close

Вход

Забыли?

вход по аккаунту

?

The Times Magazine — 6 January 2018

код для вставкиСкачать
06.01.18
Supplement of the Year
CONFESSIONS
OF A POSH GIRL
What I got up to on Tatler magazine
B Y S O P H I A M O N E Y- C O U T T S
06.01.18
33
48
ANSON SMART, RON GALELLA/WIREIMAGE
EaDOtN!NA HAY?S EASY TARTS
5 Caitlin Moran What I like to do when I?m alone. 6 What I?ve learnt Boarding school changed my
life, says author Peter Carey. 9 This week I?m wearing Anna Murphy gets into brown pseudo-tweeds.
11 Spinal column: Melanie Reid I need to master anger management ? and fast. 12 Cover story Diary
of a Tatler girl Sophia Money-Coutts spent five years attending the poshest parties and mixing with
the gentry. Not a bad way to make a living, she says. 20 ?My biggest mistake was becoming a mother?
Jen Gann?s son has cystic fibrosis. She explains how a clinical error denied her the chance to
end the pregnancy. 28 The only way is Essex How Canvey Island became the promised land for
an ultra-Orthodox Jewish community. 33 Eat! Donna Hay?s easy tarts and soups. 48 The serial killer
and the fashion designer How did one of the most wanted men in America, who had already killed
four people, murder Gianni Versace on his doorstep in broad daylight? A new TV series reveals
all. 57 Shop! Wrap up in style. 59 How to get dressed Winter boots. 60 Home! London loft-style living
in Stockholm. 67 Giles Coren reviews Yen, London WC2. 74 Beta male: Robert Crampton My parents?
notable visitors, from Kinnock to Corbyn. Lesley Thomas and Nadiya Hussain are away
COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY DAVID TITLOW. STYLING BY PRUE WHITE. GOWN, VIVIENNE WESTWOOD COUTURE (VIVIENNE WESTWOOD,
6 DAVIES STREET, LONDON); NECKLACE, �, RIVERISLAND.COM; TIARA, �, CLAIRES.COM. SHOT AT AT CLIVEDEN HOUSE
Donatella and
Gianni Versace
57
Shop!
Follow us on Twitter
@timesmagazine and @timesfashion
and Instagram @thetimesmagazine
EDITOR NICOLA JEAL DEPUTY EDITOR LOUISE FRANCE ART DIRECTOR CHRIS HITCHCOCK ASSOCIATE EDITOR SIMON HILLS ASSISTANT EDITOR TONY TURNBULL COMMISSIONING EDITOR MONIQUE RIVALLAND CHIEF SUB-EDITOR AMANDA LINFOOT
DEPUTY ART DIRECTOR JO PLENT DEPUTY CHIEF SUB-EDITOR CHRIS RILEY PICTURE EDITOR ANNA BASSETT DEPUTY PICTURE EDITOR JODIE McEWAN FASHION PRUE WHITE CONTRIBUTING EDITOR BRIDGET HARRISON FASHION/EDITORIAL ASSISTANT HANNAH ROGERS
The Times Magazine 3
SPIROS POLITIS
T
CAITLIN MORAN
wice a year, work sees me
travel across Europe and
America. Book tours where
I like to believe I float
like a luminous, literary
dandelion seed across the
continents, delighting all
I sail past ? spreading the
good word about feminism,
social progress, joy and all my works being
available for no more than a very reasonable
�99 in paperback or �.99 hardback.
Book tours are, in essence, an organised
loneliness ? an endless procession of trains,
planes and alarmingly quiet hotel rooms,
where the author?s egotistical fury at being
in a smaller presidential suite than last time
contrasts amusingly with wandering around
it at 1am, whispering, ?The vast emptiness of
the unused dining area saddens me. Really,
I would feel more comforted if I could sleep
in a much smaller room, or a cupboard.?
When you are lonely for days on end,
you are apt to anthropomorphise odd things.
Some people chat to Siri. Others confide
in a diary. And there?s always just getting
hog-whimperingly drunk and unrolling
your backstory to the barman.
I anthropomorphise museums and art
galleries. They?re like a worldwide chain
of pals, in the centre of every city, where
a lonely person may seek shelter from the
rain, heatwave, wind or snow ? whichever is
applicable ? and feel comforted. Museums,
when you get down to it, are really gossipy.
Art galleries have many things to tell you.
As soon as you step through their doors into
their huge, marble atriums, you can feel each
room and wing calling out to you. These are
places that have collected the most intense,
extraordinary, inexplicable and illuminating
things in the world ? they are manically
excited by what they have to show you. They
are like a party rammed with lit extroverts.
The gems and minerals section wants you
to visit there first; the 15th-century religious
art wing is furious you?re prioritising Michelle
Obama?s shoes over its hot oils; and there?s
a whole bunch of portraiture that wants to
kill Egyptology for hogging all the attention.
What portraiture doesn?t know is that I would
never go to Egyptology, because if I wanted to
be surrounded by two-dozen schoolchildren
in fluoro-tabards banging on a sarcophagus
and shouting, ?MUMMY?S DEAD, MISS!
HAHAHAHA!?, I would have stayed at home
and volunteered to help out on a school trip.
And I deliberately went to all the effort of
?Some people are
so hot you will
fancy them even
when they?ve
been dead for
100 years?
writing another long novel so I didn?t have
to do that. Also, I don?t care about ancient
Egypt any more. It?s overdone. I get it. No TV
documentary crew has ever worked out how to
build a pyramid. MAYBE THAT?S BECAUSE
THEY?RE A TV DOCUMENTARY CREW
AND NOT A PHARAOH. I?m so sorry about
your difficult triangles.
You see? This is part of the joy of art
galleries and museums ? I argue with them
in my head. Or else commiserate. I was
very sympathetic towards the section in the
Smithsonian entitled ?The Guano Trade?.
Seemingly compiled on a budget of $37.72,
it told the story of how guano (bird poo)
was once a major industry, with the 200ft
piles on the Chincha Islands ? in particular
the legendary ?Great Heap? ? the envy of the
world. No one was in the exhibition when I got
there; they were too busy with big-ticket items
such as the Hope Diamond, Dorothy?s ruby
slippers and the original Kermit. (I?d already
seen all of those, so had a free slot for poo.)
Often, museums make me laugh. There?s
an incredibly camp Buddha at the Victoria &
Albert in London whose expression reads,
?Well, she would say that,? three cabinets
away from a 6th-century stone carp with
a moustache that looks like an experienced
seducer. Last week, at the British Museum,
I saw a 17th-century Jewish ring decorated
with scenes of Eve eating the apple in the
Garden of Eden. The inscription inside reads,
knowingly, ?mazel tov?. Yes, good luck with
that, Eve! Let us know how that goes!
And then, sometimes, a museum or art
gallery has nothing more profound to share
than that some people are so hot, you will
fancy them even when they?ve been dead for
100 years. In Barcelona, I spent a dark-blue
August day in the Museu Nacional d?Art de
Catalunya, walking white marble halls full of
self-portraits, learning that the 19th-century
Spanish art scene was filled with men so
beautiful ? with clever, Coca-Cola brown
eyes and mouths that clearly laughed a lot
? that they called out from beyond the grave.
I sighed, ?What can I do with these intense,
loving feelings for the long dead, museum??
It replied, ?They would be thrilled that you
fancied them. That?s why all art exists. PS:
we have a lovely caf� downstairs selling sweet
ham on ciabatta and tiny orange-zest cakes.?
And I was glad that I had caught up with
my friend, and walked out into the park,
eating ham and feeling cheered. n
caitlin.moran@thetimes.co.uk
The Times Magazine 5
What I?ve learnt
Peter Carey
Author Peter Carey, 74, is one of only three novelists to win
the Man Booker Prize twice, with Oscar and Lucinda and
True History of the Kelly Gang. He studied chemistry
and zoology at Monash University, Melbourne, before
dropping out, and his first collection of short stories was
published in 1974. He has two children and lives in New
York with his third wife, publishing agent Frances Coady.
As a child I went from a predominantly working-class
town, Bacchus Marsh, to boarding at Geelong
Grammar, which was where the ruling class of
Australia sent their kids. I always remembered that
divide as a formative moment in my life.
I like to think I?d be happy as a car dealer in rural
Australia. My parents ran a car dealership and when
I was in my early teens I was told there was no room
for me in the family business. If that was traumatic,
I don?t remember it that way. I could very easily have
lived that life. I have always admired people who
stay in one place. It?s what you should do. If you?re
going to fish a bit of a river you make sure you know
it really well. For me that?s an ideal way for a writer
to live ? it?s just not how I?ve lived.
I am disciplined. One of the things I learnt at Geelong
Grammar was hard work. The boarding school let
you study after dinner at night and so you got used
to going to your cubicle and working. I?ve carried
that with me all my life.
In the late Seventies I lived in a hippie commune and
worked in advertising. That was pretty weird even
then. Advertising was stranger in those days. People
smoked dope in the office. We used to spray adhesive
glue in the air to kill the smell. You wouldn?t believe
how sticky the floor got. My hippy friends didn?t
know about the advertising job and it was a while
before they busted me. I was pulled over by the police
one night and I had to admit my car was owned
INTERVIEW James Marriott PORTRAIT Andrew Kelly
6 The Times Magazine
by the advertising company in front of my friend.
Having to try and fail and then come back again is very
important. When I was younger, I was too ignorant
or too snobbish or too stupid to write short stories
? only a novel would do for me, so I wrote one novel
after another after another. But none of them was
published. Eventually, I decided to write short
stories and that?s when I realised I?d actually learnt
to write. It was a process that took about ten years.
You?re best left to yourself to make mistakes, to learn
very slowly and to imitate people, usually while
denying that?s what you?re doing. (?What do you
mean it?s like Samuel Beckett ? of course it?s not!?)
You learn a lot from falling in love with other
writers and copying them.
Success is a combination of talent and hard work. But
the main thing is sheer will. If you?re not obsessed
with what you want to do, you?re probably not going
to do it. Will can make up for a great deal.
I have a very good memory for place. It?s rather thrilling
to live in New York and walk down the street when
you alone know that in your head you have spent
all morning in a Queensland rainforest. People are
amazed that I should live in New York and have
all these things in my head. On the subway I look
around and I know there are so many people in that
car who are carrying whole histories in their heads.
I?ve ended up in places almost accidentally or casually
without really thinking about it. When I came to New
York I wasn?t really thinking about the consequences.
I moved here because I was married to someone who
passionately wanted to come to New York at that
time. I wasn?t really thinking that I?d be here 25 years
later with two American kids and an English wife. n
Peter Carey?s new novel, A Long Way from Home, is published
by Faber on January 18, �.99
Peter Carey, 74, in
his apartment in
Soho, Manhattan
?In the Seventies
I lived in a hippy
commune. My
friends there didn?t
know I had a job
in advertising?
This week I?m wearing... pseudo-tweeds
W
SARAH CRESSWELL, GETTY IMAGES. ANNA MURPHY: STYLIST, PRUE WHITE. MAKE-UP: DANI GUINSBERG AT CAROL HAYES USING CLINIQUE. HAIR: ERNESTO MONTENOVO
AT DAVID ARTISTS USING TIGI. STOCKISTS: WHISTLES.COM; CHLO�, HARRODS.COM; MANGO.COM; MALONESOULIERS.COM; HOLLANDCOOPER.COM
BY ANNA MURPHY
hen it comes to
clothes, I can get
excited about
things that bore
other people
to tears. The
white shirt,
for example.
I have one
from Brunello Cucinelli that, when I put it
on, makes the world seem like a better place.
Or the navy crewneck. I have one from &
Daughter that does the same, especially when
layered over the white shirt. I could merrily
write a column about either of those. Should
I be poetically inclined I might sculpt a sonnet.
But a brown checked suit? Yawn. I would be
hard pressed to eek out a haiku. How on earth
am I going to make it through 350 words?
Lots of people in fashion have been excited
about turgidly coloured pseudo-tweeds for
a while. Why? Because Demna Gvasalia is.
And if the Georgian designer was hot when he
headed up Vetements, he is positively scorching
now he?s also chief banana at the esteemed
Parisian house Balenciaga. So dedicated is he
to murky checkery that Gvasalia?s catwalk
shows often look like an episode of The Fall
and Rise of Reginald Perrin. When I showed my
cool twentysomething colleague a picture of
Leonard Rossiter in terrible sludge tailoring,
she said, ?Who?s that? I love his jacket.?
So here?s the column. Muddy suiting. It?s
having a moment. Don?t let me stop you
wearing it if you feel you must. Though if you
do, I would place money on the fact that you
are not old enough to remember the Seventies,
so are going to have to take my word for it
when I say that it is essential ? absolutely
ESSENTIAL ? to sharpen the look with a
?ourish or two, such as a pair of fabulous heels.
Marks & Spencer has both a jacket and
a coat with red detailing that are verging on
acceptable (� each; marksandspencer.com).
Similarly, there are Rag & Bone?s Rona blazer
and Sadie trousers (�5 and �0 respectively;
net-a-porter.com). Zara has gone one step
further courtesy of a pair of trews with red
side-striping, plus a coat that edges towards
orange and is all the better for it (�.99 and
�9 respectively; zara.com). For reasons
unfathomable I ?nd myself not entirely
repelled by Sandro?s utterly unleavened blazer,
however (�3; sandro-paris.com). Odd.
That said, my ?nal thoughts on the matter
are as follows:
Fashion mystery.
Leonard Rossiter brown checks.
Condemn, history. n
Anna Murphy
Clockwise from top left:
Caroline Issa; Anna
Murphy wears blazer,
�9, and trousers, �9,
Whistles, top, �9, Chlo�,
shoes, �5, Malone
Souliers, and earrings,
�99, Mango; jacket,
�, Marks & Spencer;
trousers, �.99, Zara;
jacket, �.99, Mango;
jacket, �3, Sandro;
fashion editors Lisa Aiken
and Darja Barannik;
designer Yoyo Cao;
Miroslava Duma; �9,
Holland Cooper
The Times Magazine 9
Spinal column Melanie Reid
Columnist of the Year
?Anger is an unfamiliar state for me, but I can
feel it boiling inside and I can?t extinguish it?
MURDO MACLEOD
P
eople often get basic questions
backwards, says the clinical
psychologist Jordan Peterson.
The question is not, ?Why do
people take drugs?? It?s, ?Why
don?t they take them all the
time?? That?s the real mystery.
Similarly, we wonder why
people suffer from anxiety, when the real
puzzle is why we are ever calm in a world
where a million things can go wrong in a
million different ways.
Well, I want to know why I?m so angry
at the moment and I wonder if the same
rule applies. Perhaps the real question is,
why haven?t I been angry for years? Let me be
fair to myself: in what most would agree are
trying circumstances, I?ve managed so far to be
reasonably full of sweetness and light. I think.
You?d need to ask others.
But now, wow, I?m suddenly tired of
suppressing my feelings and being nice
about everything to everybody. Overt anger
is an unfamiliar state for me, but I can feel it
boiling inside me and I can?t extinguish it.
Am I morphing into someone sour and
foul-tempered, or was this always there
repressed? Impatience and frustration
gnaw at me, my tolerance of everything is
impaired. Everyone is getting on my wick.
Even the dog ? she?s become a cling-on and
lies, watching me, making me feel guilty. She
is plainly bored, but she refuses to go out and
amuse herself in the garden.
?Go outside,? I cry. ?Go! I can?t take you out.
Go and do something doggy.?
And she thinks I?m cross with her, which
I am, and looks hurt and refuses to move.
Dave is irritating me just as much as the
dog. Poor Dave. Whatever he does, it?s the
wrong thing. Whatever he doesn?t notice, it?s
what desperately needs to be done. I can?t
believe how he fritters away the days, when
if I had a body that worked I would be doing
so much with my time.
Yet I need him. My life and safety depend
on his devotion; I must defer to his judgment
and respect his decisions. Even though I crave
to shout at him and organise his life, I don?t.
Indeed, can?t. First, because it wouldn?t be
remotely fair ? he doesn?t deserve it ? and
second, because that?s not how I?ve ever
conducted a relationship with a human being
in my entire life.
So what?s happened? Am I going bonkers?
I feel as if I am, as if weevils have got into
my head and started eating the kind bits.
Partly, mostly, I guess, it?s winter. If inside is
claustrophobic and boring, outside is hostile.
We?ve had weeks of compacted ice all around
us. Long after it melted everywhere else,
it clung on stubbornly to the sheltered bits
of our track, preventing me from getting
out to freedom and brief hours of pretend
independence. Dave, more risk-averse than
me, would come back every morning with the
rolls and papers and shake his head. ?Lethal.
You can?t go out. I only just made it.?
And I seethed inside at my beloved, benign
jailer, the only person with a key to the outside
world, angry with him, furious most of all with
myself ? For whose fault is it that I am here,
so stuck, if not my own?
I always refused to be needy or dependent
in my relationships. Here I am surrounded
by them.
Besides, it?s that tricky time of the year. You
remember how, when you were taught mental
arithmetic, you learnt to round up to the
nearest ten to make it quicker? Get the
headline figure first, then subtract the small
numbers. I cannot help but do big life sums:
this is the eighth year since my accident.
Eight years ? rounded up, that?s a decade.
A monstrous chunk of time stolen from a
fleeting life. Almost a sixth of my whole
damn existence.
Winter is just an excuse, a symbol of
something much deeper. Perhaps it is time
I acknowledged the fact that I am dependent.
Maybe it would have been a bit healthier,
right from the start, if I had raged and
screamed a bit more, just as I envied the
other spinal patients who could do so. As
Professor Peterson says (in his new book,
12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos), anger
and violence are easy. It?s peace that is difficult
? learnt, inculcated, earned. And, right now,
false and stifling. n
Melanie Reid is tetraplegic after breaking her
neck and back in a riding accident in April 2010
The Times Magazine 11
November 7, 2012
Little Black Book party, the
annual knees-up for the country?s
most eligible singles.
Panic-buy a dress from Topshop
in my lunch break. Wonder if it
will help me snog a duke?
CONFESSIONS OF
A TATLER TOFF
Her father?s a baron. Her family?s in private
banking. Sophia Mone y- Coutts, 32, right,
was born to work on a societ y magazine.
�
What could possibly go wrong?
Sophia Money-Coutts
photographed by David
Titlow at Cliveden House.
Styling by Prue White
~ September 16, 2012 ~
Freak out about what to wear for first day at Tatler. Remember the
start of The Devil Wears Prada, where all the magazine employees
pull on sexy stockings and draw perfect eyeliner wings. I don?t own
any stockings and am shit at eyeliner. Decide on black Cos dress,
60-denier tights from M&S and black suede LK Bennett heels.
Suitably Kate Middleton. Arrive at Vogue House and spend all
day too nervous to ask where the loos are. Finally find the loos at
teatime; look in full-length mirror. I look like the Scottish Widow.
~ September 18, 2012 ~
Have to interview Oscar de la Renta over
the phone about his new collection for a page
in the February issue. Kate Reardon, Tatler?s
editor, is big on funny and tongue-in-cheek
humour. The magazine, she says, is supposed
to be the most fun girl at a party, not the rich
cow you want to slap. In this spirit, I look at
pictures of De la Renta?s new collection and
decide that one of the yellow suit patterns
looks familiar. ?Were you inspired by
Rupert Bear when designing this collection??
I ask him on the phone to his house in the
Dominican Republic. He sounds confused.
Our conversation ends soon afterwards.
DAVID TITLOW, SOPHIAMCOUTTS/INSTAGRAM
~ September 24, 2012 ~
The fashion director appears at my desk. She
looks cross. ?Sophia, did you ask Oscar de la
Renta if his new collection was inspired by a
cartoon bear??
?Well, not any bear. Rupert Bear. The
yellow check. He has this scarf ?? I trail off.
The fashion director glares at me. ?I work
really hard to get designers to take this
magazine seriously.? I make a mental note
never to joke with fashion designers.
publish in the magazine. This year, the list
includes Prince Harry and Emma Watson and
the party?s at Annabel?s, the club on Berkeley
Square. I am FREAKING OUT about what
to wear. Panic-buy a red dress in the ?tall?
section of Topshop over my lunch break; it is
so short, you can practically see my vagina.
Wonder if dress will help me snog a duke,
or if any young royals will come to the party.
Apparently, Princess Eugenie and Pippa
Middleton have shown up in previous years.
That afternoon a celebrity spray-tanner called
James (he does David Gandy) comes to Vogue
House to get everyone ready. I stand in the
boardroom in a pair of paper knickers while I
am spray-tanned. No royals come to the party,
I don?t snog a duke and the biggest celebrity
At a friend?s hen party
~ October 31, 2012 ~
Hallowe?en means compulsory dressing-up
at Tatler and a competition for best dressed.
The prize is a trip to the Maldives. I panic in
a Soho fancy-dress shop and buy a full fox
costume ? fluffy onesie and enormous fox
head. Feels quite Tatler. I do not win the trip
to the Maldives. This goes
to a colleague who comes
rghini
wee?s Lambo
In an intervie
dressed as a ?cereal killer?,
wearing a large cardboard
box she has transformed into
a cereal box. I was always
crap at arts and crafts.
~ November 7, 2012 ~
Tatler?s Little Black Book party,
the annual knees-up for the
most eligible singles in the
country, based on a list we
14 The Times Magazine
guest is Nancy Dell?Olio. But I have a jolly
time drinking 64 glasses of champagne.
~ January 14, 2013 ~
A dark day. The accidental death of Alan,
a miniature dachshund who belonged to the
editor?s PA. It happened over lunch, when
the fashion assistant went out for a fag in
Hanover Square and took Alan with her
on a retractable lead. He dived for the heavy,
revolving doors in the reception of Vogue
House and got stuck between segments.
Upstairs, on the third floor of Vogue House
where Tatler is based, we all try to stay calm.
Surely the doors can be gently pulled back
and poor Alan can be set free? One fire
engine arrives, then another, then another.
Three fire engines for the world?s smallest
dog! I take a photo of the fire engines from
my window, thinking what a funny diary story
it will make the next day when Alan is set
free. But after an hour, word filters upstairs
to the Tatler office that Alan hasn?t made it.
Everyone cries. We all go home early.
~ January 15, 2013 ~
The death of Tatler Alan is reported in all
the national papers. Office remains as sombre
as a funeral parlour.
~ January 16, 2013 ~
Wooohooo, I?m off to Tequila, the actual town
in Mexico where the drink comes from, for
a three-day press trip. Bit nervous about this,
since I last drank it as a teenager and was sick
all over Kings Road. Arrive at Heathrow early
to maximise the time I can spend eating for
free in the British Airways lounge. Turns out
I?m the only journalist going and all the others
work in the alcohol industry. This makes me
more nervous. Guy Pelly, coming on the trip
as a representative of his Mexican nightclub in
Sloane Square, misses our flight. We take off
and everyone starts drinking triple gin and
Tatler tea towel
Wedding in
Phuket
A tribute to the Queen
Sophia?? asks Binky Felstead, one of the cast.
?Yes,? I squeak back. Pathetic. The magazine?s
bookings editor, in charge of photoshoots,
later has to apologise to the hotel because the
cast shed so much fake tan on the bedsheets.
~ July 2, 2013 ~
Cl閙ence Po閟y is on the cover of the August
issue dressed entirely in Chanel?s ParisEdinburgh collection. She looks sensational.
Trouble is, later that week I receive a phone
call from the Chanel PR saying Cl閙ence
isn?t happy with my interview. She thinks it?s
because Cl閙ence doesn?t get the English
sense of humour, but could she give her my
number because she wants to speak to me.
The actress rings me later that day. She is
particularly cross about the bit where she talks
about the time she taped a cherry Haribo to
her inner thigh while filming Birdsong with
Eddie Redmayne, to denote where he could go
up to while shooting the sex scenes. She didn?t
want this mentioned apparently, even though
she?s talked about it in previous interviews.
?With respect, Cl閙ence, it?s my job
to decide what goes into an interview,?
I remonstrate.
?I theenk we will ?ave to agree to disagree,?
she replies. She hangs up.
MOHAMED AL FAYED
OFFERS ME BULLS?
TESTICLES: ?THEY ARE
AN APHRODISIAC?
tonics. I demur and decide to read the papers
instead. The death of Tatler Alan has now
made it into The New York Times.
~ January 17, 2013 ~
Tequila tastings from 9am. Turns out I love
tequila. Am drunk from 10am! We go riding
through the agave fields and I talk to Guy
Pelly, who has arrived on a later flight. He
is v charming and funny. If I were Prince
William, I would be best pals with him, too.
Or it might just be the tequila.
~ February 19, 2013 ~
My 28th birthday. I?m psyched because
birthdays at Tatler mean the beauty
department gives you a bag full of free
products they?ve been sent.
~ March 1, 2013 ~
We take over a hotel to shoot and interview
various members of the Made in Chelsea cast,
including Millie Mackintosh and Spencer
Matthews. They don?t like me because I write
a scathing weekly review of the show for
Tatler?s website. ?Do you even like the show,
~ September 4, 2013 ~
Our issue is out with Prince Harry?s girlfriend,
Cressida Bonas, on the cover, with a piece
I?ve written entitled, ?Everything you ever
needed to know about Cressida Bonas?. After
serious investigative research, I?ve discovered
she likes chocolate-biscuit cake from a deli in
Norfolk and smelly candles, which she keeps
on her bedside table. To think I used to want
to be a war reporter.
~ January 6, 2014 ~
A production company is about to start
filming in the Tatler office for a three-part
BBC Two documentary on the magazine. A
media company comes in to give us coaching.
?Is there anything you?re apprehensive
about?? we are asked.
?Yes,? I say. ?My voice. I don?t want to
be laughed at for being a posh airhead.?
?Just be yourself,? comes the reply.
That is exactly what I am worried about.
~ January 15, 2014 ~
Working on a piece about nannies for Tatler?s
April issue. Email Jacob Rees-Mogg, asking if
I can interview his nanny. He thanks me, but
his nanny is very shy.
~ March 11, 2014 ~
Interview Mohamed Al Fayed in his very
hot Park Lane flat for a piece about what
Scottish toffs and castle owners think about
the forthcoming independence referendum.
Fayed has a pink castle, Balnagown, about an
hour north of Inverness. ?Have you ever eaten
bulls? testicles?? he asks, as I try to quiz him
on the Scottish political situation.
?Er, no,? I reply.
?They are an aphrodisiac,? he says. ?I will
send you some.?
~ April 9, 2014 ~
Go to Scotland to talk to the Scottish
aristocracy about the referendum, shadowed
by the documentary film crew. Meet the
46-year-old Duke of Argyll at his home,
Inverary Castle. He is handsome but married,
alas. He tells me he is captain of Scotland?s
elephant polo team and shows me photos
of him winning the World Elephant Polo
Championships in Nepal in 2004. He also
says his castle has five ghosts.
~ April 11, 2014 ~
Stay overnight at a 109-room stately home
called Manderston in the Scottish Borders
owned by a member of the House of Lords,
Lord Palmer. His family fortune comes from
Huntley & Palmers biscuits and the house has
a solid-silver staircase ? the only one in the
world. Take amusing photo next to stuffed
bear in the hall. Instagram it. The biggest
stuffed bear in the world, says Lord Palmer.
~ May 8, 2014 ~
Go to Knebworth, a big gothic stately in
Hertfordshire, for an interiors shoot. The
owner is 52-year-old Henry Lytton-Cobbold,
who used to make racy films in LA but moved
back to the UK in 2000 when he inherited
the estate from his father. Says he?s spent
�million on the place since then but needs
another �million ?simply to keep the house
from falling down?. In the Knebworth safe is a
pair of Mick Jagger?s red Y-fronts, left after a
Rolling Stones gig here in 1976.
~ June 12, 2014 ~
Go to Tatler?s summer party at Christie?s
(theme: a piece of art) dressed as
Michelangelo?s David in a �99 apron from
eBay and silver body paint, which I make
Eve, the deputy picture editor, plaster all
over my back in the Vogue House loos.
Party roaring success and I get very drunk,
although I don?t snog anyone.
~ June 22, 2014 ~
Get train to Floors Castle in the Scottish
Borders to interview ?the most eligible man
in Britain?. He is the 33-year-old Marquess
of Bowmont and Cessford, or Charlie to
his mates. He is the son of the Duke of
Roxburghe, who owns 52,000 acres of
Scotland. Charlie is tall, sandy-haired and
devoted to his labrador, Sambo. My editor
is convinced I should marry him so I can
The Times Magazine 15
become a duchess one day, but I stayed up
late the night before drinking in a pub in
South Kensington, so am not sure I made
much of an impression.
~ August 14, 2014 ~
Am interviewing Jeremy Paxman today over
lunch at Bellamy?s in Mayfair. This is excellent
timing because he debuted a beard on
Newsnight this week and it is still trending on
Twitter. Kate says I can have a prize if I touch
Jeremy?s beard ?with both hands?. Have a very
happy lunch ? few glasses of wine each ? but
it?s while Jeremy is telling me a story about
the Good Friday Agreement that I realise
I cannot interrupt and ask to stroke his face.
No prize for me. He walks me back to Vogue
House, though, which I consider chivalrous.
OPENING SPREAD: DRESS, �095, ROLAND MOURET (BOUTIQUE1.COM); EARRINGS, �.50, FREEDOM AT TOPSHOP (TOPSHOP.COM). PAGE 15: JACKET, �9,
BARBOUR.COM; BLAZER, �650, HOLLANDANDHOLLAND.COM; CARDIGAN, �0, AND SKIRT, �0, LEKILT.CO.UK; WELLIES, �, HUNTERBOOTS.COM; SCARF,
�5, LIBERTYLONDON.COM. PAGE 18: COAT, �9, TEDBAKER.COM; DRESS, �0, ROLAND MOURET (NET-A-PORTER.COM); SHOES, �, ASOS.COM
~ November 24, 2014 ~
The first episode of the Tatler documentary
airs tonight on BBC Two. I am jittery. Will
I say anything stupid? Invite friends over for
a viewing party at my flat. Having watched it,
I decide my voice does sound VERY silly.
~ November 25, 2014 ~
Get recognised in Pret buying a coffee. ?Loved
you in the show,? says a nice man. Am thrilled.
~ November 26, 2014 ~
Receive a letter in the office complaining that,
in the documentary, I referred to a ?brown
labrador? instead of a ?chocolate labrador?,
which is the correct term. Sometimes I think
Tatler readers should get out more.
~ February 13, 2015 ~
Have pitched a piece about the rise of
?posh S&M? because a rich banking friend
of mine has just spent �,000 on having
a ?sex dungeon? installed in his house. Kate
says I should go to a fetish night called
Torture Garden and write about it. It?s a
monthly event and tonight it?s happening
on a boat on the Thames. Make my friend
Tash come with me. I borrow a rubber catsuit
from a bondage company; Tash wears black
underwear and heels. I am spanked by a bald
man wearing leather trousers. When I turn
around to get off the spanking bench, he has
removed his penis from his trousers and is
waggling it in front of me. Not for me, thank
you very much. Tash and I go to the bar to
recover with a bottle of prosecco.
~ April 14, 2015 ~
Leave for Harbour Island in the Bahamas
to report on how it?s become the most
fashionable holiday destination in the world.
This is, without doubt, the most absurd trip
I have ever been on. Three miles long and
one mile wide, Harbour Island is one of the
most exclusive (and expensive) resorts in the
world, where rental houses cost �,000 a
week and tourists eat $40 lobster quesadillas
at the favourite lunch spot. Elle Macpherson,
Diane von Furstenberg and Anish Kapoor are
all regulars. It?s also where Prince Charles?s
goddaughter, the former model India Hicks,
and her partner, David, live with their five
children. I am invited for dinner with them
and feel like Jane Bennet asked to dine at
Netherfield. We play Cards Against Humanity
and India has to explain what ?queefing?
is to an aghast American guest.
~ April 28, 2015 ~
Go to Tatler?s spring Best of British party
at the Ritz dressed as a dragon. Don?t have
any suitable shoes, so go barefoot. Spend
entire party rolling around on the carpet
of the Ritz, pretending to have been slayed
by my colleague Clare, who has come as
St George. Don?t snog anyone.
ACCIDENTALLY
FLASH MY KNICKERS
AT JOHN KERRY.
OH WELL
~ May 8, 2015 ~
Tired because I stayed up all last night to
watch the general election results, but have
to get to a north London studio to interview
Sir Ben Kingsley. Remind myself he likes to be
called Sir Ben Kingsley and is said to be very
grand. Try to jolly him up with small talk
when I arrive.
?Did you stay up late and watch the
election results?? I ask.
?No,? says Sir Ben. ?I was up into the night
recording the voice of Bagheera for the new
film of The Jungle Book.?
?Oh yes, I was Bagheera once in a school
play. My mum made me a felt hat with ears,?
I say. Sir Ben Kingsley says nothing.
~ July 20, 2015 ~
Interview a Qatari sheikh at his 40,000sq ft
house in Park Lane about his jewellery
collection. Goggle at his 17-bedroom property,
which is reportedly worth around �0 million.
He has dozens of staff, who change from black
tie into white tie every evening at 6pm. And
Holbein paintings on the walls. Apparently,
the Queen came here for dinner not long
ago and remarked that it made Buckingham
Palace look ?rather dull?.
~ September 18, 2015 ~
Borrow an Issa dress to wear to Vogue?s
London Fashion Week party at the
US ambassador?s house in Regent?s Park. Try
to people-watch (Victoria Beckham, Alexa
Chung, Poppy Delevingne, and so on. All the
usual suspects), but am more concerned about
how short and tight my dress is. Accidentally
flash my knickers at John Kerry, who barges
through the throng at one point. Oh well.
~ November 11, 2015 ~
My third Little Black Book party. It?s at
Home House this year. I still haven?t snogged
a duke or an earl at this event. Must try
harder tonight. Decide to wear the rubber
catsuit to increase my chances. Drink so
much I have to take myself home at 11pm.
~ November 12, 2015 ~
Call in sick. Tell the managing editor it?s
not a hangover; it?s because I?m dangerously
dehydrated from wearing the catsuit all night.
Not sure she believes me.
~ December 6, 2015 ~
Aston Martin lends me a car for the weekend
since I?m a bridesmaid at my best friend?s
wedding in the Cotswolds. Drive to her house
whooping along the M40 and get car stuck in
field. Local farmer has to tow it out during the
church service. Fail to snog anyone at wedding.
~ January 15, 2016 ~
Go to a luxury boot camp in Devon called
Yeotown, to review it for Tatler Spa Guide.
Am there for five days. No wheat, no dairy,
no gluten, no caffeine, no sugar, no alcohol, no
meat, and so on. Lots of hiking. Hope to lose
several kilos and return to London thinner
than Kate Middleton.
~ January 20, 2016 ~
Am not thinner than Kate Middleton,
but have lost 3kg.
~ March 19, 2016 ~
Go on a Land Rover press trip to Courchevel
where the company is launching its new
soft-top Evoque. Meet handsome explorer
called Ben, who is a Land Rover ambassador.
Don?t snog him, but we set up a date for the
following week when back in London.
~ March 22, 2016 ~
Go on first date with the explorer AND EVEN
SNOG HIM. Is he The One?
~ March 31, 2016 ~
Get Eurostar to Paris and drive to a ravishing
ch鈚eau just outside the city called Vaux-leVicomte, where Leonardo DiCaprio?s The Man
in the Iron Mask was filmed and Eva Longoria
married Tony Parker in 2007. It?s owned by
three very handsome, very French brothers
who smoke and drink little cups of espresso
all day. Shoot the house and interview the
The Times Magazine 17
brothers. Stay in Le Bristol in Paris that night
and drink champagne in the bath. Lots of
texting with the explorer.
Channelling Meghan Markle
~ April 11, 2016 ~
Have been on another lovely date with the
explorer, but he called it off today. V sad. But
surely there will be a duke along soon?
~ May 20, 2017 ~
Go on Sky News to talk about Pippa
Middleton?s wedding. Am nervous I will
stammer and say something moronic, but see
Gyles Brandreth in the green room, who says
I was ?marvellous?. Have always liked him.
~ May 11, 2016 ~
Go to Northumberland to interview the Duke
of Northumberland at Alnwick Castle, where
Harry Potter was filmed. Taxidermied dogs
everywhere, because his wife has all their pets
stuffed when they die.
~ September 20, 2016 ~
Go to Sicily to write a piece on the island for
the travel pages. Stay with a German count
who owns a lemon farm. He takes me for a
six-hour lunch of fish and wine on my first
day, then drives back to his estate pointing
out all the mafia houses we pass, Dire Straits
blaring from the windows.
~ October 8, 2016 ~
Kate asks me if I?d like to be the new car
columnist of Tatler. YES PLEASE. The
column?s going to be called ?Toff Gear?.
GETTY IMAGES, DAVID TITLOW. HAIR AND MAKE-UP: LAUREN ALICE AT MANDY COAKLEY
REPRESENTS USING MAC COSMETICS AND BUMBLE AND BUMBLE. SHOT AT CLIVEDEN
HOUSE, BERKSHIRE. ROOMS FROM �5 PER NIGHT (CLIVEDENHOUSE.CO.UK)
~ October 20, 2016 ~
Fourth Little Black Book party. This year
it?s at a bar called Ours on Brompton Road.
I decide to wear the rubber catsuit again
because I STILL HAVEN?T SNOGGED
ANYONE AT THIS PARTY. Get talking to
ex-England rugby player Josh Lewsey at the
bar. All is going well until I smell a pungent
combination of body sweat and rubber wafting
from my catsuit. Josh wanders off and I take
myself home. I am going to die alone.
~ January 26, 2017 ~
To publicise Tatler?s new wedding supplement,
I film a Facebook Live event with the editor
of Brides magazine while wearing a �,000
Phillipa Lepley dress.
~ February 19, 2017 ~
Turn 32. Mention to beauty director that
I am worried about the wrinkles on my
forehead. She tells me not to fret and
introduces me to a Chelsea-based specialist,
Dr Kersh, via email. I am given an
appointment to see Kersh in March.
~ March 10, 2017 ~
Go to Kersh?s clinic in Chelsea. She looks
at the dark circles under my eyes and my
forehead. She injects me with �0 worth of
Botox, but she says I don?t have to pay and
I can just be ?an ambassador? for the clinic.
I look in a mirror on way back to the office
and freak out ? my forehead looks as if a
18 The Times Magazine
whips off his jeans and stands there in orange
briefs, and I am so flustered I pour hot coffee
all over my hand. Although I?m still dating
the TV presenter. Nearly a record for me.
Something will presumably jinx it any second.
HARRY TO MARRY
MEGHAN. IS THIS THE
DEATH KNELL FOR
THE SLOANE? YIKES
colony of bees has stung it. I email a colleague.
?I have a first date tonight, will my face look
OK?? ?Stop fussing,? she says. ?It?ll go down
in 20 minutes.?
Go on date. Face must have looked all right
because we stay drinking in the bar until 2am.
He isn?t a duke or an earl. He?s a TV presenter
from Grimsby. God bless Tinder.
~ March 11, 2017 ~
Alarm goes off at 6am because I?ve got to
interview Britain?s top falconer in Doncaster.
Incredibly bad hangover. I feel like death.
Maybe I?ve actually died. Force myself out
of bed (leaving TV presenter in it) and get
to north London, where I?m meeting Mark,
the photographer, who?s driving us north.
?You?re late,? says Bryn, the falconer, when
we arrive. ?You?ve just missed me extracting
semen.? Christ. Not sure I am strong enough
for this today. Interesting, though. Bryn makes
�6 million a year because the Gulf Arabs
pay so much for his birds.
~ March 13, 2017 ~
Go on another date with the TV presenter,
who brings me a bunch of peonies. The dream.
~ May 5, 2017 ~
Interview Nic Roldan, the captain of America?s
polo team. He is so handsome, I can?t look
directly at him. At one point, between shots, he
~ July 5, 2017 ~
Am working on a piece tentatively headlined
?The Cotswolds Pub Wars?. Means I spend
four days driving around Gloucestershire
staying in posh pubs, eating Scotch eggs and
truffled chips. Gruelling. The TV presenter
comes with me. I interview Carole Bamford,
matriarch of the JCB empire and owner of
Daylesford and the Wild Rabbit, dubbed ?the
poshest pub in Britain?. She insists I take a big
bottle of ros� from her French vineyard home
with me. Lovely woman.
~ September 20, 2017 ~
My agent rings ? HarperCollins wants to
buy my novel, The Plus One, which is about a
journalist called Polly who works for a society
magazine. ?Where did you get the idea??
people ask. It?s a two-book deal, so I decide
it?s the time to leave Tatler and go freelance,
even though it will feel like a tragic divorce
after the happiest of marriages.
~ November 8, 2017 ~
My final LBB party, at 5 Hertford Street. Otis
Ferry and Lady Alice Manners in one corner,
Princess Diana?s niece Lady Kitty Spencer
in another. Lord Porchester, who will inherit
Downton (Highclere), props up the bar. And
FINALLY, I snog someone. But that?s because
the TV presenter is my date.
~ November 17, 2017 ~
My last day at Tatler. Am sad. In five years
I have learnt that you should always eat a pear
with a spoon, you should always call a brown
labrador a ?chocolate? labrador, and I?ve made
some of the closest friends. I haven?t snogged
a duke or an earl, but I have met a wonderful
TV presenter. Nip back to Kersh?s office in
Chelsea for a quick squirt of Botox before I go.
~ November 27, 2017 ~
Ten days after I leave Tatler, Prince Harry and
Meghan Markle announce they?re engaged.
My main thought is: how do I get arms like
hers? But also, is this the death knell for the
Sloane? Yikes. n
The Plus One, by Sophia Money-Coutts,
will be published by HQ next summer
THE SON I ADORE IS THE SON I SHOULD NOT HAVE GIVEN BIRTH TO
Jen Gann with her son, Dudley,
when he was 16 months old
When Jen Gann was pregnant,
she underwent genetic testing. She and
her husband already knew what they
would do if something were wrong and
were relieved when they heard nothing.
Yet within days of her son Dudley?s
birth, he was diagnosed with the
terminal genetic disease cystic fibrosis.
This is her story
PHOTOGRAPHS Elinor Carucci
T
wice a day in our house, we
turn on a projector that casts cartoon music
videos on a blank stretch of wall. The songs
are catchy and bright and usually keep our
toddler captivated for the amount of time we
need him to hold still. ?There are no monsters
who live in our home,? goes one of my
favourites. ?There?s only me and my family
who live in our home/ ?Cause there are no
monsters that live here.? Up on the wall, two
healthy-looking cartoon children learn not to
be scared of the dark, while my son clutches
my forearm and breathes dutifully into a
mask. Sometimes he spots something familiar
? an animal with a noise he can make, a
colour he knows how to say ? and rushes
to point it out, only to have his voice muffled
by medical equipment. Unlike the home in
the song, ours does have a monster, one that
doesn?t hide under the bed or in the closet.
Half of it lives in my husband?s DNA, half in
mine. We?re still working out what the whole
thing looks like, but we do know it?s coming
for our son. In lots of ways, it?s already here.
In the most basic sense, this is why: Tag
and I are both healthy carriers of mutations
that cause the genetic disease cystic fibrosis.
Dudley inherited two mutations, one from
each of us, and this means he has the disease,
which results from the body?s mishandling
of chloride and sodium. On the outside, this
means CF patients have extra-salty skin. On
the inside, it means they have thick, sticky
mucus in their lungs, pancreas and other
organs, leading to digestive problems and
low weight gain, clogged airways and trapped
bacteria. The excess mucus causes persistent
lung infections, severely limiting patients?
abilities to breathe until, eventually, they no
longer can. People who have CF must treat
it vigilantly, with physical therapy to clear
airways, inhaled medications and fistfuls
of pills. Doing so takes lots of money and
staggering amounts of time.
Time is important in describing life with
cystic fibrosis: how many hours each day you
spend on treatments (for my toddler son, two;
for adults, up to four), how many weeks at
a time you spend in the hospital (a couple, if
you?re having a ?tune-up? for a lung infection);
how many months since you last saw a doctor
(during periods of relative health, three). How
22 The Times Magazine
many years you can expect to live: in 2016,
half of all reported deaths occurred before the
age of 30. In the later stages of the disease,
you might measure time between incidents
of coughing up blood, keep track of how long
you?ve been on oxygen full-time or, should
you qualify for one, count the number of years
you?re expected to live after a double lung
transplant (about five). Most patients with
CF die in a hospital setting, after a long,
steady decline, of overwhelming lung
infections. The first time more adults than
children were living with cystic fibrosis was
just three years ago, in 2014.
My son has always had CF and always
will. We first learnt it was a possibility in
April 2016, when Dudley was a week old.
The hospital called to tell us that his newborn
screening ? a blood test that checks for
various disorders not immediately apparent
after birth ? had come back abnormal. Dudley
needed something called a sweat test, the
woman on the phone said, to see whether
he had cystic fibrosis. I told her this had to
be a mistake. ?If there were something wrong,?
I insisted, ?we would already know.? In a tone
attempting to be gentle, she explained that
this was not necessarily the case.
explained: how his newborn screening had
shown just one mutation, how there were
plenty of reasons besides cystic fibrosis (a
long, jagged labour, a touch of jaundice) that
could be responsible for the abnormal result.
Also, she pointed out, I?d said I remembered
having genetic tests during pregnancy. Unless
I had an extremely rare genetic mutation,
a prenatal test would have caught mine.
Later that day, when I called her back
after a beer at our favourite bar, the genetic
counsellor sounded different. She?d been
wrong about when the results would be ready
for her to read. They wouldn?t be in until the
next day, she said, her voice newly hesitant.
Annoying is what I think Tag called that
information. We stopped by the supermarket;
I probably breastfed once we got home. Dudley
must have gone down for a nap, because my
hands were free when the counsellor called
again and asked whether I was alone.
I put the phone on speaker, and Tag sat
down next to me on the couch, our heads bent
underneath a shelf I realised later I?d always
hated. The counsellor claimed she?d gone back
and was now able to read the results ? which
must have been a lie, one I almost wish I?d
challenged, if it hadn?t been so hilariously and
AT THE START, DUDLEY?S TREATMENTS TOOK
60 MINUTES A DAY. NOW IT?S TWICE THAT
In an educational video about newborn
screenings Tag and I watched soon after
that phone call, people perching on stools
described what it means when a baby needs a
sweat test, which is exactly what it sounds like:
an examination of an infant?s sweat. Babies
like Dudley, we learnt, need the test because
their newborn screenings indicate they might
have cystic fibrosis. A woman with long hair
told the camera that only a very small number
of these babies actually have CF, holding her
forefinger and thumb a hair?s width apart to
demonstrate just how few. I was impatient for
my family to be safely outside that woman?s
fingers, but because very young babies don?t
make enough sweat to test, we had to wait
another two weeks.
On the day of Dudley?s sweat test, the genetic
counsellor who took down our information
was upbeat. We sat across from her in a dim
room kept warm; already, before the test
started, I could feel Dudley overheating from
the clothes we?d been instructed to dress him in
? a hat, a sweater, thick socks. The counsellor
repeated what our paediatrician had already
heartbreakingly kind in its intention. I?ve seen
the results for myself, and the numbers could
not be clearer. The normal range for chloride
in an infant?s sweat is about 29 millimoles or
less per litre. The sweat on Dudley?s left arm
came back at 68, his right at 71.
?I know this is not what we were expecting,?
the counsellor said, choking up. My own voice
rose; I asked the same question once, twice,
three times. Our dog trotted over and peed
on the rug, as if to express his own disbelief. I
repeated myself: how could this have happened?
The counsellor explained her theory, which
we found out later was not quite right.
All theories aside, ten years ago, when
Tag and I walked towards each other in a bar,
this is what we had no idea we were walking
towards: the one-in-four chance of creating a
child permanently unwell. Because we both
carry a CF mutation, there is a 50 per cent
chance any child of ours will be born a healthy
carrier, like we are. There?s a 25 per cent chance
of a baby with no mutations at all. And there?s
a 25 per cent chance of a baby with two
disease-causing mutations, like Dudley.
?But if you had known, what then?? a
woman asked me earlier this year, shaking her
head, her smile soft with pity. If I responded
at all, and I?m not sure I did, I can?t remember
what I said. But I know I did not use the word
abortion, or bring up our legal situation, or
explain the concept of ?wrongful birth?. In a
roomful of people I barely knew, with Dudley
pushing a plastic car back and forth over the
carpet nearby, I did not tell her that I do know
exactly what it is I would have done.
During my first pregnancy appointment,
at eight weeks along, it was Tag who asked
the midwife whether most people did genetic
testing. She told us most people did. We
agreed to the tests; the midwife wrote up the
order. We were laying the foundation of a plan
we?d discussed before I?d even got pregnant:
if something were wrong, we?d decided, we
wouldn?t continue the pregnancy.
Before we left that appointment, the
midwife reminded us of the practice?s policy
on test results. No news is good news. Unless
tests showed something negative, no one
would call us. No one did. Until Dudley was
diagnosed, we did not know the nature of my
results. Somewhere between the hospital that
processed the results and the midwives who
handled my care, something went awry, and
the answer to the question we?d asked was
never delivered. I saw the midwives at least
once a month for the rest of my pregnancy.
At every appointment, we were told how well
everything was going.
At first, we couldn?t imagine suing them.
But then, we could. I could. Dudley was
diagnosed in May; I contacted a lawyer in
June. I remember being so proud of myself
for the way I did not cry when I explained
everything over the phone ? not even once.
I cut off our lawyer, Martha McBrayer, as she
led up to the question and stopped her from
asking it fully: I would have had an abortion,
I told her.
You can?t discuss what happened to me
without discussing abortion. In America, in
what?s called a wrongful-birth case, plaintiffs
sue a medical practitioner for the failure
to diagnose or inform them of a disease
or disability possible to detect in utero; it
is understood that in almost all cases, the
plaintiff would have aborted the pregnancy
had she been able to make an informed
decision. The money awarded in wrongfulbirth cases goes toward the cost ? usually
astronomically high ? of the child?s medical
care. In other words, a mother desperate to
help her child declares that she would not
have had that child.
Tag, Dudley and I met Martha for the
first time at the diner opposite our apartment.
Between explaining the particulars of medical
malpractice, she stopped to smile at our
baby. ?He is just so present,? she exclaimed.
The Times Magazine 23
?Look at him ? he?s like, I?m here.? I grinned
back at her as hard as I could, as if the
strength of a smile could eclipse why we
were sitting in front of pancakes: the assertion
that we would not have had him be here, or
anywhere, had we known.
For the pro-lifers who oppose wrongfulbirth suits, this paradox ? what does it mean
to fight for someone when what you?re
fighting for is a missed chance at that person?s
not existing? ? is reason enough to eliminate
the legal pathway altogether. Anti-abortion
crusaders paint wrongful birth as an attack
on those living with disability or disease;
they accuse mothers like me of wishing our
children had never been born, of seeking
flawless ?designer babies? free of health issues.
The language probably doesn?t help: no birth
is wrong, those against wrongful birth love
to point out.
Not long after we met Martha, I went to
gather my medical records from the midwives.
I told myself to wait until I got home, but
instead I opened the envelope a block from
my house, with Dudley in the carrier and his
face against my chest. I remember holding
the papers above his head to see the text:
Results: positive for one copy of
F508del mutation.
Interpretation: this individual is a carrier
of CF.
Genetic counselling is recommended
to discuss the potential clinical and/or
reproductive implications of this result, as
well as recommendations for testing other
family members and, when applicable, this
individual?s partner.
Because we?d been under the impression
that nothing had come up on my prenatal
genetic tests, the genetic counsellor we saw
on the day of Dudley?s sweat test had posited
that I had a mutation too rare to be detected.
I don?t; Tag does. Mine isn?t just common
? it?s the most common cystic-fibrosis gene
mutation, capable of being detected by a
basic genetic screening. In the sunlight, the
recommendation grew starker, the distance
widening between what could have happened
and what did. The reproductive implication,
meanwhile, continued his nap.
Usually, people need a little bit of time to
understand the conditions that created our
situation in the first place. The summer after
Dudley was born, my sister-in-law came to
visit; we were talking in the kitchen while he
slept in the other room. ?But,? she said, trying
to work out what it would mean to sue over a
disease that can?t be prevented or fixed, ?if you
had known ?? I interrupted her, wanting to rush
ahead but promptly bursting into tears when I
said it: ?There would be no Dudley.? I remember
the look that crossed her face, how she
nodded slowly and said, twice, ?That?s a lot.?
The more I discuss the abortion I didn?t
THE OPPORTUNITY FOR MERCY QUIETLY
SLIPPED BY BECAUSE OF A CLERICAL ERROR
have, the easier that part gets to say aloud: I
would have ended the pregnancy. I would have
terminated. I would have had an abortion.
That?s firmly in the past, and it is how I would
have rearranged my actions, given all the
information. It?s moving a piece of furniture
from one place to another before anything can
go wrong, the way we got rid of our wobbly
side tables once Dudley learnt to walk. What?s
so acutely painful is what I didn?t quite mean
to say to my sister-in-law, what all that past
rearranging would mean right now: no Dudley.
Parents like me often feel betrayed by their
child?s cystic-fibrosis diagnosis. Maybe there
was medical malpractice, maybe an inherited
mutation so rare it wasn?t detected prenatally.
Other parents have chosen to avoid any
kind of testing, believing it?s their destiny
to embrace whatever God or fate or genetics
deals them. I?m horrified by the sanctimony
that often accompanies this acceptance,
especially when it?s admired, especially when
it?s offered up by mothers who don?t ?believe?
in prenatal testing or who have more than
one child with cystic fibrosis. The women
who willingly made choices that were never
presented to me and chose a child?s suffering.
Sometimes I hate them.
I also hate the women who were supposed
to care for me. I hate the faceless people at the
lab. I hate them ferociously, the way you hate
a family member or the closest of friends.
I hate them the way you hate a spouse, for
all the bad they caused, and how closely tied
that bad is with good. I hate them for what
feels like the slyest of deals: while my family?s
life is now shaped around a disease I would
never willingly bring into the world, we are
a family because of them ? unwittingly, they
gave me my most precious gift. I hate them for
making me a mother whose biggest mistake
was becoming one.
My son has blue eyes, curly blond hair,
slightly crooked teeth. He?s daring, most of
the time. He?s afraid of doctors and anyone
in a flapping coat. I want the people I hate to
know these details about him. I want them to
be able to smell his soft breath in the morning,
just before I strap a mask over his face so he
can inhale medication. I want them to fathom
telling a child no amount of treatment can
make his disease go away, that people with
CF are so likely to pass bacteria between each
other they can?t be in the same room, that
most men with CF are infertile, that every
drinking fountain holds the risk of a lung
infection. I want them to feel all the moments
in a life affected by this disease and experience
what it?s going to be like to be Dudley. I want
to take all the pain and disappointment he?ll
have and drown them in it.
But no matter whose fault it is, giving
birth to a child with a terminal disease is
something I did do. This is just as obvious
as it is important: I am the one who was
pregnant and gave birth to Dudley. That
The Times Magazine 25
I continued my pregnancy under mistaken
pretences feels like an irreparable violation, one
that I don?t think any man ? including the one
who loves Dudley as much as I do ? is capable
of understanding. A woman once described the
grief of her miscarriage to me as a ?biological
loneliness?; that?s something close to what
wrongful birth feels like. A biological remorse.
Logically, I know the guilt belongs elsewhere.
But biologically, I feel a deep responsibility,
a primal and uniquely female pain.
When I started writing about Dudley, his
treatments took 30 minutes in the morning,
30 more in the evening. That?s since changed.
This summer, he tested positive for the bacteria
Pseudomonas and was prescribed an additional
treatment, the antibiotic tobramycin, which
takes 20 to 30 minutes to administer via a
nebuliser, a drug-delivery device that diffuses
liquid medication into a fine spray so it can be
inhaled. When he sits in front of cartoons with
a mask on, he?s inhaling the antibiotics that
have had an amniocentesis or chorionic villus
sampling to know for sure.
But none of those results would have been
the ones we wanted, and we?d be up against
the last ?should?: I should have had an
abortion. And that?s where my conviction
crumples, because I don?t know how I?m
supposed to tell Dudley that one day. It?s one
thing to watch a loved one suffer. It?s another
to watch and know it?s your fault, even if only
because of the way your body is made. And
it?s something almost beyond me to imagine,
looking into Dudley?s eyes and saying, ?I?m
sorry I didn?t save you from your own life.?
It?s true that the outlook for a cystic-fibrosis
patient has improved greatly, especially over
the past 20 years. In the Fifties, most children
with cystic fibrosis died before getting the
chance to start school. This progress was
something emphasised to us, over and over
again, after Dudley was diagnosed. ?We?ve got
adult patients!? our clinic kept saying. It took me
a little while to work out why I was supposed
Dudley?s particular genetic mutations ? the first
drug to fight the disease?s underlying cause. It?s
a stunning change, one that could potentially
add years to his life. The news does not come
without complications ? Kalydeco costs about
$300,000 a year (�5,000). If everything stays
the same for our family, with employment and
healthcare politics, insurance will pay for most
of its cost. But the enormity of that burden
makes me scared for us, for Dudley. It?s such a
looming need. And not even the millions and
millions of dollars we?d need to purchase this
drug outright can buy what I truly want for
my son: the chance to look ahead and see the
same bright mystery that healthy young people
see, brimming in their perfect idiot youth.
Of the bond between motherhood and
mortality, the novelist Samantha Hunt has
written, ?No one has ever looked at my kids
and said, ?Wow. You made three deaths. You
must really understand life.?? When I made
Dudley, I made a particularly brutal death,
one that starts in his cells, which don?t work
FIRST PUBLISHED IN NEW YORK MAGAZINE
I?M AFRAID OF THE KIND OF QUESTIONS HE?LL ASK ONE DAY
work to kill the bacteria. But Pseudomonas is
likely to return ? it?s an ?opportunistic infection?
that, eventually, becomes immune to antibiotics.
For cystic-fibrosis patients, it?s one of the
factors associated with an earlier death.
Lately, Dudley?s favourite word is ?more?.
The meaning seems to blur at the edges
? sometimes I can tell he wants more milk;
other times he seems to mean something akin
to ?again?. But whatever he means, when he
says the word, he stares off into the distance,
repeating himself as his voice grows quieter
and quieter, until it?s more of a plaintive
murmur than a demand. He?s a toddler, and
between treatments, he?s a busy, capable little
boy. He interacts with the world more and
more each day, and he wants things from it.
I?m afraid of what he might want from me
one day, of the kinds of questions he?ll want
answered. He?s not dumb: he?ll work out that
his disease should have been detected before
he was born, not after. The prenatal results
should have been communicated to me by the
midwives. A genetic counsellor should have
explained that being a carrier doesn?t necessarily
mean an unhealthy foetus. She should have
recommended that my husband be tested,
just in case. She should have explained that
in the US, 1 in 29 Caucasians carry a CF
mutation. (In the UK it?s 1 in every 25 people;
the incidence is 1 in 2,500 live births.) And
even if Tag were also a carrier, a counsellor
should have told us, there was still a 75 per
cent chance of the foetus being fine. I would
26 The Times Magazine
to feel grateful to hear about them, these fullgrown strangers whose disease I?d once known
nothing about. These days, adulthood is a big
part of what I fear most for Dudley ? what
that must feel like, to be 25 and not sure what
30 will look like, if you might see 40. Our
clinic recently added a new member to its staff:
a psychologist specially trained to focus on
the mental health of cystic-fibrosis patients,
who suffer from depression and anxiety at
alarmingly high rates.
Right now, Dudley does not look ill in a
way that would startle anyone. No one knows
he?s unwell unless we tell them. A time will
come, I know, when the decision to tell others
about his disease will belong to him. Young
adults with CF sometimes discuss this in the
context of dating, how and at what point in
a new relationship to explain what I?ve heard
described as a ?long-term terminal? disease.
When we moved forward with our lawyer,
I first pictured the money we might obtain
in a settlement like the crassest of apologies.
I could give it to young-adult Dudley if
his health seemed to be taking a turn for
the worse, and he could use it to travel the
world and see places I?ve never been, in a
glamorous rush to fill his shortened life. But
this is a silly thought ? he?d almost certainly
be too sick to travel. And we need that money
for his medical expenses.
Recently, the US Food and Drug
Administration approved a ?miracle? cysticfibrosis drug called Kalydeco for treating
quite right. I don?t know how to be sorry, only
that I am. If I had received my test results,
and got pregnant using IVF to ensure a
healthy embryo, would I still have made
Dudley, this exact son, only without his
disease? That possibility is agonising.
?I love my child just the way he is,? is a
sentiment often put forth, fiercely, by the
parents of sick or disabled kids. It?s not hard to
understand the intention ? every parent wants
to make it clear that no challenge renders
their love conditional. But given the choice,
if one existed, I would have Dudley another
way: healthy. Wrongful birth doesn?t grant
anyone that choice; no legal outcome can ever
make your child well.
Having to put this kind of pain into words is,
to me, the hardest part of wrongful birth. To
have to specify what would make me terminate
a pregnancy, to imagine my life today without a
toddler. There?s no escape from knowing that
the opportunity for mercy quietly slipped by
and that something as idiotic as a clerical
error is responsible. But the most consuming,
language-defying pain is just the other side of
the most overwhelming joy. There are no words
for the feeling of walking down the street with
the person I love most, no words to describe
why I wanted to have a child in the first place.
After all this pain and humiliation and anger
boiled down to records and money and who did
what, the love I have for my son feels like the
one thing that can?t be taken from me. It?s what
I know more than anything in this world. n
?WHEN I FIRST
VISITED CANVEY, IT
WAS LIKE A DREAM
COME TRUE?
Heard the
one about the
ultra-Orthodox
Jews who moved
to Essex?
It?s not a joke
What made an insular
Jewish community from
north London relocate
to the Ukip heartland
of Canvey Island? And
what happened next?
Sarfraz Manzoor reports
PORTRAITS Jude Edginton
?WE?RE NOT RACIST
ON CANVEY ? WE
HATE EVERYBODY?
Longtime Canvey Island
resident Biff Smith and
(opposite) recent arrival
Joel Friedman of the
Haredi community
LAURIE SPARHAM
I
t was some time after Naftali and Miriam
Noe had their fourth baby that they
realised they could no longer all squeeze
into the family?s two-bedroom flat.
The couple slept in one bedroom and
their two daughters slept in the second
room, while their two sons had a
repurposed storage cupboard that
measured 2m x 2m. There was no outside
space. The living room was where the
children played, did their homework and ate.
?It was literally hell,? Naftali Noe says.
?When you live in a small, crowded place, the
worst of you comes out. You are anxious and
angry and everything is in your way.?
The rented flat had been home for Noe
for ten years, but the lack of space and the
soaring price of housing in the borough of
Hackney, where the family lived, meant that
they began to contemplate leaving London.
?I said to my wife, ?I can?t see any future
here,? ? says Noe. ?A normal person cannot
buy a house there that costs �5 million
? it is impossible. It became obvious that we
needed to get out of the area, but where??
The options were more constrained
for Noe because he is one of the 35,000
ultra-Orthodox Haredi Jews who have
lived in Stamford Hill since the end of the
19th century. The community, which has
its roots in western Ukraine during the
18th century, is close-knit and insular. The
men wear traditional black coats and hats,
long beards and sidelocks, and the women
wear long dresses, hats and wigs. The Haredi
have large families ? it isn?t uncommon
to have eight or more children ? and they
shop mostly in their own kosher supermarkets,
educate their children in their own Orthodox
Jewish schools and pray in one of the
estimated 100 synagogues that serve
the Stamford Hill community.
The community is long established, but
in recent years property prices and rents in
Hackney have hurtled upwards and, with
the Haredi population projected to double
to 70,000 in 17 years, Noe was far from alone
in wondering what the future held.
?I know a person who lives with eight
children in a two-bedroom flat,? he tells me
grimly. ?The mother takes tablets every day
to calm her down because she can?t handle it.?
The challenge for the likes of Noe is that
ultra-Orthodox Jews like his family cannot
move just anywhere ? they need to go
somewhere that caters to their religious and
cultural needs, somewhere that has Jewish
schools, shops and synagogues. Some years
ago, a group of Haredi Jews started exploring
areas where they could set up a new
community. They looked at 15 possible
locations including Milton Keynes, Ramsgate
and St Albans, before they found a place
that appeared to fulfil all their needs.
30 The Times Magazine
Clockwise from this
picture: kosher chef
Israel with Canvey
resident Paul; Naftali and
Miriam Noe with their
children; Haredi women
meet their neighbours;
Canvey native Chris
Fenwick (manager of the
band Dr Feelgood) gives
a sightseeing tour
?I DON?T FEEL SELF-CONSCIOUS MOST
OF THE TIME. BUT WE DO GET LOOKS?
That place was Canvey Island in Essex.
?I believe in destiny,? says Joseph Stauber,
a 71-year-old former councillor who was
among the Haredi who researched possible
locations. ?And I think Canvey Island was
destined for us.?
Noe first heard about Canvey when he
spotted an advert in a local religious free sheet
that suggested anyone interested in moving
should visit to see if it might work for them.
He took his family and saw houses that had
four bedrooms and large gardens. ?When
I first visited Canvey, it was like a dream come
true. My wife?s reaction was, ?I want to have
this kind of life. I want to live here.? ?
Canvey Island is located off the southeast
coast of Essex in the Thames estuary, and
it lies 40 miles east of Stamford Hill. It is
separated from the mainland of the county by
a network of creeks and, despite having been
connected by a bridge since 1931, it retains an
island mentality.
It isn?t at first sight an obvious destination
for ultra-Orthodox Jews. Stamford Hill is in
Hackney, which voted 78.5 per cent to remain
in the European Union, while Canvey Island
voted 72.7 per cent to leave. Around 40 per cent
of Hackney?s population is black or minority
ethnic, while Canvey Island was recently
ranked the most English place in the country.
Hackney is solidly Labour ? Diane Abbott
is the local MP ? while Ukip launched its
2015 manifesto on Canvey Island.
And yet, despite these apparent differences,
when Haredi activists began scouting possible
locations for a new satellite community, it
was Canvey Island that ticked all the boxes.
It was an hour?s drive from London, with
a plentiful supply of affordable homes that
were big enough to house large families.
Houses on Canvey Island start at around
�0,000 and there are currently fivebedroom detached properties on the market
for �5,000 ? the same price as a twobedroom flat in Stamford Hill.
Meetings were held between the Haredi
and local councillors, shop owners and church
leaders, and the ultra-Orthodox Jews were
assured they would be welcomed. The first
Jewish families moved last year and they
started telling their friends and families.
Word soon spread. The first 25 families have
been joined by 11 more who made the move
in the past two months, and among them
were Naftali Noe and his family. For him
and other Haredi Jews who can no longer
afford Stamford Hill, the choice appeared
clear: the only way is Essex.
The first Haredi to buy a property in
Canvey Island was Joel Friedman. In February
2016, the 31-year-old father of six moved from
a rented two-bedroom home in Stamford Hill
to a five-bedroom detached house with a
conservatory and large garden.
The children of the families who have
moved to Canvey are currently being homeschooled or driven to religious schools in
London, but within the next year that will
change. I meet Friedman at the site of what
was the Castle View secondary school, which
closed down in 2012 and moved to another
location. The old buildings were left to gather
dust until a Jewish philanthropist bought the
site last summer for �75 million and leased
it to the Haredi community.
?This site occupies 81,000sq ft,? Friedman
tells me ?and it contains a range of buildings
? the one on the right will be developed as
a community centre and there will also be
separate schools for boys and girls and a
religious college where older boys can study
and sleep.? He tells me he anticipates the
school population reaching 200 within 2 years.
Walking around the site, all I see are
Haredi men in their distinctive beards and
clothing and young Jewish boys on their
bicycles. Friedman leads me to what was
the school dining room and is now the
synagogue. There are shelves filled with
religious texts on one wall and towards the
other end is a custom-built ark that holds
the Torah scrolls. Every adult Haredi man
will come to the synagogue three times a day
to pray and, because they are not allowed to
use any form of transport other than walking
on the Sabbath, this means that the Jews
have to live within around 20 minutes? walk
of a place of worship.
Jacob Gross is one of the most recent
arrivals from Stamford Hill. He is 28, with
five children. ?I feel very comfortable here,?
he says. ?We have a small grocery store. We
have meat and kosher food delivered every
Wednesday ? I don?t feel I am missing out on
anything by not being in Stamford Hill, apart
from the traffic, the hooting and the shouting.?
The Haredi took over the complex in
summer 2016 around the same time as the EU
referendum. When Canvey voted to leave the
EU, Friedman admits he ?did have concerns
? Canvey has a bit of a bad name when it
comes to racism?. In fact, the locals have, both
Friedman and Gross say, been nothing but
welcoming. Friedman tells me a story about
his neighbour bringing him kosher gifts for
Passover and says he was in a shop recently
when a stranger gave his children �each
to buy something nice for themselves.
?I don?t feel self-conscious most of the
time,? says Gross, ?but on Saturdays when
I go out and we have our hats on, people might
give us a look.? When he went shopping out
of Canvey in Basildon last autumn, Friedman
found that he was the one doing the staring.
?I felt something was different, and then it hit
me,? he says. ?I had not seen anything other
than white British people for four weeks.?
Pauline Edwards lives a few minutes
from the former Castle View School. She
works as a barmaid and has lived in Canvey
for 17 years, having moved from Dagenham
in east London.
?The people who have moved here more
recently have come because the areas where
they used to live had become far more
ethnical,? she tells me. I should probably
be offended because that does sound rather
bigoted, but I rather admire her honesty
and, anyway, after spending time with her
I genuinely don?t feel she is racist ? she
is just voicing an unease with large-scale
immigration that I suspect many other white
English people feel but don?t necessarily think
they are allowed to express.
?Let?s face it, the majority of English
families would not choose to move to, let?s
say, Brixton,? she says. ?There are an awful
lot of areas where I would feel an outsider,
and probably quite uncomfortable because
of that. We all feel far more comfortable
in our own area.?
And for those who had moved to Canvey
the place was something of a refuge, a
reminder of an England they felt had been
lost. For these people, Edwards said, Ukip
spoke to their concerns: ?Nigel Farage and
the things he said touched a lot of people?s
hearts and their inner soul. Canvey Island is
quite Ukip-ified ? a lot of people who live here
are east Londoners who have moved here
Continues on page 47
The Times Magazine 31
T
OU P
LL EE
PU D K
AN
Eat!
DONNA HAY?S
EASY TARTS
ALL WITH SHOP-BOUGHT PASTRY
PHOTOGRAPHS
Anson Smart
STYLING
Steve Pearce
Fig, goat?s cheese
and courgette
flower tart, page 34
Plus
MAIN-MEAL SOUPS
FIG, GOAT?S
CHEESE AND
COURGETTE
FLOWER TART
Serves 8 (page 33)
? 1 x 375g sheet frozen
puff pastry, thawed
? 240g ricotta
? 100g goat?s brie, torn
? 8 small courgette
flowers, trimmed
? 5 figs, halved
? 1 tbsp honey
? Dried chilli flakes
? Cracked black pepper
1 Preheat the oven to 200C/
Gas 6. Place the pastry on a
large baking tray lined with
nonstick baking parchment.
Using a small sharp knife,
gently score a 2cm border
around the edge of the
pastry and prick the centre
with a fork.
2 Top the pastry with
the ricotta, goat?s cheese,
courgette flowers and figs.
Cook for 20-25 minutes
or until the cheese is
bubbling and the courgette
flowers are tender. Drizzle
with the honey and sprinkle
with chilli flakes and
pepper to serve.
LAMB, AUBERGINE
AND KALE TART
Serves 8
? 1 x 375g sheet frozen
puff pastry, thawed
? 60ml milk
? 200g feta
? 1 small aubergine,
chopped
? 3 spicy lamb sausages,
casings removed, torn
? 1 long red chilli, chopped
? 40g baby kale leaves
? 1 tbsp dukkah (available
from supermarkets)
1 Preheat the oven to 220C/
Gas 8. Place the pastry on
a large baking tray lined
with nonstick baking
parchment. Using a small
sharp knife, gently score a
34 The Times Magazine
SARDINE,
LEMON AND
CARAMELISED
ONION TART
Serves 8
? 1 x 375g sheet frozen
puff pastry, thawed
? 140g caramelised
onion relish
? 8 sardine fillets, halved
? 1 lemon, thinly sliced
? 40g caperberries
? Fresh black pepper
1 Preheat the oven to 200C/
Gas 6. Place the pastry on
a large baking tray lined
with nonstick baking
parchment. Using a small
sharp knife, gently score
a 2cm border around the
edge of the pastry and prick
the centre with a fork.
2 Spread the pastry with
the onion relish and top
with the sardines and
lemon, slightly overlapping.
Add the caperberries
and cook for 20 minutes
or until the pastry is golden
and cooked on the base.
Sprinkle with pepper
to serve.
The Times Magazine 35
Eat! DONNA HAY
2cm border around the edge
of the pastry and prick the
centre with a fork.
2 Place the milk and half
the feta in a small food
processor and whizz until
smooth. Spread the feta
mixture over the pastry
and top with the aubergine,
sausage and chilli. Crumble
over the remaining feta and
cook for 18-20 minutes or
until the pastry is golden
and cooked on the base.
Top with the kale and
dukkah to serve.
? 1 x 375g sheet frozen
puff pastry, thawed
? 250g smoked
mozzarella, sliced
? 200g large mushrooms
? Bunch of sage leaves
? Truffle oil, to serve
(optional)
1 Preheat the oven to 200C/
Gas 6. Place the pastry on
a large baking tray lined
with nonstick baking
parchment. Using a small
sharp knife, gently score a
2cm border around the edge
of the pastry and prick the
centre with a fork.
2 Top the pastry with
the mozzarella, mushrooms
and sage leaves. Cook for
18-20 minutes or until
the cheese is bubbling
and the pastry is golden
and cooked on the base.
Drizzle with truffle oil,
if using, to serve.
Cook?s note
To make any of the tarts,
if you can?t get a single sheet
of 375g puff pastry, place
two sheets of pastry together,
overlapping by 4cm. Using
a rolling pin, roll them
together to secure, then
trim the edge.
The Times Magazine 37
Eat! DONNA HAY
MUSHROOM,
SMOKED
MOZZARELLA
AND SAGE TART
Serves 8
BROUGHT TO YOU BY
Think out of the glass box
Quirky offices might be fun, but it?s intelligent technology that boosts morale, says Emma Broomfield
P
ack up the ping-pong tables,
hammocks and beanbags; it
officially takes more than
quirky office fixtures and
fittings to create a happy workforce. In
fact, 86 per cent of UK employees say that
such features are of no value. So what
does keep us content from nine to five?
Research shows that the things we need
to reach the holy grail of career happiness
are much the same as those we need in
everyday life: respect, purpose, recognition
and good relationships. While a game of
table football might provide fleeting fun,
it is properly integrated technology that
can provide the framework to achieve
these fundamental objectives.
Digital tools are revolutionising
employment on every front, helping us
feel that bit more warm and fuzzy about
work. Take, for example, e-learning
helping flexible career development, chat
apps such as Slack making collaboration
easier and digital reward schemes such
as Perkbox that can be personalised with
benefits such as gym membership, that
hold tangible value for their recipients.
Employers should opt for a high-tech
approach to staff wellbeing if they want to
attract and retain talent. Matt Weston,
a director at human resource consulting
group Robert Half agrees, identifying this
as an area where technology ?can play a
vital role?. The company, which reports
that 42 per cent of workers see clear
career progression as their top motivator,
prescribes the use of digital training
BT COMMENT
Agile workforces
need agile
workspaces
Nicola Millard
Head of customer
insight and
futures, BT
courses and online learning to keep top
talent engaged. Furthermore, tech such
as instant messaging, video conferencing
and cloud computing offer new flexible
ways of working which empower
individuals. Such steps have ?a
tremendous impact on both staff morale
and the business as a whole,? adds
Weston. Happy employees also boost the
bottom line, being 12 per cent more
productive than their counterparts,
reports the University of Warwick.
The average employee now spends
around 45 hours a week in the office,
but how can bosses keep track of how
Businesses are creating
data-led action plans to
keep workers happy
12%
Work is increasingly
becoming more of a state
of being than an office
and a desk. Shrinking
technology and near
ubiquitous connectivity
has untethered us.
Many of us have
become ?shoulder-bag
workers?, able to control
how, where and when we
work. Control is a critical
element for workforce
wellbeing ? a job with high
Happy employees
are more productive
than their colleagues
demand, and low control
tends to result in stress.
As workforces diversify
? with five generations
entering the workforce ?
forcing a ?one size fits all?
way of working can also
exclude valuable talent.
However, an
increasingly virtualised
and globalised workforce
also needs to easily come
together on ?common
ground? (ie a physical
their workforce feels during that time?
Technology has the solution for that, too.
Since 2014, The Happiness Index has
been helping businesses create data-led
action plans to keep workers happy. ?By
tracking and measuring staff sentiment
you can gauge how everyone feels in
real-time,? says co-founder Tony Latter.
?Companies that invest in the wellbeing
and happiness of staff generate satisfied
clients? and deliver results that keep
investors, owners and shareholders happy.?
Happiness in work is better for
business ? and without a ?deckchair
breakout area? in sight.
or virtual space that is
accessible to all and
appropriate to the task)
in order to collaborate
and communicate.
The office has a critical
part to play in this. Agile
workforces need agile
workspaces that can
support the different tasks
that go on in them, without
becoming environments
of mass distraction. But
workplaces can extend into
the home, the co-working
hub (or ?coffice?) and,
increasingly, into the digital
realm of video, audio
and web conferencing,
chat, augmented and
virtual reality and
enterprise social media.
The key is to design work
that works for everyone.
To find out how BT can
help your business, visit:
bt.com/flexiblesolutions
? 1 x 375g sheet frozen
puff pastry, thawed
? 100g burrata, torn
? 150g sliced pancetta
? 2 tbsp quince paste
? Fresh black pepper
1 Preheat the oven to 200C/
Gas 6. Place the pastry on a
large baking tray lined with
nonstick baking parchment.
Using a small sharp knife,
gently score a 2cm border
around the edge of the
pastry and prick the centre
with a fork.
2 Top the pastry with
the burrata and pancetta.
Add teaspoonfuls of the
quince paste and sprinkle
with pepper. Cook for
20-25 minutes or until the
pastry is golden and cooked
through. Serve.
Turn over for Donna Hay?s
hearty winter soups
The Times Magazine 39
Eat! DONNA HAY
PANCETTA,
QUINCE
AND BURRATA
TART
Serves 8
Not just for starters
Donna Hay?s winter soups are a meal in themselves
PHOTOGRAPHSBen Dearnley
STYLING Justine Poole
40 The Times Magazine
Eat! DONNA HAY
Split pea and fennel
soup, page 44, and (left)
poached whole chicken in
spicy broth, page 43
Eat! DONNA HAY
Chicken and freekeh soup
with parsley pesto
POACHED WHOLE CHICKEN IN SPICY BROTH
Serves 4 (page 40)
CHICKEN AND FREEKEH SOUP WITH PARSLEY PESTO
Serves 4
? 2 star anise ? 12cm piece ginger, sliced ? 30g dried sliced shiitake
mushrooms ? 1 cinnamon stick ? 2 long red chillies, halved, plus
extra, sliced, to serve ? 3 shallots, halved ? 1 garlic bulb, halved
? 2 tbsp oyster sauce, plus extra to serve ? 2 tbsp soy sauce ? 1.6kg
whole chicken ? 2 bunches choi sum, trimmed ? 200g Savoy cabbage,
thinly sliced ? Black sesame seeds and coriander leaves, to serve
? 80g freekeh (available in supermarkets) ? 2 tsp extra virgin olive
oil ? 1 onion, chopped ? 1 garlic bulb, halved ? 6 celery stalks, thinly
sliced ? 6 bay leaves ? 1 bunch thyme ? 1 litre chicken stock ? Sea salt
and cracked black pepper ? 1 courgette, thinly sliced ? 200g shredded
Swiss chard ? 600g chicken breast fillets, thinly sliced
For the parsley pesto ? Large handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, plus
extra to serve ? 40g pine nuts, toasted, plus extra to serve ? 1 tbsp
lemon juice ? 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil ? � tsp sea salt flakes
1 Place the star anise, ginger, mushrooms, cinnamon, chillies, shallots,
garlic, oyster sauce, soy sauce and 1.5 litres water in a large saucepan
over a high heat. Cover and bring to the boil. Add the chicken, breastside down. Cover with a lid and cook for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat
and let it stand for 45-55 minutes or until the chicken is cooked through.
2 Gently remove the chicken from the saucepan and set aside to cool
slightly. Remove the breasts from the bone and slice. Shred the meat
from the legs.
3 Strain the broth into a large jug, discarding the solids. Return the
broth to the saucepan and place over a high heat. Cover with a lid
and bring to the boil. Add the choi sum and cook for 2 minutes or
until just softened. Divide the cabbage among bowls and top with
the chicken, choi sum and broth. Sprinkle with sesame seeds, coriander
and extra chilli to serve.
1 Make the pesto. Place the parsley, pine nuts, lemon juice, oil, 60ml
water and salt in a food processor and whizz until smooth. Set aside.
2 Place the freekeh and 375ml water in a pan and bring to the boil. Turn
down the heat, cover and cook for 10-15 minutes or until tender.
3 Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large pan over a medium heat. Add the
onion, garlic and half the celery. Cook, stirring, for 4-5 minutes or until
softened. Add the bay, thyme, stock, 1 litre water, salt and pepper and
stir to combine. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook for 15-20 minutes.
4 Strain the broth and return to the pan, discarding the solids. Bring to
the boil over a high heat and add the courgette, Swiss chard, chicken
and remaining celery. Cook for 2-3 minutes or until the chicken is just
cooked. Remove from the heat. Divide the freekeh and soup among
bowls and top with the pesto, extra pine nuts and parsley to serve.
The Times Magazine 43
Eat! DONNA HAY
Coconut and lemongrass
soup with fish
SPLIT PEA AND FENNEL SOUP
Serves 4 (page 41)
COCONUT AND LEMONGRASS SOUP WITH FISH
Serves 4
? 2 tsp extra virgin olive oil ? 1 onion, finely chopped ? 2 garlic cloves,
crushed ? 300g dried green split peas ? 1 litre chicken stock ? Handful
of tarragon leaves, finely chopped, plus extra sprigs to serve ? 1 tsp
sea salt flakes ? Cracked black pepper ? 2 courgettes, shredded
? Toasted bread, to serve
For the roasted fennel ? 3 fennel bulbs, thinly sliced ? 2 tbsp maple
syrup ? 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil ? Sea salt and black pepper
? 2 lemongrass stalks, bruised and cut into thirds ? 8 kaffir lime
leaves ? 5 coriander roots and stems ? 12cm piece ginger, thinly sliced
? 1 onion, peeled and halved ? 400ml tin coconut milk ? 2 tbsp fish
sauce ? 1 tsp sea salt flakes ? 600g skinless firm white fish, cut into
4cm pieces ? 500g Tenderstem broccoli, halved ? 330g cooked
brown rice ? 2 long green chillies, thinly sliced coriander and
lime wedges, to serve
1 Preheat the oven to 200C/Gas 6. To make the roasted fennel, place
the fennel, maple syrup, oil, salt and pepper in a large bowl and toss
to combine. Spread the mixture on 2 large oven trays and cook for
20-25 minutes or until golden and caramelised. Set aside to cool slightly.
2 While the fennel is cooking, heat the oil in a medium saucepan
over a medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, for
5 minutes or until softened. Add the split peas, stock, 500ml water,
tarragon, salt and pepper and stir to combine. Cover with a lid and
cook for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 30 minutes
or until the split peas are tender.
3 Divide the soup among bowls and top with the courgette, roasted
fennel and extra tarragon. Serve with toasted bread.
1 Place the lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, coriander, ginger, onion,
coconut milk, 1.25 litres water, fish sauce and salt in a medium saucepan
over a medium heat. Cover with a lid and cook for 15 minutes or until
it comes to the boil.
2 Strain the soup into a large jug, discarding the solids. Return the soup
to the saucepan and place over a medium heat. Cover with a lid and
bring to the boil. Add the fish and cook for 3 minutes. Add the broccoli
and cook for 2 minutes more. Remove from the heat. Divide the rice
and soup among bowls. Top with the chilli and coriander and serve
with lime wedges. n
The latest issue of donna hay magazine is available now for iPad
and Android. Download from the App Store or Google Play
44 The Times Magazine
The Jews of Canvey Island Continued from page 31
because they had begun to feel a minority
in the area where they used to live.?
Even though she lives yards from the heart
of the Haredi community, Edwards has not
had any conversations with anyone there
? ?They don?t even focus when they look at
you; they sort of look straight through you,?
her neighbour Karen says ? but Edwards has
no complaints. ?They aren?t thieving or on
drugs,? she says. ?You don?t see their teenagers
zooming around on bikes causing havoc.?
They might keep to themselves, goes
Edwards? argument, but at the least the
ultra-Orthodox Jews don?t cause any trouble
and they don?t have any intention to impose
their beliefs on anyone else. I can?t help
suspecting that the Jews are being compared
with another religious minority. ?I have a
cheeky question for you,? I say. ?Is your view
when you think about the Jews coming to
Canvey that it could be worse ? at least they
aren?t Muslims?? They both laugh. ?I think
that is a very unfair question to ask me,? says
Edwards. She pauses and then adds, ?I think
it is quite possibly valid to think that might
be what some locals think.? Karen is blunter.
?Yeah,? she says.
I live close to Stamford Hill and see
members of the Haredi community every day.
We walk past each other; my daughter might
be in the queue for the swings at our local
play park behind a young Orthodox girl, and
I might be sitting next to a Haredi woman
on a bus, and yet before I started working on
this story I had never had a conversation with
anyone from the community.
Before going to Canvey Island I had met
Joseph Stauber, who has lived in Stamford Hill
since the early Eighties. He told me that he
thought the state of relations between the
ultra-Orthodox Jews and their Muslim
neighbours in Hackney was a good example
of integration. ?We are doing nicely,? Stauber
explained. ?I don?t want to see him at my
synagogue and he doesn?t want to see me at
his mosque. We are friendly, but we have our
own lives because of our religion, so you can
be friendly and polite without getting married
to his daughter.?
The phrase I hear from both Joel Friedman
and the Rev David Tudor, who is the local
vicar on Canvey Island, is ?integration but
not assimilation?. The strict rules on gender
segregation, dress and behaviour mean that
there are clear limits on how much the Haredi
can integrate with the wider community.
?We don?t socialise beyond a certain
extent,? explains Friedman. ?We won?t go to
the pub; we don?t go to the theatre or cinema;
we don?t have television in the home. We don?t
use the internet for entertainment; we have
rules for modesty, so places where that
wouldn?t be respected by others ? which is
modern society ? we would avoid those areas.
With the beach, we would try to find a quiet
corner, a place where there aren?t people who
don?t conform to our ideas of modesty. But
you are still friendly among your neighbours;
you live as good neighbours.?
It is a bright Sunday morning and
I have come to the Canvey Island Rugby
Club to watch around 100 young boys and
girls play rugby, watched by their parents
and grandparents.
Among them is Lorraine, who is 62
and has lived on Canvey Island since 1974.
She begins by telling me that the Jewish
community are ?very inoffensive. I have no
problems with them whatsoever.? It is only
when I ask whether she feels the Haredi will
integrate into the existing local community
that she admits her apprehensions. ?They are
going to set up a separate school here and that
in itself is saying, ?We are different.? When we
talk about integration, then it has to be both
ways,? she says. ?I do believe very strongly
they treat women as second-class citizens.
?YOU DON?T SEE
JEWISH TEENAGERS
CAUSING HAVOC
ON THEIR BIKES?
It is a different way of life and it will never
be something I agree with.?
Listening to her are Biff and Barry. Biff is
a stocky 66-year-old retired gas fitter with a
shaved head, heavily tattooed arms, a snowy
goatee and dark glasses, while Barry is the
deputy mayor of Canvey Island and has
lived there since 1963. ?My family did exactly
what they did,? says Barry. ?We moved out of
London because we couldn?t get a house, and
our parents came here to give us a better way
of life. All right, they?re being a bit insular
[he is referring to the Haredi], you know what
I mean, but they?re not causing any problems.?
I look at the field where the boys and girls
are playing rugby. I scan the parents. I can?t
see a single face that is not white.
?That?s not true ? we got an Ali,? says Biff.
?We got two Alis, as it happens, and I know
one of them is definitely a Muslim, because
when he turned up on his first day with his
bag I said, if you leave that I?m coming with
you, and he thought that was funny.?
Written down, that sounds possibly
offensive, but I don?t think there was any
malice behind it ? it was just an attempt at
a joke. As when Biff says, ?They make us out
to be racist, but we?re not racist on Canvey
? we hate everybody.?
There are 25 Haredi families living on
Canvey Island already and the sale of another
70 houses is currently between agreed and
completed. Joel Friedman tells me the ambition
was to have at least 100 Haredi families on
Canvey. ?Then we will be happy that we are a
proper community,? he says. ?And it means we
can open shops and get everything we need.?
That initial population of 100 families
will inevitably grow ? not least because
of the high birth rates among the Haredi
community. ?I don?t have a problem [with
the current size of the community], but
make that four times as many, I don?t know,?
Lorraine tells me. ?If it is done slowly then
it will be fine, but if it is done en masse,
people will feel threatened.?
?It?s the same as the Asians ? they outbreed
us. We have one or two or three kids and they
have five, six or seven kids,? Jean, a 51-yearold mother of three, adds. ?I wouldn?t be
surprised if they would love to take over
Castle View and make it a gated community.?
There was a recent report of schoolchildren
making Nazi salutes at the Haredi, but this
was an isolated incident. The more common
story, I hear from both sides, is that the
Haredi community has been largely welcomed
and accepted. The greatest fear for the
future, locals repeatedly tell me, is that
the ultra-Orthodox Jews will turn in on
themselves and that Canvey Island will
become a mini Stamford Hill.
It is a concern that is shared among those
in the Haredi community. ?I am worried
about how it will eventually end ? what the
reaction will be from the locals,? admits Noe.
?If someone is not very close to the Jewish
community, they look at us as a threat,
because they don?t know us: ?Are they going
to overtake us? What is going to happen?? ?
What will happen is not certain, but
regardless of how it ends, Friedman, Gross
and Noe know they are pioneers.
?This is the first time it has been done
in England,? says Friedman. ?That a Jewish
community has successfully set up in another
place.? If the Haredi can succeed in Canvey,
they plan to set up other communities in
surrounding areas.
?Canvey is not the answer, but it is part
of the answer,? says Friedman. ?I hope the
community don?t replicate Stamford Hill,
where we closed ourselves in.?
It is a hope echoed by the Canvey Island
locals and shared by Noe as he settles into
his new life in Essex: the hope that leaving
Stamford Hill for the promised land of Canvey
Island will mean not only a fresh start for his
family, but also a fresh start for his community
as it plans for the future while firmly holding
on to its past. n
Canvey ? the Promised Island, a documentary
directed by Riete Oord, will be broadcast on
BBC One on January 9
The Times Magazine 47
THE SERIAL KILLER
THE
KILLING OF
GIANNI
VERSACE
On July 15, 1997, the
flamboyant fashion designer
was shot dead on the steps of
his Miami Beach mansion.
His murderer? A serial killer
on the FBI?s Most Wanted list.
Writer Maureen Orth?s
explosive account revealed
how the police failed to track
him down. Now her book has
been made into a TV series,
with Pen閘ope Cruz playing
the woman who went on to
run her brother?s empire,
Donatella Versace
Gianni Versace, seated, at his home in 1988
with, from left, his brother-in-law, Paul Beck,
sister Donatella and brother, Santo. Photograph
by Evelyn Hofer. Opposite top: Andrew Cunanan
PREVIOUS SPREAD: GETTY IMAGES. THIS SPREAD: BBC, GETTY IMAGES, REX SHUTTERSTOCK, SPLASH
I
n July 1997, Gianni Versace, 50, was
one of the world?s most famous fashion
designers. His high-octane catwalk
shows were legendary. The Italian had
revolutionised fashion with his blend
of rock?n?roll and couture. Moves were
under way to float his eponymous label
on the US stock market, with the value
rumoured to be as much as $1.4 billion.
At the same time, Andrew Cunanan
was about to become the subject of one of
the largest manhunts in FBI history. Nine
days after he assassinated Versace outside
the latter?s home, Cunanan?s body was found
in a Miami Beach houseboat. Before the killer
gained worldwide notoriety, he had already
traversed a gay parallel universe ? travelling
from the seamy, drug-addled underbelly of
the demimonde to the privileged world of the
rich and the closeted.
Over the many months that I reported
Cunanan?s story, I tried to unravel the lies and
untangle the contradictions ? he did not yield
his secrets easily. He began life as a beautiful
child with an IQ of 147. His parents had an
unhappy marriage, and they counted on their
youngest child to save and validate them. The
gifted child was never able to form a coherent
adult personality.
Cunanan could fit in anywhere. He could
discourse about art and architecture, and he
was a walking encyclopaedia of labels and
status. No matter how much Cunanan got,
he always wanted more ? more drugs, kinkier
sex, better wine. Somehow he came to believe
that they were his due. And why not? He was
always the life of the party, the smartest boy
at the table. But at 27 he was also a narcissist
and practised pathological liar who created
alternative realities for himself and was clever
enough to pull off his deceptions. In the
superficial circles in which he travelled,
Cunanan made himself indispensable. Beneath
the charm, a sinister psychosis was brewing.
Drugs and illicit sex increasingly coarsened
his instincts. He had no profession to fall back
on. He had been seduced by a greedy, callous
world that proffered the superficial values of
youth, beauty, and money as the maximum
attainments of a happy life. In the end, Andrew
Cunanan, the product of a fanatically Catholic
mother and a just as fanatically materialistic
father, inflicted incalculable pain on others.
For years, Cunanan had been deeply
jealous and resentful of the rich and famous
Italian designer who ?came from nothing?
and who through ?hard work? had become
an international celebrity and gay icon.
Cunanan called Gianni Versace ?the worst
designer ever?, and once told a friend
that he was ?pretentious, pompous and
ostentatious?. Outwardly, Cunanan sought
to keep his rage in check, but inside he
seemed to be keeping a little list.
50 The Times Magazine
Versace in the US in 1990
FOR YEARS, THE
KILLER HAD BEEN
DEEPLY RESENTFUL
OF VERSACE?S LIFE
They were both southern Italians:
Versace was Calabrian, Cunanan was
half Sicilian. They both came from port
cities and deeply Catholic environments.
They both started out at roughly the same
economic place, although Versace did not have
the privileges of a top education. Yet here was
Versace with a family he was proud of, from
whom he never had to hide his gayness; a
loving, long-time partner; the riches of the
world at his feet. Versace?s life sounded a lot
like the one Cunanan had wished for when he
was a teenager.
By May 11, 1997, Cunanan had arrived
undetected in Miami, having covered 1,100 miles
in two days. He?d already murdered four men.
The Normandy Plaza Hotel was a few
miles north of South Beach. With its pictures
of Marilyn Monroe, who supposedly once
stayed there, and its peeling lino floor, the
Normandy Plaza was on the other side of
the moon from the paradise-on-steroids
that ?SoBe? had become to gay travellers,
but it was within walking distance of a
gay nudists? beach.
On May 12, three magazine articles
With, from left, Sting, Trudie Styler, Donatella and Elton John, 1992
of particular interest to Cunanan hit the
newsstands. Both Time and Newsweek featured
him as the suspect in four murders; Time
called him a ?gay socialite? and Newsweek
an ?upbeat party boy?. The third article
was in Vanity Fair, which Cunanan read
religiously every month. The June issue
carried an article by Cathy Horyn that
spotlighted Donatella Versace, the sister of
Gianni, and showed off their South Beach
villa, Casa Casuarina. It included a vignette
of a family picnic at another gay beach
across the street from the mansion, served
by staff who had to wheel everything over
in carts. For the Versaces, munching their
sandwiches for a reporter to observe, the idea
that such displays might make them a target
probably didn?t occur. They were merely
feeding the ever ravenous publicity beast.
South Beach was a riot of easy sleazy,
where dancing the night away amid hundreds
of tanned, undulating bodies was a standard
prelude to anonymous sex. On a typical
night at Warsaw, the first big gay nightclub
in South Beach, the scene was dominated
by buffed bodies that didn?t seem real; they
looked pumped up, airbrushed and retouched.
Woe to the also-rans in these places.
?Versace used to go out to clubs all the
time in the early days,? says Tom Austin,
an acute chronicler of the SoBe scene.
Dana Keith, a former Versace model,
explains the scene by saying, ?What is the vibe
of the room? What is the level of the drugs?
How many cute guys are there? It?s a pretty
mixed-up sense of priorities.?
Pen閘ope Cruz as Donatella in the new TV series
Versace?s residence, the Casa Casuarina
(named after the only tree on the property)
at 1116 Ocean Drive, stood as a testament to
another form of gay abandon. In 1992, Versace
bought the old Amsterdam Palace, a run-down
apartment building that had once been
a grand Mediterranean villa. It had been
constructed in 1930 to resemble the house
in the Dominican Republic of Christopher
Columbus?s son, Diego, for the grandson
of the treasurer of Standard Oil, Alden
Freeman. Versace paid $2.9 million for the
property, which came with its own copperdomed observatory, and then scandalised
the preservationists the following year by
paying $3.7 million for the decrepit Revere
Hotel next door and levelling it to build
a patio and pool. However, the natives
were impressed enough with their rich new
neighbour that Versace managed to win
over one of the leaders of the historicpreservation movement, who helped him run
interference at city hall. After Versace spent
more than $1 million on restoration and
another princely sum on furnishings, the
fabulous Casa Casuarina emerged ? a
20,000sq ft, 10-bedroom paean to pagan
excess that has been variously called ?a
flagrantly visible Xanadu?, ?a high-camp
tropical fever dream? and ?a palazzo in drag?
decorated in ?gay baroque?.
Versace preserved the busts of Christopher
Columbus, Pocahontas, Confucius and
Mussolini found in the courtyard; he covered
every available inch with Byzantine mosaics,
Moorish tiles, Versace fabrics, Medusa heads
Edgar Ramirez as Versace in the series
(his logo), Picassos and Dufys; he threw in
hand-painted ceilings and a few murals.
The garish blend of Versace high life and
sales appeared to spew out automatically, like
a personal 24-hour news service, or a neverending video fashion reel with a familiar cast
of characters: his younger sister, Donatella,
42, creative director of the company, the
alter-ego muse with the platinum shank
of hair out discoing night after night; her
American husband, Paul Beck, in charge of
Versace advertising, at home with their young
children, Allegra and Daniel; their brother,
Santo, the company?s CEO, a former
accountant who hovered in the background
and whose 1997 conviction for bribing tax
officials was overturned on appeal; Versace?s
long-standing companion, Antonio D?Amico;
the dressmaker mother and father, who
BENEATH CUNANAN?S
CHARM, A SINISTER
PSYCHOSIS WAS
BREWING
sold small kitchen appliances that gilded
the designer?s humble childhood in Reggio
di Calabria.
Gianni Versace paid for top photographers
to shoot pictures of him, his sister and his
clothes for fashion magazines. The reasoning?
If he was seen on the pages of the top glossies
hanging out with Elton or Sting, designing for
Elizabeth Hurley the famous black dress held
together with safety pins, aspiring nouveaux
around the world would snatch up anything
with the name Versace on it.
To someone as consumed with a similar
yearning as Cunanan, such a life would
be enraging. He would take umbrage at
Versace?s ostentatious materialism.
Hiding in his seedy hotel room, eating
takeaways and venturing forth only after dark,
Cunanan would have had plenty of time to
fume. From following Versace and reading
about his opulent lifestyle in South Beach,
Cunanan knew that given the right day, he
could probably reach out and touch him.
In the Vanity Fair article about life at Casa
Casuarina, he read, ?The Versace lifestyle
is almost mind-boggling in its grasp of the
consumption ethic. The message: absolute
freedom.? But everywhere Cunanan turned,
he was trapped.
?Cunanan was a hustler. I knew that from the
moment I saw him. He was on the take. I set
him up. He was very, very generous.? Ronnie
is a 43-year-old gay Normandy Plaza resident.
He saw Cunanan almost daily while the latter
was hiding out in Miami Beach. Ronnie knows
the street life around the hotel well. ?I would
always speak: ?Hey, how are you?? He finally
came up and said, ?Where can I get some
rock [crack]?? ?
Cunanan regularly bought crack from
Lyle, a dealer who sold him $10, $40 or
$100 rocks. ?He definitely liked his dope,?
Lyle says. Cunanan spent several hundred
dollars a week on crack, but nobody asked
any questions. For Lyle, ?Cunanan just blended
into the scenery. He was a loner.? Ronnie adds,
?For people who are straight, the gay world is
like any other. What the gay world is, is if you
take care of me, I?ll take care of you. In the
gay community, we don?t reveal.?
Cunanan slipped into a netherworld
of prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers
who frequented the neighbourhood ? the
underbelly of the glittery world of Versace
The Times Magazine 51
Feel alive
ADVERTISEMENT FEATURE
Why not go by bike to build up an
appetite? Jersey might only measure nine
miles by five, but the island is a paradise
for cyclists. Reduced speed limits and the
varied terrain, from challenging hill
climbs in the north to gentle, well-marked
sightseeing routes in the south, mean
there?s a safe trail to suit everyone, even if
you are rediscovering pedal power for the
first time in years. Bike hire is cheap and
easy, and you can make new friends while
seeing the sights if you join a cycling tour.
For an equally invigorating but more
unusual tour, take to the waves on a
guided jet-ski safari. Setting off from
the Jersey Sea Sport Centre?s base near
the village of St Aubin, your hour-long
tour mixes thrill and spills with a unique
view of the island?s coastline, taking in
hidden coves and bays. Everything is
included and all you need to bring along
is a sense of adventure.
Spectacular views and
fantastic food ? even a
short break to Jersey
will fire the senses
Dive into Jersey
From discovering romantic ruins to chasing the waves on the
ultimate jet-ski adventure, a trip to this Channel Island delight
is guaranteed to leave you feeling invigorated and revived
rom dawn to dusk, a day exploring
Jersey is guaranteed to deliver
spectacular views, delicious food
and uplifting experiences that will fire
the senses and blow your worries away.
Just a 40-minute flight from London,
this English-speaking haven is the
perfect weekend escape, with beautiful
beaches, mild weather and great
shopping, handily all in pounds rather
than euros. Stay longer and you?ll feel
inspired by how much there is to see and
do, from adventure sports to spa breaks
? and with France only a few miles
away, you can even find time to pop
across for a leisurely lunch.
WORDS: SAMM TAYLOR
F
Choose your accommodation wisely
and the excitement begins as soon as the
sun rises. Check into La Cr阾e Fort and
the waves crashing on Jersey?s rugged
north coastline will be nature?s alarm
clock. The fort, which sleeps five, dates
from 1830 and is positioned on a jutting
headland with life-affirming views from
its sheltered garden terrace.
Just a stone?s throw away, beautiful
Bonne Nuit Bay is the ideal breakfast,
lunch and dinner spot with a celebrated
beach caf� on the harbour?s slipway.
Here, your tastebuds will delight in the
locally caught seafood, while at night
there are Thai specialities to savour.
Channel your
inner happiness
From beaches
(St Aubin, above)
to cycling (below),
Jersey has something
for everyone
Alternatively, feel energised by diving
into the water at one of Jersey?s great
beaches. Relax and catch the rays on the
calm golden beaches in the south or
satisfy your curiosity by rock-pool hopping
on the clear pebble beaches in the north.
Perhaps you would rather challenge
yourself with a surfing lesson in St Ouen?s
Bay, while St Brelade?s Bay regularly
features in the UK?s best beach list and is
perfect for families. Or you could take a
trip back in time with a dip in the restored
Victorian lido at Havre Des Pas, minutes
from the centre of the capital St Helier.
Finally, finish your day with some fast
food with a difference. Visit Faulkner
Fisheries at St Ouen and you can pick up
everything you?ll need for a DIY beach
feast. A family owned business housed in
a Second World War bunker, you can pick
up top-quality fresh, smoked, frozen and
cooked seafood. Then, just head to the
beach for a picnic or a BBQ while enjoying
a legendary Jersey sunset and planning
your next day of island excitement.
For more information, go to
www.jersey.com/summerfeelings
AP, GETTY IMAGES
a few miles to the south. Cunanan would
contact Lyle on his beeper and often send
Ronnie to pick up the drugs at the McDonald?s
two blocks from the hotel. He also made a
daily habit of going across the street to a
liquor store and buying a pint of cheap vodka,
which he sometimes downed all at once in
front of the annoyed owner. When high, he?d
disappear into the bathroom.
?I knew what he was doing. He was hiding.
I didn?t know it was for killing people,? says
Ronnie. ?What happened was, I was sitting out
back one day. He walks by and I?m looking at
him, scoping him.
? ?You see something you like?? Cunanan
asked. ?Yeah,? I said. ?You?ve got a cute ass. I
could make some money off you. You hustle??
? ?I?ve done that before,? Cunanan said.
?I picked up the phone. That?s how
it got started.?
He told Ronnie his name was Andy. ?He
never said where he was from. I set him up
with a few old men, old rich guys around here.
They would use my room. I got money that
way.? According to Ronnie, Cunanan also
made his own pickups on the gay cruising
beach, which was five blocks away, or at the
hotel next door catering to German tourists.
?One day this guy he brought in had a Cartier
bracelet,? Ronnie says. ?When he left the
building, he didn?t have it on.?
According to Lyle, ?He was a male
prostitute, but he was also doing burglaries,
doing whatever he could to get money. He?d
stay in the hotel all day long and he?d go out
at night ? sneak out the back and go in the
back. Nobody knew his business.? The thefts
were mostly jewellery ? ?Stuff,? Lyle says, ?he
could fit into his backpack.?
Inside his small, dingy room, which he
rarely let the maids in to clean, Cunanan
surrounded himself with books detailing the
worlds he preferred to inhabit, and into which
he could further escape. By the dim light of
his shabby hideout he read mostly about the
famous rich. In addition he was reading about
the Arts and Crafts movement in John Updike?s
essays on art, Just Looking, and Kenneth
Clark?s The Romantic Rebellion, plus half a
dozen other books on art and architecture
and one on the artist Francis Bacon.
On July 7, it was nearly two weeks since
Cunanan had last visited Lyle. Cunanan
was getting desperate. He walked around the
block near the hotel to the Cash on the Beach
pawnshop owned by Vivian Olivia and showed
her a gold coin that he had stolen from Lee
Miglin, one of his previous victims. Olivia
weighed the gold and told him she?d give
him $190. Cunanan was upset. ?Why are you
paying me so little if I paid so much more for
it?? he whined. ?I explained to him how the
pawnshop worked,? Olivia recalls. ?So I asked
him for his ID, and he gave me his passport,
Mourners outside Versace?s Miami Beach mansion
A WAITER THOUGHT
HE RECOGNISED HIM
FROM AMERICA?S
MOST WANTED
Princess Diana and Elton John at a memorial, 1997
which said ?Andrew P. Cunanan?. I asked him
his address.? Cunanan answered, ?6979 Collins
Avenue, room 205.? Instead of his own room,
322, he had given Ronnie?s. Olivia remembers
that he had a two-day growth of beard. His
skin was pale and he was wearing a baseball
cap and round glasses. He signed the papers,
?Andrew Cunanan?.
As required by law, Olivia immediately
turned over the paperwork, including a copy
of Cunanan?s signed application stating he was
residing at the Normandy Plaza, to the Miami
Beach Police Department. There it languished.
When Cunanan?s time at the Normandy
Plaza was up in the second week of July, he
told Miriam Hernandez on the front desk that
he would be staying only three more days.
She didn?t see Cunanan on Friday, and
when she left she told her brother, Alberto,
the night clerk, ?322 is checking out.? Alberto
was to get the last night?s rent in the morning.
Friday night about 9pm, Cunanan went out
for his usual fast food. Kenny Benjamin, who
waited on him, thought he recognised him
from America?s Most Wanted and immediately
called the police. He told them there was a
guy in the shop who resembled someone he?d
seen on television, but he couldn?t remember
which programme or what the person?s name
was. He added, ?Man, this is no joke.?
?OK, where is he at now??
?He?s walking down the street, and he was
just in here ordering food, but I think he just
walked down the street now.?
?Is he a white male or a black male??
?You know the guy ? they profiled him on
America?s Most Wanted.? Kenny had told the
911 operator, ?It was the guy who killed his
homosexual lover and a couple of other
people, like, four people.? But there was no
indication the police had any idea who he
was talking about.
Unfortunately, Kenny himself was standing
in front of the store?s video camera, so all it
showed was him talking on the phone. Kenny
made the call at a busy time. Twenty-four
emergency calls were backed up. Nevertheless,
the police were at Miami Subs in minutes, but
by then Cunanan had disappeared.
On Friday night, Versace, Antonio and
a friend had a pizza at Bang, a restaurant
on Washington Avenue owned by an Italian
whom Versace liked. They were relaxed and
left early. Versace was still decompressing
from the autumn fashion shows he had staged
in Paris to rave reviews. A few blocks down
the street Cunanan was sighted at Twist,
a club where the FBI had previously been
tipped off to look for him. Cunanan danced
one dance with a hairdresser named Brad
from West Palm Beach, identifying himself
as Andy from California. On the dancefloor,
Brad said, Cunanan had his hands all over
him, grabbing and rubbing him. When
Brad asked him what he did for a living,
Cunanan blithely said, ?I?m a serial killer.?
He laughed and said to Brad that he was
really in investment banking. Then he
disappeared into the crowd.
That night Cunanan was dressed rather
preppily, in long trousers and a long-sleeved
shirt. Twist manager Frank Scottolini, three
bartenders and one of the regulars were
all convinced they saw Cunanan several
times over the weekend. Cunanan told one
bartender, Gary Mantos, that he lived in
S鉶 Paulo, Brazil, but that he was originally
The Times Magazine 53
from San Diego, California, and that Miami
reminded him of ?Los Angeles in the Eighties?.
He sat at the bar and talked to an older man.
?He didn?t know anybody,? says Mantos. ?He
was trying to act fabulous.?
Jimmy Nickerson, another bartender,
who also saw Cunanan on Friday from
his station on the second level near the
dancefloor, figured from the way Cunanan
was dressed that he?d order Chivas Regal.
Instead, Cunanan asked for a glass of water
and bummed a cigarette from Carlos Vidal,
a regular customer. To Nickerson, those were
telltale signs: ?He was acting like a hustler.?
Vidal is a news junkie. Not only had he
followed the Cunanan case in the media, but
he had also seen a poster of Cunanan in Scoop
magazine. Sitting right next to him, however,
he did not recognise him. He recalls only,
?The guy looked slightly familiar.? They
exchanged a few words. Cunanan said, ?I?m
down here on vacation.? Vidal also got the
pickup vibes. He joked to Michael Lewis, a
friend, ?I?m sorry for who he picks up tonight.?
?He made me uneasy,? Vidal says, ?because
I had [the serial-killer idea] in the back of my
mind.? Vidal got up and went downstairs to
the bathroom, where notices are posted, to
see if there was a poster of Cunanan. There
was not. On his way downstairs, Vidal
AFTER THE KILLING,
CUNANAN WALKED
CALMLY AWAY DOWN
OCEAN DRIVE
saw Cunanan go out. ?I thought there should
be a poster up,? he says. Frank Scottolini, the
manager, had never been contacted by the
authorities. ?To my knowledge the FBI never
contacted anyone in the bar,? Scottolini says,
despite the fact that the Bureau had been
told that Twist was a most likely hangout
for someone like Cunanan. Back upstairs at
the bar, Vidal recalls he laughed and said to
Lewis, ? ?That?s probably the serial killer.? I?d
seen him on network news. You say it, and
you don?t believe it?s real.?
Nevertheless, Vidal was uncomfortable
and decided to leave. On his way out around
midnight, he told Scottolini, standing at the
door, ?I think you had a serial killer in there.
That guy I saw was the serial killer.? Scottolini
had also seen Cunanan, but he didn?t pay any
attention. The next night Cunanan showed up
again, wearing a white baseball cap, glasses,
shorts and a backpack. The security camera
was on at the door and, as Cunanan walked
in and out quickly, Scottolini was on the
street talking to his assistant manager.
Scottolini recognised Cunanan and
remembered what Vidal had told him. He
was momentarily overwhelmed by a sickening
feeling in his stomach. He turned to some
friends, he remembers, and said, ? ?There
goes the gay serial killer.? Then I dismissed
it like it couldn?t be true.?
When Alberto, the night clerk, called
Cunanan at 10am on Saturday morning, he
said he?d be down in ten minutes to pay the
rent. At 10.30, Alberto realised that Cunanan
had skipped ? gone out the back gate, leaving
the key to 322 on the bureau. In the room,
Alberto found a box for hair clippers. Cunanan
had apparently shaved his head.
Sunday night, Versace went to see the
movie Contact with Antonio and a friend. He
stayed in Monday night, when Cunanan was
supposedly seen at Liquid, at the Fat Black
Pussycat party, pretending he lived in one of
the most luxurious buildings on the beach.
Tuesday morning, Cunanan was up bright
and early. So was Versace, who walked three
blocks south to the News Cafe and bought five
magazines. Dressed in his trademark grey and
black, Gianni Versace walked back to his villa
at about 8.40. Cunanan was across the street
wearing shorts and a black baseball cap pulled
down over his eyes. Carrying his backpack
on his right shoulder, he crossed quickly and
sidled past Mersiha Colakovic, who had just
dropped her daughter off at school. Then,
ignoring Colakovic, Cunanan walked rapidly
up the first few steps in front of Versace?s
mansion. Versace was bent over, fitting his
key into the lock of the black wrought-iron
gate. Colakovic, who had walked past the
two, glanced back to take another look at
Versace, whom she had recognised. Appearing
completely relaxed, he had smiled at her. Now
she became an eyewitness to his murder.
Versace lost consciousness instantly, his
brain dead, although his heart continued to
flutter and was kept beating by the paramedics
who rushed him to Jackson Memorial Hospital
in Miami. Cunanan had come up from behind,
holding a .40 calibre Taurus semiautomatic
belonging to his first victim, Jeff Trail. He
pointed the long barrel at Versace?s neck, right
behind his left ear and cheek. The first bullet
cracked the base of Versace?s brain, fracturing
his skull and tearing the upper part of his
spinal cord and neck. Cunanan was so close to
his target that the bullet produced a stippling
effect ? a tattoo of burned gunpowder the size
of a half-dollar ? on Versace?s neck. The bullet
flew out of Versace?s neck and hit one of the
metal railings of the gate. The bullet then
broke apart, and flying metal particles hit
a mourning dove in the eye. The bird died
instantly and was found lying on its back in
front of the mansion.
After the first shot, Versace?s head turned
slightly, his eyes open. He received the second
bullet through the right side of his face next
to his nose. Shot from even closer range, that
bullet lodged in his head and cracked the
top of his skull. Versace immediately slumped
to the steps in a pool of blood. Colakovic
stood on the sidewalk frozen in horror ? she
had seen the whole thing from less than
30ft away. Cunanan, displaying utter sangfroid,
walked calmly away down Ocean Drive.
Colakovic remembered that he walked oddly,
like Donald Duck, with his feet turned out.
Almost instantly, the front door of Casa
Casuarina flew open. Antonio was the first
to reach Versace. ?No! No!? he cried. Lazaro
Quintana, who lived nearby and had come
over to play tennis with Antonio, saw
Colakovic in front of the house. ?What
happened?? he demanded. She simply
pointed to Cunanan, now halfway down
the block, going towards Twelfth Street.
Quintana gave pursuit.
Across the street and down from the
Casa Casuarina, Victor Montenegro, a city
employee who was fixing a parking meter
between Tenth and Eleventh, heard the
first gunshot. He looked up in time to see
Cunanan fire the second shot into Versace?s
face and then coolly walk away on Ocean
Drive. Montenegro radioed police and ran
towards Versace. Meanwhile, inside the
mansion, Charles Podesta, Versace?s cook,
called 911 at 8.44am. ?A man?s been shot.
Please, immediately, please!? Cops on bikes
showed up in two minutes to find Versace
sprawled on the steps. Hotel Astor employee
David Rodriguez was on his way to work
when he heard a shot and then, a few minutes
later, saw Versace?s body on the steps, with
people slowly gathering round. Versace?s
sandals were left behind, and his sunglasses
had tumbled down the steps. Rodriguez says,
?I looked all around for a camera; it seemed
so set up.? When he arrived at the Astor, he
told Laura Sheridan, the manager, ?They?re
shooting a movie at Versace?s house.? If the
scene itself seemed unreal, the aftermath
was even more so. n
Extracted from Vulgar Favours: the
Assassination of Gianni Versace by Maureen
Orth (BBC Books, �99). American Crime
Story: the Assassination of Gianni Versace
is on BBC TV in the spring
EVENT
Behind the scenes
of our investigative
journalism
Join us on Tuesday, February 20 for an evening with
The Times and The Sunday Times? investigative journalists.
Hear our expert panel share fascinating insights behind their
biggest scoops and learn what it takes to get to the truth in an
age of fake news.
A n e xc lu s i ve o p p o r t u n i t y fo r s u b s c r i b e r s
Book tickets today at mytimesplus.co.uk
This Times+ event is open to UK subscribers only. For full terms and conditions, visit mytimesplus.co.uk
Shop!
�0, 66 Degrees
North (66north.
com)
Edited by Hannah Rogers
1
2
3
4
5
6
WR AP UP
I N ST Y L E
1. �, thenorthface.co.uk. 2. �5, Chlo� x Sorel
(net-a-porter.com). 3. �0, ganni.com.
4. �0, ugg.com. 5. �9, penelopechilvers.com.
6. �, boden.co.uk.
7
10
8
9
11
12
�.99, zara.com
13
14
15
7. �375, Jimmy Choo (net-a-porter.com). 8. �5, belstaff.co.uk. 9. �5, woolrich.eu.
10. �, boden.co.uk. 11. �0, Sam Edelman (net-a-porter.com). 12. �1, stuartweitzman.com.
13. �5, & Other Stories (stories.com). 14. �5, The Original Muck Boot Company
(muckbootcompany.co.uk). 15. �2, boden.co.uk.
Shop!
23. �, Moon Boot (net-a-porter.
com). 24. �0, hellyhansen.com.
25. �, Moon Boot (net-a-porter.
com). 26. �5, hunterboots.com.
23
16
24
18
17
19
20
21
22
27
28
29
25
26
16. �.99, mango.com.
17. �7, belstaff.co.uk. 18. �.99,
mango.com. 19. From a selection,
mooseknucklescanada.com.
20. �5, parkalondon.com.
21. �8.40, boden.co.uk.
22. From a selection,
Mr & Mrs Italy (harrods.com).
31
30
32
?Opt for a bright down jacket or a khaki parka with fur hood?
33
27. �0, maje.com. 28. �075, Off White (harrods.com). 29. �9.99, hm.com. 30. �5, Prada (net-a-porter.com).
31. �0, ganni.com. 32. �5, & Other Stories (stories.com).
38
34
35
36
37
33. �, topshop.com. 34. �000, 66 Degrees North (66north.com).
35. �5, hunterboots.com. 36. �0, canadagoose.com. 37. �3, boden.co.uk.
38. �9, massimodutti.com.
How to get dressed
Hilary Rose
Let it snow, let it snow
STOCKIST: WOOLRICH.EU
S
omewhere in the Rose family vaults
is the worst picture of me ever taken.
There?s a lot of competition for that
accolade, not least the picture on this
page of me looking like a transvestite.
Anyway, this other picture was taken 20 years
ago, when I lived on Vancouver Island. I?m
in the middle of a forest, in the rain, poking a
discarded car engine with a stick and looking
disconsolate, as well I might. The reason
I remember it, though, is because it?s the
last time I had warm feet. I?m wearing these
hideous, wonderful, lace-up snow boots, which
I bought out there. They had a furry lining and
a thin, moulded rubber sole that covered the
whole foot. They were completely waterproof,
which is just the thing when your editor has
sent you out to write a story about ?y-tipping.
Sadly, they disappeared when I moved back
here and I?ve had cold feet in winter ever since,
a fact that obviously has nothing at all to do
with my preference for suede stilettos.
Anyway, it turns out that you can buy my
boots over here. They were by a Canadian
brand called Sorel, and were a cross between
the 1964 Pac style (�0; sorelfootwear.co.uk)
and the Caribou style, which is a bit sturdier
and furrier inside (�0). Another brand called
Hi-Tec has the St Moritz 200 WP II snow
boot (�; cotswoldoutdoor.com). Mountain
Warehouse has something similar up to the
knee (Snowbank style, �.99) and the Icey
style, reduced to �.99, which doesn?t look as
What we love
ACNE, �0
(acnestudios.com)
Boots, �5,
Woolrich
I last had warm feet 20 years
ago, on Vancouver Island, and it
was all thanks to my snow boots
sturdy as the more expensive options, but
that?s hardly surprising (mountainwarehouse.
co.uk). J.Crew?s ?The perfect winter boots?
will certainly keep you warm and dry because
they?ve got a thick sole and that moulded
rubber all over the foot, but the red tartan
lining might not be to everyone?s taste (�8;
jcrew.com). Gap has some pretty convincing
rain boots that are Chelsea boots made of
shiny black rubber, a sort of Chelsea boot/
welly hybrid (�.95; gap.co.uk).
Sportsdirect.co.uk is generally worth a look.
As I write it has some Nevica boots half-price
(from �.99), but be warned that the
spamming you?re letting yourself in for when
you buy from the site is off the charts. I know
this because I get my dirt-cheap swimming
costumes from there, but the trade-off is brutal:
I pay �99 for something gruesome in magenta,
on the grounds that nobody?s going to see me
in a swimming pool in Fulham at 6.30am. In
return, I get spammed 20 times a day.
Obviously, the ?Nobody?s going to see me?
line worked even better on Vancouver Island,
where on arrival I realised that the nearest
person I knew was 2,500 miles away in New
York. Before long, though, I?d found myself
a nice boyfriend, who was, almost literally,
the only man in town who didn?t work for the
local logging company. And having secured
the town?s sole eligible bachelor, I set about
living the high life, poking car engines in
rainforests with warm feet. Happy days. n
Beanie hats
HUNTER, �
(hunterboots.com)
JIGSAW, �
(jigsaw-online.com)
PRUE WHITE
ZARA, �99
(zara.com)
CAROLINE GARDNER, �
(carolinegardner.com)
TOPSHOP, �.99
(topshop.com)
The Times Magazine 59
SCANDI NOIR
How a designer from London transformed
a house on the shores of a Swedish lake
into a loft-style family home
REPORT Kate Jacobs PHOTOGRAPHS Adam Helbaoui
Home!
The motorcycle
room with portrait of
Iggy Pop. Below: Massimo
and Jessica Minale with
their son, Otis. Opposite:
the courtyard
Home!
A
s a Londoner living in Sweden,
Massimo Minale has introduced
plenty of familiar touches to the
house he built just outside Stockholm.
Not for him the traditional Scandi
vernacular of pale-wooded minimalism:
he prefers the more gritty urban style,
with its rough, industrial edges such as barefilament bulbs, black-framed Crittall windows
and stark, engineered metal staircases.
?Normally steel structures like this would
be hidden away, but I like to expose
all those functional nuts and bolts,? he says.
The same raw aesthetic can be seen in the
band-sawn English oak floors, ?which look as
if they?ve come straight out of the forest?, and
the leather-finish black granite used in the
kitchen. ?I wanted big, monolithic pieces that
seem to be rooted in the earth,? he says. It?s
as if an east London loft apartment has been
transported to the Stockholm suburbs.
Minale never expected to leave the
city he was born and raised in, but all that
changed when he fell in love with a Swedish
girl called Jessica, then working in television.
?Like all good Swedish girls, when the time
came to start a family, she wanted to move
back home,? he says.
The couple were visiting friends in the
suburb of M鋖arh鰆den when they spotted
a boxy little Fifties property with low ceilings,
cramped rooms and fiddly staircases being
sold at an open-house day. ?In truth, it was
the land that we fell for,? Minale explains.
?An acre of hillside rolling down to a beautiful
lake, complete with its own jetty.?
The plan was to demolish the house and
start again, but this was quickly shot down by
the planners. Undeterred, Minale moved on to
plan B, stripping the house back to a shell and
rebuilding it to his own vision. Vision is not
something he lacks, having trained as an
architect and worked for Richard Rogers and
Foster + Partners before setting up his own
interiors label, Buster + Punch, in 2012.
Surprisingly, this came about through
Minale?s passion for building his own custom
motorcycles ? his designs have been snapped
up by the likes of George Clooney, the late
Alexander McQueen and one of the Rolling
Stones. Customers who knew of Minale?s
background in architecture started asking
him to apply his elegant industrial style to
bespoke interior fittings for their homes.
?At that time, the interiors scene was
all about light, neutral looks, but I was
offering darker, solid metal products.
The living room with
exposed steel staircase
?In Sweden, everyone saunas
and swims together. Not a
weekend goes by when I?m
not naked with the neighbours?
The Times Magazine 63
ADVERTISEMENT FEATURE
5
fabulous
foodie
experiences
Top wine expert Olly Smith
will escort trips to Blandy?s
Vineyard on two cruises
to Madeira in 2018
Hungry for adventure
Whether you?re cruising to the glamorous hotspots of the Mediterranean
or around the dreamy islands of the Caribbean, every night on the ocean
is an occasion. And with P&O Cruises, the food is the star of the show
S
ail with P&O Cruises
and, as well as
amazing destinations,
you will discover
a world of fantastic dishes
and stunning ships offering
everything from elegant fine
dining to fresh-baked pizzas
by the pool and juicy steaks
and seafood.
P&O Cruises has enlisted the
culinary expertise of five Food
Heroes: well-known top chefs
who have curated delicious
dining adventures in the
restaurants on board. Where
else could you choose from
38 wines by the glass, all
hand-picked by wine expert
Olly Smith in The Glass House,
or feast on New England
lobster and beef Wellington
created by Marco Pierre White?
Twice Michelin-starred Atul
Kochhar blazes the trail in
Indian fine dining at on-board
restaurant Sindhu on six of the
fleet?s ships (don?t miss his
pan-fried sea bass with
coconut sauce), while master
p鈚issier Eric Lanlard has
created exquisite afternoon
teas on Arcadia, Britannia,
Azura and Ventura; a chance
to nibble delicacies such
as gruy鑢e eclairs. Or try his
fine p鈚isserie in The Market
Caf� on Britannia.
TV?s James Martin
masterminds The Cookery
Club on Britannia, where you
can learn the art of making
chocolate truffles using
ganache filling and the liqueur
of your choice, or discover
how to balance the subtle
flavours of Thai street food.
The great joy of cruising is
the freedom, and P&O Cruises
has thought of every detail
to create personal experiences.
Included in the price is Club
Dining, sitting at a regular
table in the main restaurant on
Sizzle
steaks on
hot rocks
as the
sun sets
Good taste:
Guests can
enjoy delicious
tapas-style
plates at
The Glass House
any of the ships. Freedom
Dining allows you to arrive
and eat when you like.
There is also the option to
eat in Select Dining venues
(charges apply). On Oceana?s
new cruises to Dubai and the
Arabian Gulf, dine at The
Beach House, where you can
sizzle steaks over hot rocks.
Eat en famille on the
family friendly ships on the
Mediterranean, the Canary
Islands and the Caribbean.
Or go casual with tapas-style
plates, such as tempura
prawns, in The Glass House,
washed down with Olly
Smith?s top wines. Then
there?s the extraordinary
gastronomic journey at The
Epicurean on Azura, Britannia
and Ventura. Here, Alaskan
snow crab, langoustine and
salmon caviar cocktail is
not to be missed. A taste of
the good life, indeed.
Forman?s London-cured
smoked salmon is now
featured on Britannia, Azura,
Ventura and Arcadia
The Glass House restaurants
on Britannia, Azura, Ventura
and Aurora offer the
artisanal cheeses of
Alex James Presents
Marco Pierre White is
sailing on six cruises in
2018, including Britannia?s
midsummer trip to the
Norwegian fjords
A G&T made with
P&O Cruises own delicious
Anderson?s Gin, is the perfect
aperitif from sip to shore
To book your next cruise,
visit pocruises.com
14-night Caribbean Transatlantic
fly-cruises start from just �9 per
person for an Outside cabin. Book
before March 5 and receive extra
on-board spending money on every
Select Price Outside cabin, Balcony
and Suite. Plus, pay a low deposit
of just 5 per cent on applicable
cruises of 35 nights and fewer*
* Based on A829 NF grade and is subject to availability. Fly-cruise price shown is inclusive of economy-class flight to/from London. Prices may vary for other departure airports. Book an applicable Select Price holiday and
receive additional on-board spending money to use during your cruise holiday. Amount varies by cabin and cruise duration. Applicable to new Select Price bookings made by March 5, 2018, on selected cabin grades on
applicable departures between January 2018 and October 2019. Select Price bookings of 35 nights and fewer made up to March 5, 2018, will benefit from a 5% low deposit. Offer is not applicable to Inside cabins.
Home!
Buster + Punch takes the ordinary but essential
parts of the home, things like switches,
lightbulbs and handles, and reinvents them,
injecting them with the desirability of
motorbikes, music and fashion.?
Minale?s bold, can-do spirit is writ large
on the family home, which he and Jessica
(who has since joined the business) now
share with their three-year-old son, Otis. The
house is set over three floors, with the family
bedrooms ? including a glorious master suite
? on the top floor, enjoying the best views
across the lake. The kitchen is on the upper
ground floor, along with a striking drive-in
glass motorbike room that houses three of
Massimo?s precious machines, displayed like
works of art. Then, on the lower ground floor
and opening on to the garden and lake are the
living room, guest bedrooms and spa. But it
doesn?t feel compartmentalised, with vertical
shafts breaking up the space and letting light
flood into every corner, such as the tranquil
inner courtyard next to the spa.
This sense of flow is helped by the copious
use of black steel-framed Crittall windows that
open up the house. ?They bring a feeling of
age to the building and zone the space, while
allowing the eye to travel on into the next
room,? explains Minale.
The simple, mostly monochrome palette
is inspired by traditional Swedish interiors,
which are often painted black from dado-rail
height down and white above. Although
his work takes him back to London a lot,
Minale misses his native city and likes
to surround himself with the work of young
London artists, such as Matt Small. ?It?s
important to have objects that make me
feel at home here.?
But for all that, he is happily settled
into life here in Sweden. There?s a growing
community of like-minded young families in
the neighbourhood and life revolves around
the lake, with swimming and water sports
through the summer months and, when the
lake freezes over in winter, skating and ice
hockey. They?re a sociable bunch and most
weekends see many families gathered at
the Minales?, with the two guest suites
invariably full of locals or visiting Londoners.
?Over here, people hang out in houses,
not restaurants,? Minale explains.
And this being Sweden, the spa room is
a focal point of these get-togethers.
?Guests from London are horrified when
they see the spa, with its hot tub and glazed
walls, but, in Sweden, everyone bathes, saunas
and swims together,? Minale says with a
wry laugh. ?Not a weekend goes by when
I?m not naked with the neighbours.? n
From top: the master
bedroom, with Matt
Small painting; the
kitchen; the open-plan
living space
Buster + Punch?s new showroom at 28 Cowper
Street, London EC2, opens in early 2018
(busterandpunch.com)
The Times Magazine 65
DISCOVER BOOK GO
Over 50 free guides to the world?s best cities
thetimes.co.uk/travel
Eating out
Giles Coren
?I wanted to be taken out, looked
after. So I rang the only person
you can in such a situation. I
called another restaurant critic?
SIMON JESSOP
Yen
I
t was a few days before new year
and I was feeling fragile, melancholy
and entirely without zip. I had a
last/first review of the year to bang
out but I didn?t feel like writing
and I didn?t feel like eating. In fact,
I felt fed up with the whole damned
thing. I just felt like being taken out
for a meal for once and properly looked
after. As I do for everyone else, all the
rest of the year. So I rang the only person
you can call in such a situation. I called
another restaurant critic.
?Tom,? I said. ?I need lunch somewhere
great, where I haven?t been, that I can
review. But somewhere that you know
is awesome.?
?Say no more,? said Tom. ?We?re going
to Yen. I?m obsessed with it at the moment.
It?s Japanese. Ostensibly a soba noodle
joint but top-class sushi. Honestly, it
is as good as Japan. Well, nearly as good
as Japan.?
That is why you call a restaurant critic.
Because restaurant critics know where
to go. And they know what to order.
And they don?t care about being paid for.
That?s why I love them. If it were possible,
I would never eat out with anyone who
isn?t a restaurant critic. But what with my
listlessness and general misery, I set off
The Times Magazine 67
EXCLUSIVE
OFFER
SAVE
�0pp
SEE THE STUNNING
NORWEGIAN FJORDS
Hurtigruten?s ships have plenty of windows to frame
the beautiful scenery and the food is exceptional:
fresh, imaginative and locally sourced.
SUE BRYANT - Cruise editor, The Sunday Times
O
n Hurtigruten?s unforgettable, 12-day
Classic Round Voyage you will
see all the highlights of Norway?s
spectacular coastline, from the Unescolisted port of Bergen to the ancient Viking
trading post of Trondheim, before you
cross the Arctic Circle and visit the
beautiful Lofoten Islands, the city of
Troms� and the North Cape, Europe?s
most northerly point. You can also choose
from more than 90 optional excursions**,
and take part in nature hikes and other
on-shore activities led by Hurtigruten?s
friendly, expert team. This amazing voyage
is available at a fantastic price. Don?t delay:
our exclusive �0 per person discount for
Times readers is only available on bookings
made before January 31, 2018.
REASONS TO BOOK
MAJESTIC SCENERY
Skirting dramatic mountains and fjords, you
will have ample time to admire the Norwegian
scenery and discover why the country is
consistently voted the world?s most beautiful.
HURTIGRUTEN SHIPS
The Hurtigruten ship you will sail on is more
than just a cruise ship. It is an integral part of
the community on the remote and unspoilt
Norwegian coastline, used and loved by locals
for 125 years.
FANTASTIC EXCURSIONS
There are dozens of optional excursions** you
can take during your voyage, from enjoying
a horseback ride on the beautiful Lofoten
Islands, to going on a sea eagle safari and
even tucking in to an authentic Viking feast.
PRICE INCLUDES
Offer available on all 12-day departures
between April 1 and June 30, 2018
Discount applies on bookings made before
January 31, 2018
11-night round-trip cruise from Bergen to
Kirkenes and returning to Bergen
l All meals on board
l All port taxes and fees
l English-speaking Tour Leader on board
l
12 DAYS FROM
�8* per person
TO BOOK CALL
020 3131 5395
CODE TEC01SAM
Exclusively with
thetimes.co.uk/fjords
TERMS AND CONDITIONS: *From price based on twin/double share, single supplement prices apply. Discount applies on bookings made before January 31, 2018. **Supplements apply for optional activities which have limited capacities.
Please call the booking number to find out more. Holidays are operated by Hurtigruten, 2nd Floor, Bedford House, 69-79 Fulham High Street, London, United Kingdom, SW6 3JW and subject to the booking conditions of Hurtigruten,
ATOL AND ABTA protected; a company wholly independent of News UK. Hurtigruten. ATOL: 3584. ABTA V7545. Photographs Shutterstock
Eating out Giles Coren
late and texted Tom from the cab to say I?d be
half an hour late, like people always do to me.
?No worries,? came the reply. ?I?ve got
a bottle of sak� and the paper. See you
whenever.? Which is exactly what I always
say to people who are late for me. It is another
thing that makes restaurant critics such
great companions.
I finally found Yen in a vast new office
complex on a dull little road running from
the Strand down to the river. The sort of
street that was once awash with footpads
and prostitutes, corpses and Bow Street
runners and simply blended into the
stinking marsh of the unembanked Thames,
but is now a network of glass boxes filled
with lawyers.
The restaurant was vast and bright and
many-windowed. Attempts to get in through
various doors were met by signs and arrows
and diversions upstairs and down flights
of external steps until I finally found the
door, passed the reception desk, descended
more stairs into the huge wooden room
and found Tom, huddled over his paper
and bottle in a corner, one of only three
(now four) humans in the room not in the
employ of Yen itself.
?I?m sorry. It?s usually much fuller than
this,? said Tom, because restaurant critics
always apologise for a lack of vibes, even
though there is nothing we can do about
it ? new restaurants just sometimes don?t
have them yet. ?Maybe it?s the weather
keeping them away.?
A friendly waitress brought me a menu
broken down into ?Bento?, ?Set Lunch?,
?Starter and Salad?, ?Tempura?, ?Main?,
?Soba (Buckwheat Noodle) Dishes?, ?Sushi
Rolls? and ?Assorted Chef Selection of Sushi
and Sashimi?.
I glanced up and down it, closed it, put
it on the table and said, ?Can you order for
us, Tom?? Because that is what people always
say to me. And he did. Yen is his gaff, he
has been here a few times, he knows what
is good and special and what is not. Why
would I waste my breath?
He asked me a couple of questions.
?Sashimi or sushi? They do the rice well,
nice and warm, slightly sour, not too much
of it.? So I said sushi. And then he said, ?The
o-toro is very good, so is the chu-toro ? do
you eat toro??
?I do,? I said. ?But I generally don?t write
about it. Same as with foie gras. Some people
don?t approve of it. And they may be right.?
The first thing they brought us was
the wrong tofu. It was meant to be the
homemade tofu and wakame (seaweed)
salad, but they brought the one with no
seaweed. The waitress said sorry, took it away,
came back, confirmed it was incorrect but
gave it to us anyway, for free, while we waited.
It was in a pretty blue bowl and Tom
immediately tipped into it a small bowl of
soy sauce and one of chopped scallions. The
mouthfuls were soft and cool, yielding up a
complex pattern of blandness (the bean curd
almost sweet in its quiet lack of flavour),
punched through with salt and gentle allium
that took me back years, all the way to ?
Tokyo, and the last time I ate tofu made
fresh every morning on site and served
neat. A wondrous start to a meal.
Then the curd came back, firmer,
sliced with three colours of seaweed and
a spume of fluffy white dressing. First class
Mouthfuls of tofu
were wondrous,
punched through with
salt and allium, taking
me back years, all the
way to ? Tokyo
again, but after the simplicity of the first
tofu, I half-resented the crunchy tendrils
of wakame.
Next, some tempura of courgette flower
and the stalks of the courgette flower.
Lighter and drier than most in London
but with a very faint hint of grease, very
faint, that was a letdown after the perfection
of the tofu. And then prawn tempura, almost
perfect again, but ever so slightly greasy.
Then brilliant sushi. Brilliant. Warm rice,
tightly balled, perfectly cooked, firm but not
grainy, with neatly trimmed fish, of the correct
size, superfresh and cool but not cold, not a
sinew in sight or in mouth.
Then the waitress came out to tell us the
kitchen was closing and did we want anything
else. We had eel to come and some soba
noodles, but the impending closure of what
I had now identified as a first-rate kitchen
induced panic.
?More sushi,? I said. ?All of these again
because they are so very, very good, plus
mackerel and ? Do you have any scallops?
Good, two scallop nigiri then. And I think the
wagyu, the sumiyaki not the houbayaki, and
that should do it.?
Tom meanwhile got in another bottle of
sak�, checking the mysterious red Japanese
lettering on the bottle presented to him by the
sommelier and saying, ?Yes, perfect,? as if he
had the remotest clue what it said.
So then came chargrilled eel with tare
sauce, the terrifying snakefish skinned and
split and boned and opened up like a steak,
brown and shiny with its glaze, deep and crisp
and rich on a bright green banana leaf on a
sleek round black plate. Then the wagyu, eight
small pieces for just shy of �, seared, laid
out on black lacquer and salted. They were
buttery and fat, uncomplicated. That?s what
you get with wagyu.
The soba noodles arrived cold in a little
basket, which Tom said was the point, and
I sat and waited for the duck that was meant
to come with them, but Tom said, no, that
would come later with hot noodles in soup.
What we were to do now was just to chew
the curly, cold noodles and admire their
stretchiness.
So I did. They were cold and stretchy. No
ostensible relation to pasta at all. Because Tom
said they were good, and that this place was
good, and because of the faint awfulness that
simply shrieked of authenticity, I accepted that
they were good and enjoyed them. One must
always be guided by restaurant critics in what
to like, and what not to like.
Then came two slices of pink duck breast
in hot soup with noodles that did what pink
meat always does in hot broth, which is to go
grey and become chewy.
And then they brought a kettle of the
water that had been used to cook the first,
cold, noodles and left it on the table. Tom
knew to pour it into a pot of soy they had also
left and to drink the resulting broth. And this
was wonderful again, excitingly bland like the
tofu at the beginning.
And as we sat there in the big bland
building, mulling over the good and bad bits
of our lives and eating platefuls of wonderfully
made, compellingly plain food with four (not
enormous) bottles of sak�, I began to realise
what it would be like to be a middle-aged
Japanese salaryman, a little bit slack about
the belly, miserable most of the time but
occasionally eating and drinking well.
It would be fine. n
Yen
5 Arundel Street, London WC2
(020 3915 6976; yen-london.co.uk)
Cooking 8
Service 8
Location 4
Score 6.67
Cost Tom and I spent about �0 ? twice
what you really need to.
The Times Magazine 69
INTERIORS
INTERIORS
INTERIORS
INTERIORS
Beta male
Robert Crampton
MARK HARRISON
?Notable people who
crossed my parents?
threshold included
Kinnock, Benn
? and Corbyn?
It?s probably got a bit too late in the year,
young as it is, to do resolutions, hasn?t it?
I should have done them last week. Schoolboy
error, that. Hey-ho, resolutions rarely amount
to anything anyway. If you?re planning a big
change, you shouldn?t have to rely on a mere
coincidence of the calendar to make it happen.
I never really rated midwinter as the best
time to move life along. This time of year,
any sensible person is keeping their head
down, hibernating, surviving, conserving
their energy, waiting for spring.
So I thought, it being my inclination in any
case, that I?d look back rather than forward and
review instead what I have learnt in the year
just ended. Which is, surely, a more instructive
exercise? Besides, journalism should be about
reporting what has happened, rather than
what may or may not happen in the future.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, nice try. The truth is, I
discovered precious little in 2017, about myself,
or others or life in general, that I didn?t know
already. I?m sorry if that sounds arrogant, but
at 53, having accumulated a degree of wisdom,
a certain amount of world-weary seen-it-allbefore scepticism must be allowed. It?s one of
the perks of getting older.
Geopolitically, for instance, 2017 confirmed
my view that we should keep an eye on China.
Who knew, eh? Remember where you heard it
last. They?re minted, the Chinese; there?s loads
of ?em; they?re building a blue-water navy;
they look like they?re ready to rumble. If
I lived in Japan or Taiwan, I?d be worried.
Unfinished business.
Gotta watch out for Russia, too. There
are fewer of them, but they?re nearer; they?re
useful in a barney, and Vlad strikes me as an
absolute five-star grade-A ruthless bastard.
Russian planes are regularly over-flying our
airspace: we can?t say we haven?t been warned.
It always pays to check what the French
might be up to as well.
Moving closer to home, or what used to
be home, prior to finally flogging the familial
ancestral pile in the summer, I made a list of
the notable people who had, over the previous
34 years, crossed its threshold. My parents
having the politics they did, the tally included
Barbara Castle, Ken Livingstone, Bruce Kent,
Alan Johnson, John Prescott, Roy Hattersley,
Tony Benn, Neil Kinnock ? and Jeremy
Corbyn. I?d rather any of them ? even Prezza,
even the dead ones, and yes, even Ken, for
goodness? sake ? were currently leading the
Labour Party than Corbyn.
Ah well. I know readers do not come to this
column for political enlightenment, and thus
I shall move swiftly on.
When we did the final clear-out in August,
a lovely chap called Paul, a man with a van who
works with my wife, very kindly drove up from
London to assist us in the necessary removals.
To my shame, I found myself boring the poor
guy rigid by way of elucidating the various
photographs we were removing from the walls.
?That young girl at the front,? I informed
Paul, referring to an Edwardian-era family
portrait, ?was my great aunt Adele. Lived to
a ripe old age, did Aunt Adele. Died in 1999.
Used to come to ours every Christmas for
many years before that.? ?Oh really?? Paul
observed politely (and, in general terms,
correctly). ?I suppose people did live a lot
longer than we sometimes think.?
True, I agreed. ?Except most of the younger
blokes in this picture were dead in the mud
within five years.?
Lots of bantz that day, incidentally, between
me, Paul and Sam. Paul (giving me a broad
wink) having told young Sam he was in charge
of loading up the van, we two older blokes
proceeded to give the poor lad the run-around.
We didn?t actually send the boy off in search
of a left-handed spanner or a bubble for the
spirit level, but we came close. ?Just remember,?
an understandably grumpy Sam later told us
after several hours of this treatment, ?the next
stop after Bantsville is Bullytown.?
A good point well made.
What else? Well, my daughter maintains a
low opinion of her father. Not long ago, she
caught me serenading Tiger, our cat. ?Is it true
you are a cat?? Rachel found me chanting, right
in the poor creature?s face. ?Doo-dah, doo-dah!?
Tiger remained impassive. ?You are so
unbelievably weird,? Rachel commented.
Going forward, as we modern-thinking
types like to say, I can barely get in my office
at home for the piles of parental stuff ? crap,
as Nicola prefers to describe it ? that I insisted
on bringing down to London from Hull at the
11th hour for purposes of sorting. I promised
my wife I?d have the whole lot filed ? stored,
dumped, basically dealt with ? by Christmas.
New year at the latest. A promise I have
signally failed to keep.
And yet ? I didn?t say which Christmas,
did I? Or which new year, come to that. I?ll
get round to it soon enough. n
robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk
� Times Newspapers Ltd, 2018. Published and licensed by Times Newspapers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF (020 7782 5000), printed by Prinovis Liverpool.
Editorial separations by News UK Repro Production. Not to be sold separately in the UK
der
segregation, dress and behaviour mean that
there are clear limits on how much the Haredi
can integrate with the wider community.
?We don?t socialise beyond a certain
extent,? explains Friedman. ?We won?t go to
the pub; we don?t go to the theatre or cinema;
we don?t have television in the home. We don?t
use the internet for entertainment; we have
rules for modesty, so places where that
wouldn?t be respected by others ? which is
modern society ? we would avoid those areas.
With the beach, we would try to find a quiet
corner, a place where there aren?t people who
don?t conform to our ideas of modesty. But
you are still friendly among your neighbours;
you live as good neighbours.?
It is a bright Sunday morning and
I have come to the Canvey Island Rugby
Club to watch around 100 young boys and
girls play rugby, watched by their parents
and grandparents.
Among them is Lorraine, who is 62
and has lived on Canvey Island since 1974.
She begins by telling me that the Jewish
community are ?very inoffensive. I have no
problems with them whatsoever.? It is only
when I ask whether she feels the Haredi will
integrate into the existing local community
that she admits her apprehensions. ?They are
going to set up a separate school here and that
in itself is saying, ?We are different.? When we
talk about integration, then it has to be both
ways,? she says. ?I do believe very strongly
they treat women as second-class citizens.
?YOU DON?T SEE
JEWISH TEENAGERS
CAUSING HAVOC
ON THEIR BIKES?
It is a different way of life and it will never
be something I agree with.?
Listening to her are Biff and Barry. Biff is
a stocky 66-year-old retired gas fitter with a
shaved head, heavily tattooed arms, a snowy
goatee and dark glasses, while Barry is the
deputy mayor of Canvey Island and has
lived there since 1963. ?My family did exactly
what they did,? says Barry. ?We moved out of
London because we couldn?t get a house, and
our parents came here to give us a better way
of life. All right, they?re being a bit insular
[he is referring to the Haredi], you know what
I mean, but they?re not causing any problems.?
I look at the field where the boys and girls
are playing rugby. I scan the parents. I can?t
see a single face that is not white.
?That?s not true ? we got an Ali,? says Biff.
?We got two Alis, as it happens, and I know
one of them is definitely a Muslim, because
when he turned up on his first day with his
bag I said, if you leave that I?m coming with
you, and he thought that was funny.?
Written down, that sounds possibly
offensive, but I don?t think there was any
malice behind it ? it was just an attempt at
a joke. As when Biff says, ?They make us out
to be racist, but we?re not racist on Canvey
? we hate everybody.?
There are 25 Haredi families living on
Canvey Island already and the sale of another
70 houses is currently between agreed and
completed. Joel Friedman tells me the ambition
was to have at least 100 Haredi families on
Canvey. ?Then we will be happy that we are a
proper community,? he says. ?And it means we
can open shops and get everything we need.?
That initial population of 100 families
will inevitably grow ? not least because
of the high birth rates among the Haredi
community. ?I don?t have a problem [with
the current size of the community], but
make that four times as many, I don?t know,?
Lorraine tells me. ?If it is done slowly then
it will be fine, but if it is done en masse,
people will feel threatened.?
?It?s the same as the Asians ? they outbreed
us. We have one or two or three kids and they
have five, six or seven kids,? Jean, a 51-yearold mother of three, adds. ?I wouldn?t be
surprised if they would love to take over
Castle View and make it a gated community.?
There was a recent report of schoolchildren
making Nazi salutes at the Haredi, but this
was an isolated incident. The more common
story, I hear from both sides, is that the
Haredi community has been largely welcomed
and accepted. The greatest fear for the
future, locals repeatedly tell me, is that
the ultra-Orthodox Jews will turn in on
themselves and that Canvey Island will
become a mini Stamford Hill.
It is a concern that is shared among those
in the Haredi community. ?I am worried
about how it will eventually end ? what the
reaction will be from the locals,? admits Noe.
?If someone is not very close to the Jewish
community, they look at us as a threat,
because they don?t know us: ?Are they going
to overtake us? What is going to happen?? ?
What will happen is not certain, but
regardless of how it ends, Friedman, Gross
and Noe know they are pioneers.
?This is the first time it has been done
in England,? says Friedman. ?That a Jewish
community has successfully set up in another
place.? If the Haredi can succeed in Canvey,
they plan to set up other communities in
surrounding areas.
?Canvey is not the answer, but it is part
of the answer,? says Friedman. ?I hope the
community don?t replicate Stamford Hill,
where we closed ourselves in.?
It is a hope echoed by the Canvey Island
locals and shared by Noe as he settles into
his new life in Essex: the hope that leaving
Stamford Hill for the promised land of Canvey
Island will mean not only a fresh start for his
family, but also a fresh start for his community
as it plans for the future while firmly holding
on to its past. n
Canvey ? the Promised Island, a documentary
directed by Riete Oord, will be broadcast on
BBC One on January 9
The Times Magazine 47
THE SERIAL KILLER
THE
KILLING OF
GIANNI
VERSACE
On July 15, 1997, the
flamboyant fashion designer
was shot dead on the steps of
his Miami Beach mansion.
His murderer? A serial killer
on the FBI?s Most Wanted list.
Writer Maureen Orth?s
explosive account revealed
how the police failed to track
him down. Now her book has
been made into a TV series,
with Pen閘ope Cruz playing
the woman who went on to
run her brother?s empire,
Donatella Versace
Gianni Versace, seated, at his home in 1988
with, from left, his brother-in-law, Paul Beck,
sister Donatella and brother, Santo. Photograph
by Evelyn Hofer. Opposite top: Andrew Cunanan
PREVIOUS SPREAD: GETTY IMAGES. THIS SPREAD: BBC, GETTY IMAGES, REX SHUTTERSTOCK, SPLASH
I
n July 1997, Gianni Versace, 50, was
one of the world?s most famous fashion
designers. His high-octane catwalk
shows were legendary. The Italian had
revolutionised fashion with his blend
of rock?n?roll and couture. Moves were
under way to float his eponymous label
on the US stock market, with the value
rumoured to be as much as $1.4 billion.
At the same time, Andrew Cunanan
was about to become the subject of one of
the largest manhunts in FBI history. Nine
days after he assassinated Versace outside
the latter?s home, Cunanan?s body was found
in a Miami Beach houseboat. Before the killer
gained worldwide notoriety, he had already
traversed a gay parallel universe ? travelling
from the seamy, drug-addled underbelly of
the demimonde to the privileged world of the
rich and the closeted.
Over the many months that I reported
Cunanan?s story, I tried to unravel the lies and
untangle the contradictions ? he did not yield
his secrets easily. He began life as a beautiful
child with an IQ of 147. His parents had an
unhappy marriage, and they counted on their
youngest child to save and validate them. The
gifted child was never able to form a coherent
adult personality.
Cunanan could fit in anywhere. He could
discourse about art and architecture, and he
was a walking encyclopaedia of labels and
status. No matter how much Cunanan got,
he always wanted more ? more drugs, kinkier
sex, better wine. Somehow he came to believe
that they were his due. And why not? He was
always the life of the party, the smartest boy
at the table. But at 27 he was also a narcissist
and practised pathological liar who created
alternative realities for himself and was clever
enough to pull off his deceptions. In the
superficial circles in which he travelled,
Cunanan made himself indispensable. Beneath
the charm, a sinister psychosis was brewing.
Drugs and illicit sex increasingly coarsened
his instincts. He had no profession to fall back
on. He had been seduced by a greedy, callous
world that proffered the superficial values of
youth, beauty, and money as the maximum
attainments of a happy life. In the end, Andrew
Cunanan, the product of a fanatically Catholic
mother and a just as fanatically materialistic
father, inflicted incalculable pain on others.
For years, Cunanan had been deeply
jealous and resentful of the rich and famous
Italian designer who ?came from nothing?
and who through ?hard work? had become
an international celebrity and gay icon.
Cunanan called Gianni Versace ?the worst
designer ever?, and once told a friend
that he was ?pretentious, pompous and
ostentatious?. Outwardly, Cunanan sought
to keep his rage in check, but inside he
seemed to be keeping a little list.
50 The Times Magazine
Versace in the US in 1990
FOR YEARS, THE
KILLER HAD BEEN
DEEPLY RESENTFUL
OF VERSACE?S LIFE
They were both southern Italians:
Versace was Calabrian, Cunanan was
half Sicilian. They both came from port
cities and deeply Catholic environments.
They both started out at roughly the same
economic place, although Versace did not have
the privileges of a top education. Yet here was
Versace with a family he was proud of, from
whom he never had to hide his gayness; a
loving, long-time partner; the riches of the
world at his feet. Versace?s life sounded a lot
like the one Cunanan had wished for when he
was a teenager.
By May 11, 1997, Cunanan had arrived
undetected in Miami, having covered 1,100 miles
in two days. He?d already murdered four men.
The Normandy Plaza Hotel was a few
miles north of South Beach. With its pictures
of Marilyn Monroe, who supposedly once
stayed there, and its peeling lino floor, the
Normandy Plaza was on the other side of
the moon from the paradise-on-steroids
that ?SoBe? had become to gay travellers,
but it was within walking distance of a
gay nudists? beach.
On May 12, three magazine articles
With, from left, Sting, Trudie Styler, Donatella and Elton John, 1992
of particular interest to Cunanan hit the
newsstands. Both Time and Newsweek featured
him as the suspect in four murders; Time
called him a ?gay socialite? and Newsweek
an ?upbeat party boy?. The third article
was in Vanity Fair, which Cunanan read
religiously every month. The June issue
carried an article by Cathy Horyn that
spotlighted Donatella Versace, the sister of
Gianni, and showed off their South Beach
villa, Casa Casuarina. It included a vignette
of a family picnic at another gay beach
across the street from the mansion, served
by staff who had to wheel everything over
in carts. For the Versaces, munching their
sandwiches for a reporter to observe, the idea
that such displays might make them a target
probably didn?t occur. They were merely
feeding the ever ravenous publicity beast.
South Beach was a riot of easy sleazy,
where dancing the night away amid hundreds
of tanned, undulating bodies was a standard
prelude to anonymous sex. On a typical
night at Warsaw, the first big gay nightclub
in South Beach, the scene was dominated
by buffed bodies that didn?t seem real; they
looked pumped up, airbrushed and retouched.
Woe to the also-rans in these places.
?Versace used to go out to clubs all the
time in the early days,? says Tom Austin,
an acute chronicler of the SoBe scene.
Dana Keith, a former Versace model,
explains the scene by saying, ?What is the vibe
of the room? What is the level of the drugs?
How many cute guys are there? It?s a pretty
mixed-up sense of priorities.?
Pen閘ope Cruz as Donatella in the new TV series
Versace?s residence, the Casa Casuarina
(named after the only tree on the property)
at 1116 Ocean Drive, stood as a testament to
another form of gay abandon. In 1992, Versace
bought the old Amsterdam Palace, a run-down
apartment building that had once been
a grand Mediterranean villa. It had been
constructed in 1930 to resemble the house
in the Dominican Republic of Christopher
Columbus?s son, Diego, for the grandson
of the treasurer of Standard Oil, Alden
Freeman. Versace paid $2.9 million for the
property, which came with its own copperdomed observatory, and then scandalised
the preservationists the following year by
paying $3.7 million for the decrepit Revere
Hotel next door and levelling it to build
a patio and pool. However, the natives
were impressed enough with their rich new
neighbour that Versace managed to win
over one of the leaders of the historicpreservation movement, who helped him run
interference at city hall. After Versace spent
more than $1 million on restoration and
another princely sum on furnishings, the
fabulous Casa Casuarina emerged ? a
20,000sq ft, 10-bedroom paean to pagan
excess that has been variously called ?a
flagrantly visible Xanadu?, ?a high-camp
tropical fever dream? and ?a palazzo in drag?
decorated in ?gay baroque?.
Versace preserved the busts of Christopher
Columbus, Pocahontas, Confucius and
Mussolini found in the courtyard; he covered
every available inch with Byzantine mosaics,
Moorish tiles, Versace fabrics, Medusa heads
Edgar Ramirez as Versace in the series
(his logo), Picassos and Dufys; he threw in
hand-painted ceilings and a few murals.
The garish blend of Versace high life and
sales appeared to spew out automatically, like
a personal 24-hour news service, or a neverending video fashion reel with a familiar cast
of characters: his younger sister, Donatella,
42, creative director of the company, the
alter-ego muse with the platinum shank
of hair out discoing night after night; her
American husband, Paul Beck, in charge of
Versace advertising, at home with their young
children, Allegra and Daniel; their brother,
Santo, the company?s CEO, a former
accountant who hovered in the background
and whose 1997 conviction for bribing tax
officials was overturned on appeal; Versace?s
long-standing companion, Antonio D?Amico;
the dressmaker mother and father, who
BENEATH CUNANAN?S
CHARM, A SINISTER
PSYCHOSIS WAS
BREWING
sold small kitchen appliances that gilded
the designer?s humble childhood in Reggio
di Calabria.
Gianni Versace paid for top photographers
to shoot pictures of him, his sister and his
clothes for fashion magazines. The reasoning?
If he was seen on the pages of the top glossies
hanging out with Elton or Sting, designing for
Elizabeth Hurley the famous black dress held
together with safety pins, aspiring nouveaux
around the world would snatch up anything
with the name Versace on it.
To someone as consumed with a similar
yearning as Cunanan, such a life would
be enraging. He would take umbrage at
Versace?s ostentatious materialism.
Hiding in his seedy hotel room, eating
takeaways and venturing forth only after dark,
Cunanan would have had plenty of time to
fume. From following Versace and reading
about his opulent lifestyle in South Beach,
Cunanan knew that given the right day, he
could probably reach out and touch him.
In the Vanity Fair article about life at Casa
Casuarina, he read, ?The Versace lifestyle
is almost mind-boggling in its grasp of the
consumption ethic. The message: absolute
freedom.? But everywhere Cunanan turned,
he was trapped.
?Cunanan was a hustler. I knew that from the
moment I saw him. He was on the take. I set
him up. He was very, very generous.? Ronnie
is a 43-year-old gay Normandy Plaza resident.
He saw Cunanan almost daily while the latter
was hiding out in Miami Beach. Ronnie knows
the street life around the hotel well. ?I would
always speak: ?Hey, how are you?? He finally
came up and said, ?Where can I get some
rock [crack]?? ?
Cunanan regularly bought crack from
Lyle, a dealer who sold him $10, $40 or
$100 rocks. ?He definitely liked his dope,?
Lyle says. Cunanan spent several hundred
dollars a week on crack, but nobody asked
any questions. For Lyle, ?Cunanan just blended
into the scenery. He was a loner.? Ronnie adds,
?For people who are straight, the gay world is
like any other. What the gay world is, is if you
take care of me, I?ll take care of you. In the
gay community, we don?t reveal.?
Cunanan slipped into a netherworld
of prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers
who frequented the neighbourhood ? the
underbelly of the glittery world of Versace
The Times Magazine 51
Feel alive
ADVERTISEMENT FEATURE
Why not go by bike to build up an
appetite? Jersey might only measure nine
miles by five, but the island is a paradise
for cyclists. Reduced speed limits and the
varied terrain, from challenging hill
climbs in the north to gentle, well-marked
sightseeing routes in the south, mean
there?s a safe trail to suit everyone, even if
you are rediscovering pedal power for the
first time in years. Bike hire is cheap and
easy, and you can make new friends while
seeing the sights if you join a cycling tour.
For an equally invigorating but more
unusual tour, take to the waves on a
guided jet-ski safari. Setting off from
the Jersey Sea Sport Centre?s base near
the village of St Aubin, your hour-long
tour mixes thrill and spills with a unique
view of the island?s coastline, taking in
hidden coves and bays. Everything is
included and all you need to bring along
is a sense of adventure.
Spectacular views and
fantastic food ? even a
short break to Jersey
will fire the senses
Dive into Jersey
From discovering romantic ruins to chasing the waves on the
ultimate jet-ski adventure, a trip to this Channel Island delight
is guaranteed to leave you feeling invigorated and revived
rom dawn to dusk, a day exploring
Jersey is guaranteed to deliver
spectacular views, delicious food
and uplifting experiences that will fire
the senses and blow your worries away.
Just a 40-minute flight from London,
this English-speaking haven is the
perfect weekend escape, with beautiful
beaches, mild weather and great
shopping, handily all in pounds rather
than euros. Stay longer and you?ll feel
inspired by how much there is to see and
do, from adventure sports to spa breaks
? and with France only a few miles
away, you can even find time to pop
across for a leisurely lunch.
WORDS: SAMM TAYLOR
F
Choose your accommodation wisely
and the excitement begins as soon as the
sun rises. Check into La Cr阾e Fort and
the waves crashing on Jersey?s rugged
north coastline will be nature?s alarm
clock. The fort, which sleeps five, dates
from 1830 and is positioned on a jutting
headland with life-affirming views from
its sheltered garden terrace.
Just a stone?s throw away, beautiful
Bonne Nuit Bay is the ideal breakfast,
lunch and dinner spot with a celebrated
beach caf� on the harbour?s slipway.
Here, your tastebuds will delight in the
locally caught seafood, while at night
there are Thai specialities to savour.
Channel your
inner happiness
From beaches
(St Aubin, above)
to cycling (below),
Jersey has something
for everyone
Alternatively, feel energised by diving
into the water at one of Jersey?s great
beaches. Relax and catch the rays on the
calm golden beaches in the south or
satisfy your curiosity by rock-pool hopping
on the clear pebble beaches in the north.
Perhaps you would rather challenge
yourself with a surfing lesson in St Ouen?s
Bay, while St Brelade?s Bay regularly
features in the UK?s best beach list and is
perfect for families. Or you could take a
trip back in time with a dip in the restored
Victorian lido at Havre Des Pas, minutes
from the centre of the capital St Helier.
Finally, finish your day with some fast
food with a difference. Visit Faulkner
Fisheries at St Ouen and you can pick up
everything you?ll need for a DIY beach
feast. A family owned business housed in
a Second World War bunker, you can pick
up top-quality fresh, smoked, frozen and
cooked seafood. Then, just head to the
beach for a picnic or a BBQ while enjoying
a legendary Jersey sunset and planning
your next day of island excitement.
For more information, go to
www.jersey.com/summerfeelings
AP, GETTY IMAGES
a few miles to the south. Cunanan would
contact Lyle on his beeper and often send
Ronnie to pick up the drugs at the McDonald?s
two blocks from the hotel. He also made a
daily habit of going across the street to a
liquor store and buying a pint of cheap vodka,
which he sometimes downed all at once in
front of the annoyed owner. When high, he?d
disappear into the bathroom.
?I knew what he was doing. He was hiding.
I didn?t know it was for killing people,? says
Ronnie. ?What happened was, I was sitting out
back one day. He walks by and I?m looking at
him, scoping him.
? ?You see something you like?? Cunanan
asked. ?Yeah,? I said. ?You?ve got a cute ass. I
could make some money off you. You hustle??
? ?I?ve done that before,? Cunanan said.
?I picked up the phone. That?s how
it got started.?
He told Ronnie his name was Andy. ?He
never said where he was from. I set him up
with a few old men, old rich guys around here.
They would use my room. I got money that
way.? According to Ronnie, Cunanan also
made his own pickups on the gay cruising
beach, which was five blocks away, or at the
hotel next door catering to German tourists.
?One day this guy he brought in had a Cartier
bracelet,? Ronnie says. ?When he left the
building, he didn?t have it on.?
According to Lyle, ?He was a male
prostitute, but he was also doing burglaries,
doing whatever he could to get money. He?d
stay in the hotel all day long and he?d go out
at night ? sneak out the back and go in the
back. Nobody knew his business.? The thefts
were mostly jewellery ? ?Stuff,? Lyle says, ?he
could fit into his backpack.?
Inside his small, dingy room, which he
rarely let the maids in to clean, Cunanan
surrounded himself with books detailing the
worlds he preferred to inhabit, and into which
he could further escape. By the dim light of
his shabby hideout he read mostly about the
famous rich. In addition he was reading about
the Arts and Crafts movement in John Updike?s
essays on art, Just Looking, and Kenneth
Clark?s The Romantic Rebellion, plus half a
dozen other books on art and architecture
and one on the artist Francis Bacon.
On July 7, it was nearly two weeks since
Cunanan had last visited Lyle. Cunanan
was getting desperate. He walked around the
block near the hotel to the Cash on the Beach
pawnshop owned by Vivian Olivia and showed
her a gold coin that he had stolen from Lee
Miglin, one of his previous victims. Olivia
weighed the gold and told him she?d give
him $190. Cunanan was upset. ?Why are you
paying me so little if I paid so much more for
it?? he whined. ?I explained to him how the
pawnshop worked,? Olivia recalls. ?So I asked
him for his ID, and he gave me his passport,
Mourners outside Versace?s Miami Beach mansion
A WAITER THOUGHT
HE RECOGNISED HIM
FROM AMERICA?S
MOST WANTED
Princess Diana and Elton John at a memorial, 1997
which said ?Andrew P. Cunanan?. I asked him
his address.? Cunanan answered, ?6979 Collins
Avenue, room 205.? Instead of his own room,
322, he had given Ronnie?s. Olivia remembers
that he had a two-day growth of beard. His
skin was pale and he was wearing a baseball
cap and round glasses. He signed the papers,
?Andrew Cunanan?.
As required by law, Olivia immediately
turned over the paperwork, including a copy
of Cunanan?s signed application stating he was
residing at the Normandy Plaza, to the Miami
Beach Police Department. There it languished.
When Cunanan?s time at the Normandy
Plaza was up in the second week of July, he
told Miriam Hernandez on the front desk that
he would be staying only three more days.
She didn?t see Cunanan on Friday, and
when she left she told her brother, Alberto,
the night clerk, ?322 is checking out.? Alberto
was to get the last night?s rent in the morning.
Friday night about 9pm, Cunanan went out
for his usual fast food. Kenny Benjamin, who
waited on him, thought he recognised him
from America?s Most Wanted and immediately
called the police. He told them there was a
guy in the shop who resembled someone he?d
seen on television, but he couldn?t remember
which programme or what the person?s name
was. He added, ?Man, this is no joke.?
?OK, where is he at now??
?He?s walking down the street, and he was
just in here ordering food, but I think he just
walked down the street now.?
?Is he a white male or a black male??
?You know the guy ? they profiled him on
America?s Most Wanted.? Kenny had told the
911 operator, ?It was the guy who killed his
homosexual lover and a couple of other
people, like, four people.? But there was no
indication the police had any idea who he
was talking about.
Unfortunately, Kenny himself was standing
in front of the store?s video camera, so all it
showed was him talking on the phone. Kenny
made the call at a busy time. Twenty-four
emergency calls were backed up. Nevertheless,
the police were at Miami Subs in minutes, but
by then Cunanan had disappeared.
On Friday night, Versace, Antonio and
a friend had a pizza at Bang, a restaurant
on Washington Avenue owned by an Italian
whom Versace liked. They were relaxed and
left early. Versace was still decompressing
from the autumn fashion shows he had staged
in Paris to rave reviews. A few blocks down
the street Cunanan was sighted at Twist,
a club where the FBI had previously been
tipped off to look for him. Cunanan danced
one dance with a hairdresser named Brad
from West Palm Beach, identifying himself
as Andy from California. On the dancefloor,
Brad said, Cunanan had his hands all over
him, grabbing and rubbing him. When
Brad asked him what he did for a living,
Cunanan blithely said, ?I?m a serial killer.?
He laughed and said to Brad that he was
really in investment banking. Then he
disappeared into the crowd.
That night Cunanan was dressed rather
preppily, in long trousers and a long-sleeved
shirt. Twist manager Frank Scottolini, three
bartenders and one of the regulars were
all convinced they saw Cunanan several
times over the weekend. Cunanan told one
bartender, Gary Mantos, that he lived in
S鉶 Paulo, Brazil, but that he was originally
The Times Magazine 53
from San Diego, California, and that Miami
reminded him of ?Los Angeles in the Eighties?.
He sat at the bar and talked to an older man.
?He didn?t know anybody,? says Mantos. ?He
was trying to act fabulous.?
Jimmy Nickerson, another bartender,
who also saw Cunanan on Friday from
his station on the second level near the
dancefloor, figured from the way Cunanan
was dressed that he?d order Chivas Regal.
Instead, Cunanan asked for a glass of water
and bummed a cigarette from Carlos Vidal,
a regular customer. To Nickerson, those were
telltale signs: ?He was acting like a hustler.?
Vidal is a news junkie. Not only had he
followed the Cunanan case in the media, but
he had also seen a poster of Cunanan in Scoop
magazine. Sitting right next to him, however,
he did not recognise him. He recalls only,
?The guy looked slightly familiar.? They
exchanged a few words. Cunanan said, ?I?m
down here on vacation.? Vidal also got the
pickup vibes. He joked to Michael Lewis, a
friend, ?I?m sorry for who he picks up tonight.?
?He made me uneasy,? Vidal says, ?because
I had [the serial-killer idea] in the back of my
mind.? Vidal got up and went downstairs to
the bathroom, where notices are posted, to
see if there was a poster of Cunanan. There
was not. On his way downstairs, Vidal
AFTER THE KILLING,
CUNANAN WALKED
CALMLY AWAY DOWN
OCEAN DRIVE
saw Cunanan go out. ?I thought there should
be a poster up,? he says. Frank Scottolini, the
manager, had never been contacted by the
authorities. ?To my knowledge the FBI never
contacted anyone in the bar,? Scottolini says,
despite the fact that the Bureau had been
told that Twist was a most likely hangout
for someone like Cunanan. Back upstairs at
the bar, Vidal recalls he laughed and said to
Lewis, ? ?That?s probably the serial killer.? I?d
seen him on network news. You say it, and
you don?t believe it?s real.?
Nevertheless, Vidal was uncomfortable
and decided to leave. On his way out around
midnight, he told Scottolini, standing at the
door, ?I think you had a serial killer in there.
That guy I saw was the serial killer.? Scottolini
had also seen Cunanan, but he didn?t pay any
attention. The next night Cunanan showed up
again, wearing a white baseball cap, glasses,
shorts and a backpack. The security camera
was on at the door and, as Cunanan walked
in and out quickly, Scottolini was on the
street talking to his assistant manager.
Scottolini recognised Cunanan and
remembered what Vidal had told him. He
was momentarily overwhelmed by a sickening
feeling in his stomach. He turned to some
friends, he remembers, and said, ? ?There
goes the gay serial killer.? Then I dismissed
it like it couldn?t be true.?
When Alberto, the night clerk, called
Cunanan at 10am on Saturday morning, he
said he?d be down in ten minutes to pay the
rent. At 10.30, Alberto realised that Cunanan
had skipped ? gone out the back gate, leaving
the key to 322 on the bureau. In the room,
Alberto found a box for hair clippers. Cunanan
had apparently shaved his head.
Sunday night, Versace went to see the
movie Contact with Antonio and a friend. He
stayed in Monday night, when Cunanan was
supposedly seen at Liquid, at the Fat Black
Pussycat party, pretending he lived in one of
the most luxurious buildings on the beach.
Tuesday morning, Cunanan was up bright
and early. So was Versace, who walked three
blocks south to the News Cafe and bought five
magazines. Dressed in his trademark grey and
black, Gianni Versace walked back to his villa
at about 8.40. Cunanan was across the street
wearing shorts and a black baseball cap pulled
down over his eyes. Carrying his backpack
on his right shoulder, he crossed quickly and
sidled past Mersiha Colakovic, who had just
dropped her daughter off at school. Then,
ignoring Colakovic, Cunanan walked rapidly
up the first few steps in front of Versace?s
mansion. Versace was bent over, fitting his
key into the lock of the black wrought-iron
gate. Colakovic, who had walked past the
two, glanced back to take another look at
Versace, whom she had recognised. Appearing
completely relaxed, he had smiled at her. Now
she became an eyewitness to his murder.
Versace lost consciousness instantly, his
brain dead, although his heart continued to
flutter and was kept beating by the paramedics
who rushed him to Jackson Memorial Hospital
in Miami. Cunanan had come up from behind,
holding a .40 calibre Taurus semiautomatic
belonging to his first victim, Jeff Trail. He
pointed the long barrel at Versace?s neck, right
behind his left ear and cheek. The first bullet
cracked the base of Versace?s brain, fracturing
his skull and tearing the upper part of his
spinal cord and neck. Cunanan was so close to
his target that the bullet produced a stippling
effect ? a tattoo of burned gunpowder the size
of a half-dollar ? on Versace?s neck. The bullet
flew out of Versace?s neck and hit one of the
metal railings of the gate. The bullet then
broke apart, and flying metal particles hit
a mourning dove in the eye. The bird died
instantly and was found lying on its back in
front of the mansion.
After the first shot, Versace?s head turned
slightly, his eyes open. He received the second
bullet through the right side of his face next
to his nose. Shot from even closer range, that
bullet lodged in his head and cracked the
top of his skull. Versace immediately slumped
to the steps in a pool of blood. Colakovic
stood on the sidewalk frozen in horror ? she
had seen the whole thing from less than
30ft away. Cunanan, displaying utter sangfroid,
walked calmly away down Ocean Drive.
Colakovic remembered that he walked oddly,
like Donald Duck, with his feet turned out.
Almost instantly, the front door of Casa
Casuarina flew open. Antonio was the first
to reach Versace. ?No! No!? he cried. Lazaro
Quintana, who lived nearby and had come
over to play tennis with Antonio, saw
Colakovic in front of the house. ?What
happened?? he demanded. She simply
pointed to Cunanan, now halfway down
the block, going towards Twelfth Street.
Quintana gave pursuit.
Across the street and down from the
Casa Casuarina, Victor Montenegro, a city
employee who was fixing a parking meter
between Tenth and Eleventh, heard the
first gunshot. He looked up in time to see
Cunanan fire the second shot into Versace?s
face and then coolly walk away on Ocean
Drive. Montenegro radioed police and ran
towards Versace. Meanwhile, inside the
mansion, Charles Podesta, Versace?s cook,
called 911 at 8.44am. ?A man?s been shot.
Please, immediately, please!? Cops on bikes
showed up in two minutes to find Versace
sprawled on the steps. Hotel Astor employee
David Rodriguez was on his way to work
when he heard a shot and then, a few minutes
later, saw Versace?s body on the steps, with
people slowly gathering round. Versace?s
sandals were left behind, and his sunglasses
had tumbled down the steps. Rodriguez says,
?I looked all around for a camera; it seemed
so set up.? When he arrived at the Astor, he
told Laura Sheridan, the manager, ?They?re
shooting a movie at Versace?s house.? If the
scene itself seemed unreal, the aftermath
was even more so. n
Extracted from Vulgar Favours: the
Assassination of Gianni Versace by Maureen
Orth (BBC Books, �99). American Crime
Story: the Assassination of Gianni Versace
is on BBC TV in the spring
EVENT
Behind the scenes
of our investigative
journalism
Join us on Tuesday, February 20 for an evening with
The Times and The Sunday Times? investigative journalists.
Hear our expert panel share fascinating insights behind their
biggest scoops and learn what it takes to get to the truth in an
age of fake news.
A n e xc lu s i ve o p p o r t u n i t y fo r s u b s c r i b e r s
Book tickets today at mytimesplus.co.uk
This Times+ event is open to UK subscribers only. For full terms and conditions, visit mytimesplus.co.uk
Shop!
�0, 66 Degrees
North (66north.
com)
Edited by Hannah Rogers
1
2
3
4
5
6
WR AP UP
I N ST Y L E
1. �, thenorthface.co.uk. 2. �5, Chlo� x Sorel
(net-a-porter.com). 3. �0, ganni.com.
4. �0, ugg.com. 5. �9, penelopechilvers.com.
6. �, boden.co.uk.
7
10
8
9
11
12
�.99, zara.com
13
14
15
7. �375, Jimmy Choo (net-a-porter.com). 8. �5, belstaff.co.uk. 9. �5, woolrich.eu.
10. �, boden.co.uk. 11. �0, Sam Edelman (net-a-porter.com). 12. �1, stuartweitzman.com.
13. �5, & Other Stories (stories.com). 14. �5, The Original Muck Boot Company
(muckbootcompany.co.uk). 15. �2, boden.co.uk.
Shop!
23. �, Moon Boot (net-a-porter.
com). 24. �0, hellyhansen.com.
25. �, Moon Boot (net-a-porter.
com). 26. �5, hunterboots.com.
23
16
24
18
17
19
20
21
22
27
28
29
25
26
16. �.99, mango.com.
17. �7, belstaff.co.uk. 18. �.99,
mango.com. 19. From a selection,
mooseknucklescanada.com.
20. �5, parkalondon.com.
21. �8.40, boden.co.uk.
22. From a selection,
Mr & Mrs Italy (harrods.com).
31
30
32
?Opt for a bright down jacket or a khaki parka with fur hood?
33
27. �0, maje.com. 28. �075, Off White (harrods.com). 29. �9.99, hm.com. 30. �5, Prada (net-a-porter.com).
31. �0, ganni.com. 32. �5, & Other Stories (stories.com).
38
34
35
36
37
33. �, topshop.com. 34. �000, 66 Degrees North (66north.com).
35. �5, hunterboots.com. 36. �0, canadagoose.com. 37. �3, boden.co.uk.
38. �9, massimodutti.com.
How to get dressed
Hilary Rose
Let it snow, let it snow
STOCKIST: WOOLRICH.EU
S
omewhere in the Rose family vaults
is the worst picture of me ever taken.
There?s a lot of competition for that
accolade, not least the picture on this
page of me looking like a transvestite.
Anyway, this other picture was taken 20 years
ago, when I lived on Vancouver Island. I?m
in the middle of a forest, in the rain, poking a
discarded car engine with a stick and looking
disconsolate, as well I might. The reason
I remember it, though, is because it?s the
last time I had warm feet. I?m wearing these
hideous, wonderful, lace-up snow boots, which
I bought out there. They had a furry lining and
a thin, moulded rubber sole that covered the
whole foot. They were completely waterproof,
which is just the thing when your editor has
sent you out to write a story about ?y-tipping.
Sadly, they disappeared when I moved back
here and I?ve had cold feet in winter ever since,
a fact that obviously has nothing at
Документ
Категория
Журналы и газеты
Просмотров
0
Размер файла
25 217 Кб
Теги
The Times, journal
1/--страниц
Пожаловаться на содержимое документа