Annabel's and the Prince 1985

'Can you come up to London tonight, I know it's short notice but we need you?' it's a phone call from John Bridgen, Bill's business partner. He goes on to explain there is a meeting tonight at the Intercontinental Hotel, Hyde Park and my presence would be useful as I'm good at dealing with the Arabs. 'Does Bill know you want me to go?' I ask of him. Bill has gone back to Abu Dhabi on his own to start a business with Rifat Saeed, a Pakistani friend of ours. I have no way of contacting Bill to verify this.....


I tell him I'll try. But first need to find baby-sitters. Mum and Dad agree to have Toby and Celia for the night. I run them over to my parents house in Pitsea and dash back to get ready. Decide not to wear anything too seductive, opting for a long sleeved cotton jersey top with baggy jacket and trousers. I get on the train at Benfleet, having bought a first class ticket. Settling myself in I'm alarmed to hear a crowd of drunken football yobs in the next carriage – also first class. With no further hesitation I get off the train at the next stop, complain to the ticket office and get a cab over to my parents house.

When I get there I ring the hotel and tell them I'm not coming. John accepts it and says at least I tried. However, the phone is ripped out of John's hand by Rifat who immediately starts hectoring me 'whatever happened to the modern woman we knew'. He talked me round. I said it was too late now anyway but he said get the fastest cab you can and we'll pay when you get here.

I ring the local taxi firm and order the fastest car they have, a short while later a driver turns up – in a clapped out old diesel Datsun. As we chug along the old A13 to London, I ask him if he can go any faster than 30mph. As we enter the city in what seems like an interminable time later, he asks if I know London? I know then he's never driven to London before, this is getting more and more surreal.

I get us through the city but eventually, exasperated I tell him to pull up at a taxi rank and ask the way. Hyde Park roundabout is a huge confusion for him and we circumnavigate it several times before finding the right exit for the hotel. I leave him with the meter running and run in to find them. They look a little drunk already, I stride over to Rifat and tell him to pay the man: and generously.

A swift look around the party see's Ann, John's wife, Rifat, a young girl with large breasts and a very tall chap in an extremely well cut suit. He rises to greet me, we shake hands and introduce ourselves. he is at least 6' 4" and very attractive. I also detect a public school English accent. I feel agitated after all the trouble I've had getting here, ask for a drink and quickly. I go to light my cigarette and he insists on lighting it for me, 'that old chestnut', i think and comment on his cheap lighter. Mine is a silver Dupont and show it to him. What I don't tell him is that it's a gift from a pimp.Albeit an Armani clad one, but a pimp nonetheless.

He laughs at me and appears smitten, tells me I'm beautiful, stroking my face as he does so. I feel all the angst of the last three years of lechery and leering well up inside, as I unthinkingly lash out at him. I tell him in no uncertain terms he's on my manor  now and will behave accordingly. He doesn't flinch, he's good I'll give him that. And we continue the conversation but with renewed boundaries.

I'm aware of the group slowly sliding down in their seats, a couple have their hands on heads in despair, silently mouthing 'oh no'.

We have champagne cocktails, then decamp to a chinese restaurant Zen's. It's the 'in' place,  its Saturday night: and crowded . Obviously no-one has booked. The manager is taken to one side, a conflab ensues and suddenly, as if by magic, the centre table has emptied. I'm amazed at this. There is much to'ing and fro'ing of staff, flourishing of fresh tablecloths, and we are led to it.

On the table are bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label whiskey and several bottles of Krug on ice. The food is wonderful and there is much bonhomie and laughter.

A few hours and several drinks later the tall chap suggests we move to a nightclub: Annabel's. There are two cars, both Mercedes. I do notice they both have no number plate. Diplomatic. The tall guy insists on driving though he's way over the limit.

He slews to a diagonal halt outside the club, blocking the road and leaps out, and flinging his keys high in the air. These are deftly caught by the doorman. For the second time tonight I think 'just who is this guy?'. We go inside, giggling and thoroughly enjoying the fun of it all. There is a wonderful ante-room to the side where we sit. I notice there are dozens of really decent painting's on the wall and there is a general feel of old money about the place.And savour the fact  that me, an Essex girl, is in a place that is the preserve of the hoorays and sloane's. That makes it so much sweeter.  I like it a lot, much better than Stringfellow's.

There are a couple of geriatric American's on the next table to where I'm sitting. We strike up a conversation, they come from Texas, are charming and buy me drinks. I have the devil in me that night and could easily have had a bit of sport with them, pretending to be Princess Diana or some other Royal but decide that would be cruel.  My new friendship annoys John, who irritatedly reminds me that I'm supposed to be with them. So I leap up and suggest we hit the dance floor. We have a fantastic evening, though still worried that Bill might not be happy about it. We leave at 6am.

Two weeks later, the fax machine at home jumps into life and I see a transmission coming through. It's the Financial Times, I'm curious as to why anyone should be faxing me a newspaper. I tear it off and see the page is about a visiting Crown Prince who is here to secure a £600,000,000 deal with the British Government.

It's from John. In large thick bold felt pen,  an arrow is drawn across the copy pointing to his name. In bold letters also in felt pen at the bottom is a message, 'Jean, thought you'd like to know, this is the person you slapped, thanks'