Speaking for Myself (32 page)

The plan had been for Tony and me to go away on our own — a week in the Seychelles — just after Boxing Day, the British holiday celebrated the day after Christmas. Everything was organized. My mum would look after the kids, and then Ros would take over for the last few days. It didn’t happen. In the end I couldn’t bear the thought of being without them, so we all went: Tony and me, my mum, and three extremely lucky kids. We had a wonderful time, despite the fact that the press had a field day when it discovered that twenty years earlier, the villa we were staying in had been used as a location for the infamous soft-porn movie
Emmanuelle
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In January 1998 the Monica Lewinsky scandal finally broke, and my heart bled for Hillary Clinton, coming on top, as it did, of the Paula Jones sexual harassment suit. Inevitably I thought back to all those young interns and our guided tour of the West Wing by the President himself, of the Oval Office and the little room off it with the photocopier. My reaction was basically
Oh, Bill, how could you?

From the young woman’s point of view, I can quite see how it happened. Bill Clinton is a tremendously charismatic man, who is able to mesmerize almost everybody he meets and make them feel that he is totally interested in them and what they are saying, which is clearly not always the case. As for him, I thought he was bloody stupid.

Just a few weeks later, we were due in Washington for Tony’s first formal visit as head of government. If I had been impressed by Hillary before, I was doubly impressed by her now. Dignity is not the word.

Yet I could see for myself how angry she was with him, not just for humiliating her, but for jeopardizing their joint project, and I could also see how desperately he was trying to win back her approval. The shining light in all this was Chelsea. She is a fantastic young woman, incredibly sensible, intelligent, and talented, and very much her own person, with her feet firmly on the ground. I think that says something about the parenting they’ve both given her. In many ways she reminds me of Tony’s brother, Bill, one of those people who was always grown-up, even when he was a boy. Chelsea is terribly reliable, and you know exactly where you are with her. During this time she was a very important link between her parents. I think the fact that Chelsea was both supportive of her mum, understanding how she was feeling, and yet able to forgive her dad was a very important part of why they stayed together.

People have wondered whether Tony or I felt ourselves placed in a difficult situation with them, given our Christian beliefs. The same thing had been asked a few months earlier when Robin Cook, Tony’s Foreign Secretary, was outed by the press as being involved in an extramarital affair. The answer in both cases is no. Obviously we both believe in marriage. Once that ring is on your finger and the promises are made before God, you should be faithful. But how people conduct their lives is ultimately their own business, and as far as Bill Clinton is concerned, a British Prime Minister is never going to undermine an American President. As for me, I was never even tempted to raise the subject with him — nothing to do with him being President of the United States. It wasn’t me he had betrayed, and with my father’s track record, I am not unused to men’s infidelity.

I did, however, discuss it with Hillary. In her view, the way the right wing relentlessly pursued the affair was all part of a wider attempt by their enemies to discredit Bill. The most important aspect, she said, was not to let it undermine the presidency. So on a political, strategic level, that was the line they took. On a personal level, however, there was no doubt that she was furious and hurt.

The idea that men just can’t help behaving like that is nonsense. It’s a myth that actually leads to a lot of mischief in the world. It’s why women are stuck behind burkas. I don’t for a second believe that men are inflamed by the slightest glimpse of an available body. Uncontrollable sexual urges are nothing of the sort. Of course men can control them, just as women can. What I find particularly worrying is that so often these situations involve the powerful boss and the vulnerable young woman.

When Tony was still Leader of the Opposition, I was approached in chambers for help by Catherine Laylle. Her children, ages seven and nine, had been abducted by their German father, and in a breach of all the conventions, the German courts had done nothing to help her get them back. Sadly, I could do little for her at the time. Later she sent me a book she had written about her experiences. And imagine my surprise when, in 1998, I met the newly appointed British Ambassador to the United States, Christopher Meyer, and his wife in Washington.

“You probably don’t remember me,” she said. It was Catherine. She was determined to ensure that other parents did not suffer as she was, and she asked Hillary and me to be among the first patrons of Parents and Children Together (PACT), the charity she was setting up to deal with the tragedy of abducted children. That afternoon we both spoke at PACT’s inaugural reception. For a woman under extraordinary emotional pressure, Hillary coped magnificently. I could only thank her for being such a wonderful role model, both for career women in general and for me in particular. Thanks to her example, I was getting better at making off-the-cuff speeches. In America this was expected of the First Lady, whereas Number 10 was still coming to grips with the fact that I could walk and talk. The system was simply not geared to a Prime Minister’s spouse who wanted to be involved. As for Catherine Meyer, her story eventually had a happy ending, although it would be nearly ten years before she saw her boys again.

That night an official banquet was held in our honor. It was one of those times when you are skin-tinglingly aware that what is happening is extraordinary. There we were, lined up beside the President and First Lady, shaking hands with some of America’s finest entertainers, including Barbra Streisand, Robert Redford, Harrison Ford, and Steven Spielberg. The dinner was followed by a full-length concert, in which Elton John and Stevie Wonder performed, although Stevie’s version of “My Cherie Amour” couldn’t match the classic Tony Blair rendition. Sitting there, with the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes both very much in evidence, I experienced a feeling of awe.

That trip was the first time André was acknowledged as a semiofficial member of our party, in that his name appeared on schedule lists as “A. Suard, Personal Assistant to Mrs. Blair.” Even so, he was always treated differently from the rest of the group, and that still makes me angry.

What triggered the change in attitude was our first trip to Japan a few days into the new year. I had insisted on his coming along. Alastair could stamp his feet as much as he wanted; I was not going to turn up looking anything less than my best. And it wasn’t only that. There was the constant packing and unpacking, not to mention the sheer organization required to keep us looking up to the mark. We were representing the country after all. André was more than happy to do it, and God knows we needed him.

The NATO summits and other bilateral visits Tony had made without me in the previous six months had been personally chaotic. He was traveling more than any Prime Minister had before — everyone wanted to meet Britain’s new, dynamic leader, and his schedule was ridiculous — yet he was operating in a twentieth-century world with nineteenth-century backup. When the bags weren’t outside his door at the appropriate time, the garden girls would end up throwing whatever they could find into his suitcases. It wasn’t their fault — that wasn’t their job — but things were disappearing at an alarming rate: watches, cuff links, socks, the odd shoe, shirts, and trousers. At the next stop on the itinerary, it would all need pressing, and crucial things couldn’t be found. Gradually it dawned on them that having André around wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

After years of being reasonably laid-back when it came to the Blairs and travel, these visits were unbelievably concentrated. You might leave Heathrow in the winter, then land in glaring sunshine with temperatures in the nineties, yet be forbidden to wear sunglasses or even blink. The clothes you had left in were stashed away in suit carriers before you landed, while those you would arrive in were ready to put on, crease-free and appropriate for both the temperature and the welcoming committee.

There were so many things that needed to be thought of when traveling — jet lag, getting up in the middle of the night, preparing in advance what you were going to wear coming down the steps onto the tarmac when all you could think of was throwing off the previous night’s outfit and crashing into bed before a dawn flight to the next destination. André took care of everything. In the morning he would come in and wake us up, then run the bath.

“Just five minutes more, André . . .”

“No. Get up. If you don’t, I’ll open the curtains.” The ultimate cruelty. Somehow he’d always manage to find a fresh lemon for my morning hot water. (I don’t drink tea.) Ordering such a basic thing from room service was more or less impossible, and I rarely succeeded.

Also, Tony was used to André. After all, he’d been part of our lives since 1994. Tony could write his speeches — as he often did on those trips — sitting in his underpants, and if André was around, it didn’t matter. But if an unknown chambermaid or hairdresser walked in, he’d freeze. In those early days, things were so disorganized. We couldn’t guarantee we’d get a separate sitting room, so Tony would be having a meeting while I’d need to get dressed. (Much as I love my country, I draw the line at displaying my fleshier parts to senior members of the Foreign Office.) I’d just end up grabbing my clothes and going along to André’s room.

He was also good company. The second night in Tokyo, as Tony was at a men-only function, André and I joined some of the other nonparticipants from the office and went to a noodle bar. I loved it, particularly the warm drink that came in a small bottle, which I didn’t realize you were supposed to share. Tony’s staff members were far better traveled than I was and later admitted that they didn’t know how to tell me that sake wasn’t just a Japanese version of tea, even though it did come in little cups.

By the time I got back to our room, I was feeling very happy indeed, having laughed and sung my way through the second half of the evening. My poor husband was not impressed — largely, I suspect, because he’d had an extremely dull dinner himself.

I was beginning to realize that I didn’t have to be simply an appendage on these trips, that I could play a role that would be of real benefit. It didn’t happen overnight. It’s fair to say, however, that the Foreign Office proved much more open to my having a public role than did Civil Service, perhaps because ambassadors’ wives have always had a public role, whereas wives of UK-based civil servants remain largely anonymous. Although our embassies abroad often found that I was useful, once back in Blighty, I was surplus baggage.

From the moment Tony arrived in Downing Street, Northern Ireland was a priority. Within six months of Mo Mowlam beginning talks with Sinn Féin, Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness were in and out of Number 10.

The children made full use of the “secret staircase” that led directly from the Number 11 flat to the Downing Street garden. Once, I had brought Euan and Nicholas skateboards from a trip to Washington, and they were trying out their skills one day after school when I had an irate phone call from Alastair.

“Get those kids out of the garden,” he said.

“Whatever for? They’re just having a bit of fun.”

“Well, take a look out the window, then get them out before the press gets wind of it.”

So I did. And there, to my astonishment, were Gerry and Martin on the skateboards, showing the boys a few tricks.

A few weeks later, I happened to be taking Ralph Lauren around, and as we came into the White Room, there were Gerry and Martin. Naturally I introduced them to my visitor and was intrigued when Gerry began talking rather knowledgeably about clothes. Nothing daunted, I carried on with my tour patter.

“This room has a very famous ceiling,” I continued. “Each corner has an emblem representing part of the United Kingdom.” And one by one I pointed them out. “The rose is for England, the daffodil for Wales, the thistle for Scotland —”

“And I think the last one,” Gerry butted in, “is about to fall off!” This was the flax, the emblem of Northern Ireland.

“No, no,” I said, smiling. “It’s the symbol of friendship between our people.” Then I whisked Ralph away before I did permanent damage to the peace process.

Easter 1998 was crunch time in regard to Northern Ireland. Tony was still in Belfast when the children and I set off on our planned Easter break to Spain. First we had an official visit with the Spanish premier, José María Aznar, and his wife, then we were on to Cordoba to stay with our friend Paco Peña, the Spanish flamenco guitarist, and his wife, Karin, whom we had got to know through Derry many years before.

We arrived at the Spanish Premier’s official country residence outside Seville on Wednesday. Located within the boundaries of the Doñana, a national nature reserve and World Heritage site, it’s right by the Mediterranean, utterly wild and with fabulous dunes. The whole area was closed to the public, so the kids and I were able to spend time there feeling unfettered. We were supposed to be staying only one night, but the talks at Hillsborough Castle, the official government residence in Northern Ireland, were still going on, and Tony was determined not to let this chance slip through his fingers. He felt that if he were to leave, the whole thing might fall apart. Thursday came and went, then Friday. The whole world seemed to be teetering on a knife-edge. The Aznars were very understanding; there was no question of our having to move on, they said. Children are a wonderful bridge at times like this, and as the Aznars’ children were similar in age to ours, everyone was getting on fine, including my mother, who had come with us. Then, with a huge sense of relief all around, came what became known as the Good Friday Agreement, a major step forward in the journey toward a lasting peace in Northern Ireland.