royal duties and becoming active with charities for crippled children and the mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded. ”I told her to take a page from Diana's book,” the adviser said. She explained the on-again, off-again friends.h.i.+p between the d.u.c.h.ess and the Princess as fraught with rivalry and petty jealousies. ”Sarah felt that she was being sacrificed to make room for Diana as the future Queen. She resented the unfair comparisons in the press between them-Diana was depicted as a loving mother while Sarah looked like a wench who abandoned her children for months on end to go on luxury holidays.”

Her ski guide in Switzerland, Bruno Sprecher, described her as a woman who did not like other women. ”She could always ski well,” he said, although she stopped every twenty minutes for a cigarette, ”and was great chums with the men in the party, but she didn't like female compet.i.tion.”

Her New York adviser saw it differently. ”Unfortunately, Sarah was too forthright for her own good. She admitted she never liked babies much before she had her own. Diana, of course, was portrayed as a madonna who adored children. But Sarah had reservations about Diana as a mother, especially when she tried to alienate her boys from Charles. She [Diana] constantly asked the little Princes, 'Who loves you the best? Who loves you more than anyone else in the whole world?' And the boys were supposed to say, 'You do, Mummy. You do.' Sarah felt that was troubling. She also did not agree with the hateful picture Diana painted of Charles, who, Sarah said, was just not that that bad. Obtuse, yes, but definitely not the monster Diana said he was.” bad. Obtuse, yes, but definitely not the monster Diana said he was.”

The New York adviser continued: ”Sarah never publicly criticized the Princess of Wales-she wasn't that stupid-but there were many times when she felt badly used by Diana. For instance, the Princess was no comfort to her during the lurid business with her father. [In May 1988 Major Ron was exposed by the tabloids as a regular patron of ma.s.sage parlors. Private Eye Private Eye ran a compet.i.tion for anagrams of ”Ronald Ferguson.” Winners were ”organ flounders” and ”old groaner's fun.” Four years later his love affair with Lesley Player became public, and she admitted to aborting his child; then Prince Charles fired him as his polo manager.] Diana shrewdly put as much distance as she could between herself and the Major, even ushering her children off the polo grounds so they wouldn't be contaminated by his presence. Sarah was hurt and humiliated by her father, but, as she said, Diana's family wasn't so exemplary that she could act holier than thou.” ran a compet.i.tion for anagrams of ”Ronald Ferguson.” Winners were ”organ flounders” and ”old groaner's fun.” Four years later his love affair with Lesley Player became public, and she admitted to aborting his child; then Prince Charles fired him as his polo manager.] Diana shrewdly put as much distance as she could between herself and the Major, even ushering her children off the polo grounds so they wouldn't be contaminated by his presence. Sarah was hurt and humiliated by her father, but, as she said, Diana's family wasn't so exemplary that she could act holier than thou.”

Shortly after his wedding, Diana's brother, Charles Spencer, called the Daily Mail Daily Mail's gossip columnist to own up to an extramarital fling with a former girlfriend days before her story appeared in the tabloids. Spencer's story became a front-page scandal in Britain. ”I have caused my wife more grief than I would wish her to have in a lifetime with me,” he said, ”and I accept full responsibility for the folly of my actions. Now, after the birth of our baby, we are deeply in love and our marriage is the most important thing in our lives.”

He later said that his wife, the former model Victoria Lockwood, was deeply disturbed and suffered from anorexia nervosa and alcoholism. She required treatment at a detoxification center and was inst.i.tutionalized for three months for what her husband described as ”serious psychological problems.” Yet in a speech at his birthday party, Charles Spencer, known as ”Champagne Charlie” before his marriage, seemed insensitive to his wife's problems. He told his guests that his father had advised him to find a wife who would stick by him through thick and thin. ”Well,” he said, ”those of you who know Victoria know that she's thick-and she certainly is thin.” Within six years the couple, who had four children, separated.

Publicly the d.u.c.h.ess of York stood by her father after he was caught in the ma.s.sage parlor, but she complained bitterly to friends that she felt soiled by his scandal. She said that his adverse publicity had affected her chances of attracting the charity work she needed to rehabilitate herself. She felt that ”the galloping Major,” as he began calling himself, made her look less than respectable. Organizations seeking royal patronage, especially those that needed to raise money and maintain a worthy profile, avoided her. The Princess of Wales was patron to 120 charities; the d.u.c.h.ess of York had only fifteen.

”I had friends who were in drugs,” Sarah said, ”so I asked if I could join a chemical dependency movement.” She became the patron of the Chemical Dependency Centre. ”People tend to be very judgmental about drug users,” she said. ”But I see drug addicts as my equals.” At the time, she, too, was a drug addict. ”She had given her body over to these slimming drugs [amphetamines], and that was the beginning of her downfall,” said seventy-nine-year-old Jack Temple, one of the many healers she turned to for help. ”Slimming drugs fogged her brain. Her actions weren't normal.”

From New York her American adviser watched in dismay as the d.u.c.h.ess was increasingly portrayed in the press as someone who advanced on the world with both hands extended like horseshoe magnets. ”A hand full of gimme and a pocket full of much obliged,” is how one man described Fergie. She sold an exclusive interview to a British newspaper for $201,600. The newspaper complained that she had not been forthcoming and withheld part of her payment because she had denied that she was pregnant. The day the article was published, she admitted to a television interviewer that she was expecting her second child. ”I forgot,” she told the newspaper, insisting on full payment. She threatened to sue, but the Queen intervened, and Sarah backed down.

Sarah collected $500,000 for opening the doors of her home, Sunninghill Park, to h.e.l.lo!, h.e.l.lo!, a large glossy picture magazine that caters to celebrities, especially royalty. The magazine, which pays huge fees for exclusives, was Sarah's favorite; over the next ten years she was featured on several covers. She sold exclusive interviews, plus photographs of herself, her husband, her children, her mother, her father, and her sister. In her debut issue she posed with her husband while they changed their babies' diapers. The magazine spread seventy photographs over forty-eight pages of the Yorks holding their two daughters, the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. And the cover boasted ”The Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of York Grant Us the Most Personal of Interviews and for the First Time Ever Throw Open the Doors of Their Home and Invite Us to Share Their Intimate Family Moments.” The Queen said it looked like a movie magazine launch for a Hollywood starlet. Even the novelist Barbara Cartland, whom Mrs. Thatcher's government had made a Dame of the British empire, expressed disgust. ”We might as well have pictures of the Queen Mother taking her clothes off and climbing into the bath.” a large glossy picture magazine that caters to celebrities, especially royalty. The magazine, which pays huge fees for exclusives, was Sarah's favorite; over the next ten years she was featured on several covers. She sold exclusive interviews, plus photographs of herself, her husband, her children, her mother, her father, and her sister. In her debut issue she posed with her husband while they changed their babies' diapers. The magazine spread seventy photographs over forty-eight pages of the Yorks holding their two daughters, the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. And the cover boasted ”The Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of York Grant Us the Most Personal of Interviews and for the First Time Ever Throw Open the Doors of Their Home and Invite Us to Share Their Intimate Family Moments.” The Queen said it looked like a movie magazine launch for a Hollywood starlet. Even the novelist Barbara Cartland, whom Mrs. Thatcher's government had made a Dame of the British empire, expressed disgust. ”We might as well have pictures of the Queen Mother taking her clothes off and climbing into the bath.”

The d.u.c.h.ess's New York adviser had her hands full: ”The newspaper stories about Sarah became so horrendous that I finally told her to stop giving interviews because her spontaneous comments were killing her. She would say something light and humorous that was invariably misinterpreted or came out sounding brash and stupid. So her secretary began telling reporters to submit their questions in writing. Sarah would fax the questions to me with what she'd like to say; I'd edit her comments and fax back what she should say. That worked for a while....”

The New York businesswoman tried to protect the d.u.c.h.ess from the press, but the d.u.c.h.ess's worst enemy was the d.u.c.h.ess herself. She didn't follow her friend's advice or learn from her own mistakes. Instead she bemoaned her public image and blamed everyone around her-the courtiers, the press, the Princess of Wales (”I know she leaks stories about me,” Sarah said), her father, and even her husband, whom she now described to friends as ”boring... a darling, but a boring darling.” She complained that Andrew did not make enough money to maintain a royal lifestyle. Enthralled by the big-spending ways of her new American friends, especially Croesus-like Texans, she set out to augment her income.

During her first pregnancy, she decided to write a children's book, although she admitted that her best subject in school had been modern dance. Her headmistress at Hurst Lodge once described her in a school report as ”an enthusiastic pupil who makes a cheerful contribution to life at the Lodge... [but]... consistently fails to do herself justice in written work.”

Undaunted, Sarah said she didn't want to sound like a writer who swallowed the dictionary. So she put her name to a simple story about a helicopter called ”Budgie” (slang for the budgerigar parrot) that is looked down upon by the bigger aircraft, until he does something heroic. ”I sat down at the dining room table with a big pile of sc.r.a.p paper, the backs of photocopied stuff and printouts,” the d.u.c.h.ess told Publishers Weekly, Publishers Weekly, ”and started writing with just one pencil.” ”and started writing with just one pencil.”

With that one pencil she made a fortune. She received a $1 million advance from Simon & Schuster, and within three years she had produced four Budgie Budgie books; they earned more than $2.5 million from serial rights, foreign rights, and paperback rights. Later, with the help of her financial adviser, she sold merchandising rights, including rights to cartoons, wind-up dolls, T-s.h.i.+rts, hats, and lunch pails. The books became best-sellers in England, despite literary critics who dismissed them as ”bland and ghastly” and ”utter rubbish.” books; they earned more than $2.5 million from serial rights, foreign rights, and paperback rights. Later, with the help of her financial adviser, she sold merchandising rights, including rights to cartoons, wind-up dolls, T-s.h.i.+rts, hats, and lunch pails. The books became best-sellers in England, despite literary critics who dismissed them as ”bland and ghastly” and ”utter rubbish.”

Sarah was so severely criticized for marketing her royal t.i.tle that Robert Fellowes sternly suggested she consider donating at least 10 percent of her royalties to charity. She balked at first, saying Budgie Budgie was her only source of significant income. But she backed down as soon as she realized that the ”suggestion” had come from Her Majesty. Sarah knew those royal demands usually came through the thin lips of Robert Fellowes. When she was accused of plagiarism, was her only source of significant income. But she backed down as soon as she realized that the ”suggestion” had come from Her Majesty. Sarah knew those royal demands usually came through the thin lips of Robert Fellowes. When she was accused of plagiarism,* she announced that she would donate she announced that she would donate ”a certain percentage.” But, after making the public announcement, she reconsidered and kept the royalties. Then her ”a certain percentage.” But, after making the public announcement, she reconsidered and kept the royalties. Then her Budgie Budgie books. .h.i.t severe turbulence. books. .h.i.t severe turbulence.

An observant reader was struck by several similarities between Budgie-The Little Helicopter Budgie-The Little Helicopter by HRH the d.u.c.h.ess of York and by HRH the d.u.c.h.ess of York and Hector the Helicopter Hector the Helicopter by Arthur W. Baldwin, an Englishman who had died several years before. by Arthur W. Baldwin, an Englishman who had died several years before.

Both books centered on the adventures of a little helicopter with eyelashes; both were similarly ill.u.s.trated, and both told essentially the same story: The adventures of Baldwin's Hector begin with the helicopter feeling ”unwanted and forgotten” because he's left twiddling his thumbs in the hangar while all the other planes are traveling to exotic places. Budgie, too, feels dejected and twiddles his thumbs because all the planes in his hangar are going to an air show.

Hector falls asleep and has a ”wonderful dream.” So does Budgie. Upon waking, Hector goes for a spin. So does Budgie. Hector cheers up. ”In the distance he could see the sea s.h.i.+ning and sparkling in the morning sunlight.” Budgie also ”cheered up. The sea was sparkling and the cold wind whipped his cheeks.” Both Hector and Budgie perform rescue missions that save people's lives; both little whirlybirds earn the respect of the big airplanes; and both live happily ever after.

The d.u.c.h.ess maintained that Budgie was her own creation-and she wouldn't budge: ”The books are all me. Every page.” The publisher holding the copyright for Hector was dubious but did not publicly dispute the d.u.c.h.ess. ”It is difficult for us to say that anything has been literally 'copied,' ” wrote Jane Moore, group legal adviser of Reed International Books in a letter, ”but if this was not a major source of inspiration for the 'Budgie' books then it is a remarkable coincidence.” She did not say whether she thought the coincidence was accidental or significant.

During Sarah's second pregnancy in November 1989, she flew to Texas as the guest of honor of Lynn and Oscar Wyatt. The Wyatts' estimated wealth of $8 billion paid for a gold-plated life of private planes and French villas. Lynn, the Sakowitz department store heiress, was Oscar's fourth wife. Oscar, an oil tyc.o.o.n, owned Coastal Corporation. Like little kids who collected Barbie and Ken dolls, the Wyatts collected celebrities-movie stars, models, artists, designers, and royals. ”Grace and Rainier are our neighbors in the South of France,” drawled Lynn Wyatt, making the Prince and Princess of Monaco sound like ”just folks” on the nearby ranch. A pet.i.te blond beauty on the international best-dressed list, Lynn Wyatt thrived on socializing with the likes of Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger, Jerry Hall, Liza Minnelli, Nancy Reagan, Princess Margaret, and the Aga Khan.

”The Wyatts are walking wallets,” Fergie told a friend, describing the international socialites and their free-spending style. She breathlessly recited the lavish details of the Monte Carlo Sporting Club Ball that Lynn Wyatt had decorated. ”She flew in four thousand yellow roses,” said Fergie, snapping her fingers, ”and she didn't blink.”

As the patron of the Houston Grand Opera, Lynn Wyatt had invited the d.u.c.h.ess to represent the royal family at a benefit salute to the British opera. She gave a dinner party in Sarah's honor and included her own two sons from her first marriage. Mrs. Wyatt seated her older son, thirty-six-year-old Steve, next to Sarah. He lived in London and worked in his stepfather's petroleum empire, dealing with sales to the Middle East. He flew from London to Houston solely to attend his mother's party for the d.u.c.h.ess of York.

Fergie fell hard for the tall, lanky Texan, who had thick dark hair, a year-round tan, and rippling muscles. He described himself as spiritual and attributed his spirituality to Madame Va.s.so, who later claimed that Sarah and Steve started their affair when Sarah was five months pregnant. The Madame offered this account to an editor at Little, Brown in New York in hopes of selling a book in 1996. But the editor turned down the book proposal, saying people were not interested in the d.u.c.h.ess's indiscretions.

Sarah, who regularly consulted astrologers, told one that she could not resist the Texan. She described him as ”incredibly delicious... like a blue-eyed pudding.” She also told her father that ”Fred,” her code name for Wyatt, was wild in bed. At first Major Ferguson objected to their relations.h.i.+p and told her to stop.

”Do you really feel that strongly?” she asked.

”Yes, I do,” said the Major. ”Stop. Now.”

”You surely can't expect me to stay in on my own night after night,” she retorted. She didn't speak to her father for six months.

”Other people advised Sarah to stop seeing Steve Wyatt,” admitted Major Ferguson, ”and they weren't spoken to for months, either.”

Steve Wyatt had been adopted by his mother's second husband after his natural father, Robert Lipman, was convicted of killing a woman during a drug overdose and served six years in prison for manslaughter. Steve idolized his freewheeling stepfather, Oscar Wyatt, and rarely referred to his natural father. If asked about him, Steve implied that Lipman had died before he was born. From his mother, Steve had learned the basics of moving in high society; he flattered rich wives and deferred to their rich husbands.

Steve and Sarah spoke the same New Age language of mystics and channelers and crystals full of electromagnetic fields that they fancied as healing and restorative. She told him about the voices she heard in her head and the spirits that protected her from harm. He told her he slept with one of Madame Va.s.so's pyramid s.h.i.+elds over his bed to protect his psyche. He meditated every morning and ate a macrobiotic diet. ”He bored everyone to tears by talking about diets and good karma and the rest of the bulls.h.i.+t modern Americans pollute us with,” said the columnist Taki.

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