1 November 2003  
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HIGH LIFE

Blind date
Taki
 New York

I believe it was Jemima Khan’s idea, the search for a beau for Princess Diana —after her divorce, that is. It was late 1995 going into 1996. If memory serves, the Brits of Diana’s background were judged too wet, so I suggested an Italian or a Greek, but Jemima said they were bound to cheat and Diana had had enough of that. Arabs were deemed ‘unsortable’, as were the Belgians (mostly child molesters), and my beloved Germans too pedantic. The French, needless to say, were seen as too cerebral, men bound to point out to her what she lacked upstairs. Then Eureka! What better than an American, and his name was Charles Glass. Charlie was and is extremely good-looking, was divorced like the princess, was a gent, was intelligent and loved the fairer sex. Jemima was not convinced: ‘He’s always chasing women’ — or words to that effect.


‘I’m having a mid-life crisis and I’m not at the crossroads yet.’
But Charlie Glass it was, and Cosima Somerset made the arrangement. It was going to be dinner in my house, à quatre, and we were all so confident it would work that I told Charlie to start packing his bags. KP was the next stop. Alas, it was a disaster. Diana did not drink, so Charlie and I emptied bottle after bottle of the Mouton Rothschild I had ordered for the occasion. Both the Princess and Lady Cosi were appalled to watch two grown-up men getting sloshed and talking rubbish. Not so much Charlie — in fact he holds it much better than me — but yours truly, who for some strange reason talked non-stop about the Ancient Greeks and their sex habits, a topic Diana was not exactly familiar with. (And yet. She sent me a thank-you note, one that I have not as yet put up for sale, telling me how impressed she was with my knowledge of the ancient world. Some knowledge.)

What did not click was the match. Charlie and Diana were polite but mostly ignored each other. Like in a comedy film, I took him aside after a while and gave him a pep talk. ‘She’s not my type,’ said the ungrateful one.

Now about the prophetic letter that Diana wrote to that Burrell man. When I first read about it last week, a bell went off, but I wasn’t sure. So I rang Charlie who was in London, attending the William and Olga Shawcross tenth wedding anniversary party. (Incidentally, bravo Olga. Ten years of marriage is longer than Willy’s two previous marriages combined.) Charlie was not much help, but he did confirm that one of the reasons he and Di did not hit it off that first night was because she insisted on bringing up Prince Charles and what had happened to her, no matter what the subject. (I thought Ancient Greek sex practices were far more interesting.) ‘She was like one of those New York wives who have been left for a trophy one and bang on about it,’ said Chas.

What I do remember clearly was the manner she used to get to my house undetected. I was worried that the paparazzi would stake out my place and discover all sorts of shenanigans going on. So I asked her if she could possibly spare me the joys of becoming tabloid fodder. And she did. She would lie on the floor of a chauffeur-driven car leaving Kensington Palace, and would get dropped off where an unmarked car would be waiting, and then the chauffeur would drive back to KP, giving the impression that she was staying in for the night.

I cannot put my finger on it, nor could Charlie, but I thought she did hint time and again that things were not going to stay the way they were. Am I influenced by the letter Burrell has just produced? Could be, yet there was something gloomy and hinting at disaster the few times I met her. There was also a comedy of errors every time she came to my house. The second time I had Charles and Caroline Moore, Alexander Chancellor, Arkie Busson and Elle Macpherson and a few other friends, including Charlie Glass. When Oliver Gilmour arrived late, I jokingly told the butler not to let him in because we had far too grand a person in the house. Oliver took it seriously, left, and only returned after dinner, once she had gone. One young friend, Louis Franck, arrived, plonked himself next to Diana and, having no idea who she was, regaled her about his life in Russia, and asked her if she, too, was a Russkie.

Then, after the Divine One had left, someone had the idea to go across the square where I live to where yet another lively party was taking place. About ten of us arrived there uninvited. Then we were suddenly asked to leave immediately. Oliver had gone up to a woman and very politely had asked her for two gins and four whiskies. She turned out to be the hostess and you can imagine the rest. Thank God, the princess was not with us. But she sure is getting her own back from the grave.

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