Steve and I set out to explore London. Having obsessed about it for all the 20 years of my life (well, at least 13 of them), it required a great deal of magic to live up to my exorbitant expectations, but it certainly did not disappoint. I was in a state of shock and awe as I stood in front of Buck House, the majestic Mall behind me, stood at the very spot where my beloved Anne Boleyn had lost that seductive head of hers, and said a prayer at the majestic tomb of my elementary school namesake, Mary Queen of Scots. I said a silent thank you to her son, James, who after many years of bloodshed united the kingdoms of England and Scotland, and finally built a tomb worthy of his glorious mother. Too bad he had to enclose her in it together with her cousin Elizabeth I, who had beheaded her popular cousin when she became the fulcrum of vast Catholic wing conspiracies bent on dethroning Elizabeth and replacing her with Mary.
I still have photos of myself standing in front of Hampton Court Palace, a self-satisfied smirk on my face, my much-thicker-than-now hair windswept, in my Burberry-style blazer, the Anne Boleyn gatehouse in the background. I was thrilled to discover a large print of Anne's iconic portrait, her own self-satisfied smirk on her face, at a second-hand shop. It was mounted on cardboard and thus not easily transportable, but I managed to get it all the way back to the US, where for many years it held pride of place on my bedroom wall.
I loved the astonishing historical buildings and places I'd read and fantasized about for so many years, but almost more I loved just walking around, hand in hand with Steve, exploring the streets, small and large, the gorgeous, lush parks, the little cafes. His parents had instructed us to visit Mimmo's, an Italian restaurant in Knightsbridge, which they loved and agreed to treat us to. I remember we felt so grown up and posh in the very fancy boite, and I even remember the attractive, glamorous couple sitting next to us with whom we stuck up a conversation. I don't remember much about what we spoke of but I do remember the wife whispering to me that Steve was extremely attractive and intelligent, that he would go far, and I also vividly recall the pride and smugness I felt when hearing that.
Steve's mother had also instructed us to purchase her a dress from Laura Ashley, at that long-ago time a solely UK purveyor, so off we went to their store, where I fell madly in love with all the very traditional English country charm and wanted everything for myself. In the next few years quite a bit of my wardrobe and linens were from that brand, but at that time I had to limit myself to their cheapest available item, long ago forgotten and discarded (as was all the rest, eventually, as I grew more interested in Prada and Dolce!). Steve did pick out a dress for his mother, and one of my favorite photos from that time shows him modeling it, a mischievous gleam in his eye, his pillowy lips puckered as he throws a kiss to the camera.
One evening I was taking a bath in the claw-footed bathtub in my bathroom. I had left the door unlocked since the only other person in the house at the time was Steve, so I was mightily shocked when the door opened and a young boy of 6 or 7 walked right in and grinned at my naked self. I covered myself as best I could with my hands and asked "who are you??" He smiled at me, not at all shyly, and announced that he was the young master of the house, Sebastian, the son of Claudio and Gabriella. With his perfect English accent and Lord Fauntleroy tousled blond locks, it was hard to believe he had any Italian blood, but in fact it was, 100%. I begged him to leave so I could get out of the tub and get dressed, but he was enjoying my discomfort too much to relieve me on that score immediately. I remember him standing there for an excruciatingly long time before his mother called to him and he finally left me. I also remember how mortified I was, convinced that we'd immediately be evicted because I had sullied the pure mind of the child, or some such thing. Fortunately, Gabriella was nothing like that. She was indeed the "blonde lynx" of the article I'd read that first night in her home, but no ice queen was she. She was an Italian volcano, all smoldering passion, sexuality, exuberance, a life force. Not for her the priggish mores of the English establishment; she was delighted that my initial meeting with Sebastian had been au naturel! I can still hear her throaty laugh as I stuttered out embarrassed apologies.
Gabriella and Sebastian had been with Claudio as he took the London Symphony on a Japanese tour, but they had decided to return earlier because Sebastian was starting school. Once they were back home, they promptly wanted Steve and me out. Gabriella made a call to a friend of hers in Italy and asked if we could stay in her flat at #40 Pont Street, and her friend agreed with alacrity (I couldn't imagine anyone saying no to Gabriella). Before we could blink, Gabriella and her friend Franca Folli had us all packed up and transported us to Pont Street, one of the most chic addresses in London, adjacent to Lennox Square, Beauchamp Place, and about 5 blocks from Harrod's. As Gabriella and Franca left us there, Gabriella turned her swanlike neck and drily said to us, "enjoy your honeymoon." Then she and her blonde mane were gone, we closed the door, and began to enjoy our honeymoon by jumping up and down with glee, like two kids in a candy store.
The flat was ample, not huge, furnished rather simply but with impeccable taste. There were two bedrooms of adequate size and a rather large living room. I'm sure there was a kitchen, but since we hardly ever used it I don't have much recollection of it. We were just a block away from Sloane Street, home of Princess Diana's Sloane Rangers set, and in the other direction was her favorite restaurant, San Lorenzo, which alas was too far out of our price range, and for which Steve's parents (nor mine) were about to foot the bill. San Lorenzo would have to wait for another year, another time, another man, but finally I did get there. Across the street was the Cadogan Hotel, once home to Oscar Wilde and Lillie Langtry, another obsession of mine since I had seen the Masterpiece Theater miniseries about her, "Lillie," starring the gorgeous and talented Francesca Annis. I was thrilled with the blue plaques all over the city commemorating the famous and infamous people who had lived there or stayed there, and to have the Lilly Langry one directly across the street, well, it was all just too good to be true.
My stay with Steve on Pont Street had a dream-like quality even back then, let alone now. We simply could not believe our great good fortune, that we were young and madly in love, in the greatest city in the world, under the care of the Abbados, one of the greatest families in London. Although we knew this moment was just a blip in time and would end oh-so-soon, we also knew that it would remain forever fixed in our minds as a Xanadu moment, and that very few times in our lives would compare to it. We were thus lucky, that we appreciated and marveled at each day, each moment, and knew that at least for that one moment in time, we were among the most privileged people in the world.
One day we had a delicious, All-American lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe. At that time, that was the only Hard Rock location. It had been opened by a group of ex-pats desperately homesick for their favorite American fare such as cheeseburgers, french fries and hot fudge sundaes, none of which had existed in the UK. I loved the idea of it more than the fare, but we were very happy with it on all fronts...except the extremely long line out the door, which seemed like it stretched all the way to Piccadilly Circus. Nearby there was a magazine stand which we perused, and naturally I found an article about Claudio and Gabriella. I bought it to show Gabriella, and when we visited with her and I excitedly showed her the article, she shrugged it off with her usual insouciance and made a comment to the effect of, "meh, yet another article about us, I've seen too many already." I was simply agog in her presence and thought her the epitome of everything stylish, beautiful, and glamorous. Having grown up in Beverly Hills and met quite a few of the glamorous set, that was quite an accolade, but she earned it and then some. She had limpid green eyes which slanted ever-so-slightly at the corners (or was it just the eyeliner she used, it's hard to recall now, I just remember the effect), a perfect oval face with perfect smooth skin which crinkled beguilingly around her eyes when she smiled or laughed, which she did constantly; she was tall and slim as a reed, and she was always impeccably dressed in that casual, slouchy way which can look so dowdy or sloppy on all but the most fashion savvy, which she was in spades.
