Man in the Mirror

Dares he don in this late autumnal heat his Ralph Lauren? No, preppy sits ill with older faces, however taut the jaw. He reaches his decision and – like a late-life god sweeping coolly from the waves – rises from his bath. Suiting himself in Armani silver-grey, he laces up his shoes from Lobb, buttons the Jermyn Street shirt against his tan, and carefully ties a subtle scarf around his neck.

As he gazes into the mirror, his eyes light on the neat grey box, reflected, of his Apple, the Pandora’s Box of all his recent embarrassments, source of all his woes, and then – more gratifyingly – on the fine scatter of collectibles on the nearby shelves: miniatures, cameos, netsuke. Always he had loved tiny, dainty things, claspable, caressable, possessable …

Next a swirling splash of malt, twinkling in crystal, oaky and hearty – like him – mature and wryly spry and dry. He taps and tests, with caution, his porcelain caps against the glass, eyes his profile sidelong in the cheval glass, detects a slight bulge of his midriff and vows to double his crunches on the morrow. Any hollows round the eyes? Heavens, from such emptiness preserve us! Rather satisfaction for a part well played and ageing arms fulfilled. 

Charm: that note so hard to strike! Spinning out the mood on a sparkling jet, teasing out sympathy with a knowing wit, discarding hands with studied frankness, hinting at invitations, intimacies and hesitations … So many fine old witches to bear off to the ball, widows and divorcees, sundry abandonées – silvered, lacquered vessels all in a row, the rich relicts of stocks and trusts and wills, gold and blonde, alimony and ivory, riches bequeathed from old, defecting, crimson hearts!

Such dear deposits of admiration! But hadn’t he always been admired, cherished, taken? Sometimes indeed too pressingly, too brutally. Momentarily pain and shame stain the fine grain of his mood. A picture passes before him: the terrible tearing of a boy, spread-eagled, face down, pierced and pinned on a hard dormitory bed.

Abruptly he presses down the memory, closes up the wound. He takes one last appraising glance in the glass. For sixty-one, give or take, not bad: the craggy, clefted chin, tightened with Trumpers, razored to a manly charcoal glaze. Could be an older Clooney, salty-haired and crinkle-eyed, or a witty twist of Grant. He cocks his head, purses his lips and grins at his reflection, then goes down to the car waiting in the mews below.

1 September 2019

‘Party went on as normal’

The occasion was meant to be one of celebration. But the lavish party in London ended in tragedy with the bizarre death of a gatecrasher.

Around 1,000 people had been invited to the Dorchester Hotel by the Qatari ambassador. But unbeknown to the dignitaries one guest arrived who was not invited. For Harrow- and Oxford-educated Rupert Lovat, 61, a well-known socialite, this was one party too many.

Charming silver-haired Lovat, was the former director of recession-hit global PR agency, LoveWord Communications, that closed down last year. Famous as a ‘walker’ who regularly escorted mature female celebrities, Lovat, a confirmed bachelor, was however charged earlier this year with downloading paedophile pornography. The resulting scandal led, it is said, to his being dropped by several of his associates.

Lovat apparently took a bite of a canapé and immediately had difficulty swallowing. Within seconds, he was choking and gasping for breath. According to other guests, he collapsed on the floor having suffered a cardiac arrest.

Horrified guests rushed to help him and a heart surgeon at the party immediately recognised his symptoms and tried to resuscitate him. He was carried out on a stretcher and the party went on as normal. Oddly, the paramedics left the screen from behind which they treated him. ‘It looked like something out of a crime scene,’ commented a guest. ‘You go to a party – you don’t expect someone to die.’

‘Says a spokesman for the hotel: ‘It is with great regret that we can confirm a guest attending the event at the hotel suffered a heart attack and later died in hospital.’

‘It is such a terrible shame,’ says his long-time friend Lady Donohue, who also attended the party. Rupert was delightful to talk to – very sociable and always charming. A lot of people wouldn’t have anything to do with him after he was arrested. But they didn’t know what difficulties he had had when he was growing up. He was such a lovely man.’