Speaking for Myself (47 page)

This time, at least, there was a positive focus: the job of President of the European Commission needed to be filled by June. Tony had always been fired up by the idea of a united Europe, and we started to talk about whether he should throw his hat in the ring. I even went so far as to look up schooling possibilities for Leo on the Internet. In the end, however, Tony decided to throw his weight behind the candidacy of José Manuel Barroso, the Prime Minister of Portugal, whom he admired, who shared his views on the future of Europe, and who was an ally of the United States.

There had been a point, around the time of the debate on Iraq in March 2003, where Tony felt that he might actually get pushed out. With the Tories supporting the invasion, he never believed that the vote would go against him, but had there been a major Labour revolt, he would have had to resign. The idea of our being cast out in the wilderness with nowhere to live was terrifying to me, and I knew that, somehow or another, we had to buy a place in London. This time Tony agreed. My recent history with property buying being so dire, Tony decided to ask our friend Martha Greene to help.

I first met Martha in 2001 through Carole, at the gym. Then in 2002 she developed breast cancer, and we became closer as a result. Martha is an American, an expatriate who came to London when she was young and never left. When I first met her, she was running a restaurant called Villandry, which she had turned around. She catered for our twenty-first wedding anniversary, and she would also bring in supper for Tony when I wasn’t there. As a result, she became a family friend. Tony and I put great trust in her ability with all things culinary and financial.

Where to start looking for a new house presented a bit of a conundrum. Tony had no wish to stay in Westminster, while I was determined that Leo wouldn’t change schools. I also needed to be within hitting distance of chambers, and Tony wanted to be near the Heathrow Express to the airport. Connaught Square, north of Hyde Park, fulfilled all the criteria except one: price. Although it didn’t have a garden, it looked out on one, and by now we knew that for security reasons, Tony would never be able to use it anyway.

The purchase of a house of this size and price represented a major leap of faith. Yet we had to have something. If we had to move out suddenly from Number 10, we needed somewhere to go. I had to work, as did Tony. Three years on from 9/11, we were only too aware of the security implications of wherever we lived once Tony stepped down. The usual rules about cutting your coat according to your cloth, drummed into me by my grandma, didn’t apply.

To raise this kind of money, Martha put together a business plan. In the long term Tony had “prospects.” In the short term we still had to meet mortgage payments. The rent we could obtain would not cover the whole mortgage. We also realized, again for security reasons, that at some point we would have to buy the carriage house behind the original house. As Tony’s income was fixed, somehow I would have to increase my earnings dramatically to cover the balance, hence a series of speaking engagements, which Martha arranged through her contacts in America.

Public speaking seemed an ideal way of doing something I felt passionate about while at the same time resolving a pressing financial situation. As a barrister, I am no stranger to making speeches, and I particularly enjoy discussing women’s rights. In America I would speak on these issues and other legal matters at conferences.

Although I still refute the idea that I had no right to be paid for these speaking engagements, they proved disastrous from a PR point of view, particularly the series I did in Australia. I was just one “item” on a road-show agenda that included dinner, entertainment, and an auction. For this I received a set fee, as did the four other “performers” on the program. The road show went to several cities, the idea being to raise money for the Children’s Cancer Institute of Australia, which in the end it did. The tour was far from the disaster the British press made it out to be, and in fact it exceeded expectations. Altogether the profits from the tour of Australia and New Zealand were £350,000, the most money the charity had ever raised. But though being paid a fee to speak at a charity event may be standard practice in the charity world, it was a painful lesson that “standard practice” did not apply to me.

There was no doubt that in April 2004, with Gordon rattling the keys above his head, Tony suffered a crisis of confidence as to whether he was still an asset to the Labour Party. I remained determined that he not resign, that he fight the next election and win, and in this I was helped hugely by our closest friends in the Cabinet. It wasn’t just for the sake of his reputation that he should stay on, but for the sake of the New Labour agenda — most important, for public services. As before, when he had failed to win a seat or when he was uncertain about whether he would win the leadership, I reminded him that he needed to “pick himself up, dust himself off, and start all over again.” Among many others, I was convinced that if Tony failed to stand for a third term, it would be seen as a response to the negative criticism of the war. It would be read by history as a tacit admission of failure. There was a certain type of intelligentsia who would never forgive him for Iraq, even if he were to flagellate himself in front of them, who would just say, “I told you so. We should never have trusted him.” I always felt strongly that he should not apologize for something he believed to be right. He could regret the lives lost in Iraq, but he should not apologize for taking the right decision for the country.

In an interview with Andrew Marr, the BBC’s political editor, on the last night of the Labour Party Conference, Tony said that if he were elected, he would serve a full third term but would not serve a fourth. He also explained that he had a heart flutter and that he would be having surgery the next day. At the same time, Downing Street announced that we had bought a house in Connaught Square.

That Friday evening, after conference ended, we made our way back to Hammersmith Hospital. I stayed beside Tony until he grew woozy, then returned to the room he would occupy after the operation. I went down on my knees with my rosary, and I didn’t stop praying until the garden girl came up to tell me that all was well.

Without support from the government, the London bid for the 2012 Olympic Games could never have reached the starting line, let alone the finish line. And although my husband is not as keen on athletics as I am, he was very much in favor from the beginning, reflecting not only on what it would mean to London and Londoners but also on the impact it would have on young people, on sports in general, and on the country’s own self-image. And then there was what is known as the “legacy,” not only for London’s East End (where much of the necessary construction would be done) but for the country as a whole. As a showcase, it’s hard to imagine anything more globally visible.

For some years Silvio Berlusconi, the controversial Italian Prime Minister, had been inviting us to stay as his personal guests. As Italy was a key player in the International Olympic Committee (IOC), Tony felt that if he played his cards right, there was a good chance we could get its three votes for London. So he had agreed to an overnight visit at Berlusconi’s summer villa on Sardinia. Downing Street was naturally horrified, fearing bad publicity, but Tony was insistent. Berlusconi had stood with us on Iraq, one of the “coalition of the willing,” and if visiting him could get us the Italian IOC votes, Tony would do it, he said, and “bugger the opprobrium.”

Silvio Berlusconi never does anything by halves, and the yacht that awaited us in the harbor at Olbia put the royal yacht in the shade. And there was Silvio, on board waiting for us. Suddenly I felt Tony tense beside me, and no wonder: our host was wearing what looked like a pirate outfit, complete with a multicolored bandanna around his head.

“Oh, my God,” he muttered, as we made our way across the gangplank. “The office is going to have a fit.”

He was right. It had “foolish photograph” written all over it.

“Whatever happens,” I said, “I’ll make sure he stands next to me.” I sighed. Not only did I have to give up time with my children to go on this trip, but I also had to make myself look ridiculous. “At least,” I said, “the boat isn’t exactly public, and nobody knows you’re coming.” Famous last words.

“Now I am going to show you something of the island,” Silvio announced as we swooshed out of the harbor. This wasn’t going to be a beaches-and-headlands cruise, we realized, as the boat raced into a thriving port. “Please excuse me for a moment,” our host said. “I must just go below and change.”

Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Common sense had prevailed. But when Silvio reemerged minutes later, the only difference was that the bandanna was now white to match the rest of his outfit.

The docks were crammed. No way was this going to remain a private visit. There was no possibility that Tony could entirely escape the cameras, but I did as promised, and a casual observer would have assumed I was besotted with our Italian host, as I never left his side.

The port was extremely well-to-do. Rather than ship chandlers, however, the predominant shops were luxury boutiques, into one of which we were propelled. Silvio wanted to buy me some jewelry, he said.

“It’s very kind,” I protested, “but I can’t accept. It’s not allowed. I won’t be able to keep it.”

“What you mean you can’t keep it! This is not from my government; it is from me. A personal gift of friendship, Cherie.”

“I’m really sorry, Silvio, but I can’t.”

“Nonsense. Here. What about this?” He held up a really expensive piece of jewelry. I realized it would have been insulting to keep saying no, so I desperately started looking for something cheap while trying to explain that if he gave me anything over £140, it would go straight into the Downing Street vault.

“Well, this is lovely,” I said, pointing at an insubstantial-looking piece of gold wirework.

“No, no, no,” Berlusconi protested. “This one is so much nicer. Trust Silvio.”

“Honestly, this is much more me.”

He clearly thought I was a madwoman.

Villa Certosa is as extraordinary as its larger-than-life owner. On our initial tour, we were serenaded by Silvio’s personal guitarist-troubadour, and every so often Berlusconi himself would break into song. Many of the tunes, it turned out, he had written. Dinner also came with musical accompaniment, the grand piano being on a raft moored in the middle of a vast lagoon. I had never met Silvio’s wife, Veronica Lario, before. She generally kept a low profile, and Villa Certosa was very much her husband’s project, she said. Their house in Milan was more her domain.

After the meal we had
limoncello
from Berlusconi’s own lemon groves, before once again music appeared on the menu. “Do you play, Tony? Do you sing?”

“No. But Cherie does.”

Thanks,
I thought.

Our host’s face lit up. The pianist would accompany me, he said. Fortunately my expression was hidden in the dark. I opted for “Summertime.” After a few bars he joined in. In fact he has a very good voice of the “O Sole Mio” variety. Then Tony and I exchanged glances. We were ready for bed.

It was not to be.

“But what about the concert?” Berlusconi exclaimed. The evening’s event was apparently the inauguration of a four-hundred-seat auditorium carved out of the cliff. An orchestra had been flown in especially from the mainland, he said, not to mention the soprano and the tenor. There was nothing to be done. Among the audience were the ’tecs, garden girls, and comms people. I was glad I couldn’t see their faces when Silvio demanded that I do a repeat performance of “Summertime.”

The “just a few fireworks” turned out to be one of the most magnificent displays I have ever seen, lasting at least twenty minutes and ending with “Viva Tony” emblazoned across the sky. So much for discretion. Tony was mortified.

The next morning was a bit lower-key. For me, a whole series of thalassotherapy pools, while Tony played soccer with Berlusconi and the ’tecs. The final hurdle was the masseur. My husband has a horror of male masseurs, but this was the masseur for the legendary Italian soccer team AC Milan. “Look, Tony,” I said. “He does footballers. Believe me, he’s not after your body.” Later he was forced to admit that it was a really great massage.

Was it worth it? As experiences go, it falls into the category of ultrasurreal. As for the IOC votes, Berlusconi promised nothing, and of course the IOC members are independent, but he said he would do what he could. We will never know for sure, but for all his eccentricities, Silvio Berlusconi is a man who does what he says he will.

The 2005 election, held on May 7, was a vindication of my belief that whatever the press might say, the British public still had faith in Tony. Our majority in Parliament was reduced — hardly surprising after eight years in office — but Labour achieved a third successive term for the first time in its history. As for the Conservatives, although they increased their presence in the House, their percentage of the overall vote was below 35 percent for the third time.

During this campaign I made sure that I had no commitments in court and was able to visit fifty marginals, largely on my own, as the party wanted Tony and Gordon to be the story. It was a poignant few weeks for me, as it would be the last time I would be campaigning for the Labour Party in the role of Prime Minister’s wife.

The host of the 2012 summer games would be announced on July 6 in Singapore. As far as Tony and I were concerned, the timing was as bad as it could be: the same day, Britain was hosting the G8 in Edinburgh, seven thousand miles away. The G8 leaders were due to assemble at Gleneagles on July 6. The big question in the run-up to Singapore was, should Tony go? Some voices in Downing Street were saying no: just before the G8, what was the point? Although by now Tony was used to long-haul travel, the constant crossing of time zones — grabbing sleep when you can, grabbing food when you can rather than when you need it — does nobody any good. The risk was that he would end up being tired and unfocused both in Singapore and in Scotland. The 2005 Gleneagles G8 was particularly important for Tony because, in addition to the usual heads of state involved, he had invited the leaders of China, India, Brazil, South Africa, and Mexico — known as G8 + 5 — as well as representatives from Africa and Asia. It was the first time, too, that the focus would be less on the issues of the day and more on the future, namely Africa and climate change. We also knew that because we needed to be back in Gleneagles before the first guests arrived (I was hosting the spouse program), we wouldn’t be able to stay in Singapore for the final vote. But then neither would President Chirac, who would be representing the rival Paris bid.