I was warned not to read the second volume of Barbara Skelton’s memoirs – I’m glad I disobeyed orders.
It’s not very well written but I did get to know Barbara Skelton a little better. The first half relates her eventual desertion of Cyril Connolly, to whom she was married, after much prevaricating, for George Weidenfeld. He courted her with the same ruthless determination he applied in the pursuit of authors he wanted to tempt away from other publishers. Once he landed Barbara the marriage was a disaster. Not wanting to waste money he waged an acrimonious divorce war and succeeded in getting rid of her on the cheap. He maintained she had deserted him for Cyril Connolly (!) and so payed her virtually nothing. It is unusual that Connolly cited Weidenfeld in his divorce and Weidenfeld cited Connolly. Weidenfeld settled a few of her bills and told her lawyers he had instructed his servants to look for a disputed bottle of champagne and a blue jug. Divorce seems to make people incredibly petty.
After a recent spat in the High Court the husband kept his yacht, ‘plane and helicopter but did have to stump up £450 million in cash and art. The case was multi-jurisdictional and must have made the legal teams on both sides happy. The High Court judge, wanting to make a memorable impression, said in her ruling “every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” (Anna Kerenina) adding ” the Akhmedov family is one of the unhappiest ever to have appeared in my courtroom”. Jolly frustrating for her distributing so much money on her pay so she might as well put a bit of window dressing in her judgement.
Third time lucky; her next husband was Derek Jackson. The marriage was short-lived, so no luck there, but the alimony was generous. ; he was a millionaire. She buys an old Provençal farmhouse in the hills behind Cannes. It’s the 1960s and it is a rural retreat like her cottage in Kent; no electricity or telephone. She lives there fairly happily, she was never wholly happy in her tumultuous life, with her animals and lovers enjoying la France profonde. She would have made a lot of money if she had emulated her neighbours, Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence) and Dirk Bogarde ( Le Pigeonnier, et al). That wasn’t her style; she wasn’t interested in money except to pay for her immediate needs.
I have got to know her through her memoirs but I have not got to like her. Maybe if I had met her I would have been mesmerised.