Lord and Lady (?) Black
MC
I found her irresistibly funny, very beautiful, sexy and warm...
Hmmm.... I wonder if it was all an act, or if she turned into the
harridan she appears to be today...
_____
The Sunday Times
October 29, 2006
The fast lady
She employed 17 butlers and installed a $250,000 lavatory in their
private jet. But, says Tom Bower, Barbara Amiel neglected to check if
her new husband Conrad Black actually had all the money she was spending
No expense was spared for Conrad Blackąs annual company dinner at
Spencer House, the 18th-century palace in St Jamesąs. More than Ł1m was
spent for all the directors of Hollinger, his American corporation, to
fly to London on Concorde, to be met by chauffeurs and accommodated in
Park Lane hotels. On Blackąs insistence Max Hastings, editor of The
Daily Telegraph, was ordered to abandon his holiday and fly by
helicopter to London to address the 200 guests, among them Margaret
Thatcher.
Also flown in for the occasion in October 1991 was Blackąs first wife,
Joanna. Eyewitnesses would swear that they spotted her shudder at the
sight of Conrad holding court. None of those giants in dinner jackets,
gleaming white shirts and polished shoes, laughing with their host, she
knew, understood his fatal flaws.
In appearance the Blacks were renowned as one of the Canadian
establishmentąs happiest marriages. In reality she had told him their
marriage was over and had gone home to Toronto with their three children.
She understood the cause of her misery. For 13 years she had lived with
a showman. He had even asked her to change her name, which was
originally Shirley. As owner of the Telegraph he was expecting a
peerage, and łLady Shirley˛ lacked gravitas. Now she was relieved not to
have become Lady Black. London society, she realised, had not only
embraced him at face value but had connived in a fictitious creation.
As soon as he had bought the Telegraph in 1986 ‹ taking it over for Ł30m
in a remarkable business coup ‹ Blackąs lifestyle had changed markedly,
feeding his hunger to consort with the mega-rich and the powerful in the
White House, Buckingham Palace and Downing Street. He was surprised at
how easily British personalities succumbed to his invitations.
His social climbing was not sure-footed. Over lunch at Highgrove with
Prince Charles a torrent of history poured from him, describing the
British royal familyąs eating habits. Ignoring Charlesąs obvious
distaste for the excruciating details of his grandfather George VIąs
tendencies, Black did not stop until minutes before he departed.
łNot a success,˛ Charles later told an aide.
One of Blackąs haunts after the break-up of his marriage was Annabeląs,
the Belgravia nightclub. The fashionable basement was also favoured by
another Canadian of whom he began seeing a great deal ‹ Barbara Amiel.
Like Black, Amiel had been in Britain since the mid-1980s while her
marriage ‹ her third ‹ had disintegrated.
She too had been launched on London society, thanks partly to an
invitation to a dinner of German sausages and beer at the home of Frank
Johnson, the journalist. George Weidenfeld, the publisher, was also
invited. Amieląs entrance into Johnsonąs kitchen provoked the
67-year-old Weidenfeldąs eyes to pop out on stalks.
łI hear you know something about opera,˛ said Amiel, slicing a
bratwurst. The following weekend she was seated next to him at La Scala
in Milan.
With her past as a sexual adventuress in Canada, which she had written
about frankly, there was no woman in London who understood men better
than Amiel. łMy dears,˛ she told a group of women after an exercise
class, łapart from Anatole France and Albert Schweitzer, there is no man
interested in anything but sex.˛
She categorised the men with whom she enjoyed sexual relations into
three types: men of wealth, men of power and men who were unthreatening,
fun and trusted confidants.
Weidenfeld represented both wealth and power. Through his publishing
house Weidenfeld & Nicolson he had cultivated a wide range of
relationships. Regularly he entertained in his beautiful flat
overlooking the Thames an international cast of multi-millionaires,
politicians and cultural giants.
Weidenfeld could do more than introduce Amiel to wealth, culture and
intelligence. He was renowned for his sexual antics. Many young women in
London publishing or journalism had been propositioned by łLord Popeye˛,
as he was lampooned by Private Eye.
Just as Amiel was smitten by Weidenfeldąs social life, so he was
infatuated by her body and mind. They had, he told friends, so much in
common. Both were Jewish, fascinated by the same subjects and excited by
sex.
łHeąs crazy about me,˛ Amiel told her friends.
She rented a mews house in Pimlico. A four-poster bed with a mirror in
the ceiling had been installed in the upstairs bedroom, and a range of
nightdresses were hanging around the room. By early 1987 Weidenfeld was
thinking of marriage.
łSheąs a washed-up orphan,˛ he explained to London society. łShe had a
terrible childhood.˛
Some applauded his intentions; others, including Evangeline Bruce, the
wife of a former American ambassador to London, were appalled: łIf you
marry her, Iąll never speak to you again,˛ she said.
Weidenfeld was undeterred. Irritated by her habit of working through the
night in her house, he secured a flat below his own and installed
furniture including a desk costing Ł15,000. She refused his offer.
Weidenfeldąs portly form ‹ he was 20 years older than her ‹ was one
reason. łI donąt like going to bed with him,˛ she told friends.
Laughingly she told of a night when he became hungry in bed. On his
doctorąs orders the kitchen had been locked by the staff to prevent his
excessive eating. Desperate for food, he eyed Amiel and coaxed her to
slither naked through the serving hatch to retrieve his sustenance.
Their relationship was complicated by their similarities. Both demanded
attention yet were unable to give the consideration the other craved.
Weidenfeld asked friends: łHow does one cope with a neurotic?˛
When he resolved to end the relationship, she appeared at his flat,
naked but for a coat, to łreawaken his interest˛.
His bewilderment was matched by her apparent desperation. There was
feverish gossip that she had theatrically threatened to commit suicide
by jumping off the Albert Bridge, within view of his flat.
By February 1988 they had agreed to end the relationship. Over lunch
Amiel told Judith Steiner, a close friend: łI need a makeover.˛
She received a crash course in British politics from Douglas Eden, a
political analyst, and underwent cosmetic surgery. łI think I need my
neck done,˛ she explained. In the past her nose had been remodelled
twice.
David Wynne-Morgan, a charming public relations expert with a wide range
of contacts, organised dinner parties in her honour. Transparently she
was seeking men, sucking in some and disappointing others. She wrote
columns in The Times regularly advocating the cause of the super-rich.
Her eulogising of the rich, sometimes with a rose-tinted view of the
facts, appealed to Black. During October 1991, after the break-up of his
marriage, the kindred sprits spent much time together.
On November 17 Black arrived at Amieląs latest home, a duplex off Walton
Street in Chelsea. Scattered around her living room were letters from
notable admirers extolling her beauty and intelligence. When she was out
of the room he read pledges of love, evidence of her social engagements,
and praise for recent articles. In her bedroom, he knew, the walls were
covered with peignoir nightdresses. łThey turn Conrad on,˛ Amiel later
told Steiner.
Before leaving the house Black declared his love and made an offer of
marriage. łA man led by his dick,˛ one of his London bankers would
conclude, unsurprised by his attraction to ła reactionary glamourpuss˛.
Amiel accepted his proposal and celebrated at Manolo Blahnik by choosing
pairs of the worldąs most expensive shoes, as usual with high heels to
minimise her big feet. There seemed no reason to stint on expenditure.
Despite her reputation for thorough research, she had not investigated
the precise origins of Blackąs fortune. She judged him on his terms, and
she loved what she saw.
They kept secret their decision to marry. Among the first to suspect it
was Andrew Knight, the Telegraphąs former managing director. In a chance
encounter he smiled at Black: łI remember you trying to get me to hire
Barbara, and now I hear youąre seeing quite a lot of her.˛
łYes I am,˛ admitted Black. łAnd I can tell you, Andrew, she has a
wicked body. Quite pulchritudinous.˛
The ambitions of Black and Amiel had merged. There was a unique
community of interest that neither had found in previous relationships.
Both loved language and power, were immersed in newspapers and politics,
and regarded the other as brilliant. Both shared a need to be respected,
accepted and admired in the spotlight.
They were married in London on July 21, 1992. Sitting with them days
later in the garden of Blackąs house in Highgate, north London, Steiner
noted that he was on heat. łIf I walked past him,˛ she told a friend, łI
would have had to step over his tongue, literally hanging out. He was
smitten by her sex.˛
Amiel was not wholly secure, however. łHe will leave me,˛ she confided
to someone close to her. łIąm making plans for when it all goes wrong.˛
Amieląs angst surprised Black. His remedy was to initiate fundamental
changes. There was, he intimated to Amiel, no limit to his finances. He
bought 14 Cottesmore Gardens, a 19th-century town house in Kensington,
from Alan Bond, the disgraced Australian businessman; and soon after he
added the adjoining house.
Assuming that her husbandąs wealth was truly immense, Amiel vowed to
create a palace that would attract celebrity worshippers of a łpower
couple˛. Part of the first floor was to be removed to create a huge
ground-floor reception area.
The rich set back in Toronto, who knew the real state of his finances,
were amazed. łHeąs bought the houses with borrowed money,˛ one
concluded. łAnd from a crook.˛
Nobody in Britain doubted the invulnerability of Blackąs fame and
fortune, however. The Telegraph was consistently producing profits of
Ł40m per year, and Blackąs stake in the company was worth Ł420m. Nobody
dug into his controversial past in Canada, where critics regarded him as
a master of sharp practice.
In reality Black and his small cabal of Canadian business associates had
reverted to familiar habits, taking large interest-free loans from
Hollinger Inc, their public company ‹ as they were legally entitled to
do ‹ using money transferred from the Telegraphąs profits. Without
telling minority shareholders, as required by law, Black also began to
borrow directly money from the Telegraph. By May 1992 he had quietly
transferred Ł33m to private companies he controlled.
Black encouraged the joint cultivation of new images for himself and his
wife. She dispensed with some old friends, including Steiner.
łYou remind me of a person on a step exercise machine, always going up
but never getting anywhere,˛ Amiel told her. łI donąt need you any more.˛
The łpower couple˛ invaded the conservative establishment, yet instead
of focusing on academics, civil servants, bankers and industrialists,
Amiel preferred entertaining celebrities. Among the cast list invited to
dinner were Princess Michael of Kent, Prince Andrew, Joan Collins and
Roger Moore.
Fellow guests at a concert in Buckingham Palace to celebrate the
conductor Sir Georg Soltiąs 80th birthday in 1992 were astonished to see
Black and Amiel race ahead so as to sit behind the Prince and Princess
of Wales.
Having made their acquaintance, Amiel appeared to take the relationship
for granted when she later encountered the prince at the Royal Opera
House, Covent Garden. Standing at the crush bar with Charles, Amiel
announced, łWill you excuse me? I must work the hall˛, before walking
away in her blazing red dress, her bosom spilling out.
One couple were distinctly unamused by their antics. Black and Amiel had
been their house guests for the weekend, and after their departure Black
telephoned to explain that inadvertently both he and Barbara had left
tips for the staff. łCould you return one of the gratuities?˛ he asked.
In 1994 Black launched himself and Amiel among New Yorkąs A-list
celebrities. They found an apartment on Park Avenue. Hollinger
International, one of his public companies, paid $3m for the lease. As
the companyąs chairman, Black then authorised himself and his wife to
live there without paying rent.
There now occurred an episode that was familiar to his critics in Canada
but caused shock in the City of London.
Black sold 12.5m Telegraph shares for Ł73m. Six weeks later he cut the
cover price of the Daily Telegraph in response to a price war launched
by The Times, which was hitting Telegraph sales. Within hours, however,
The Timesąs price was cut again, and the Telegraphąs share price fell
sharply.
Cazenove, his brokers, were outraged. They had sold Blackąs shares to
clients without warning that the Telegraphąs price could be cut. Those
clients were now suffering substantial losses and were demanding an
explanation.
Black had not behaved illegally, but his way of doing business left a
sour taste. Cazenove resigned as the Telegraphąs brokers. łYouąll never
be able to have lunch in this town again,˛ Black was told by a Cazenove
director. łNor will you ever be able to raise money in the City again.˛
He dismissed the furore as łan orgy of self-righteous English
hypocrisy˛. But his commercial opportunities in Britain had vanished. He
decided to relocate his centre of activities to New York.
Among Manhattanąs A-list socialites, Henry and Marie-Josée Kravis ranked
as a łmost-sought-after couple˛. The Blacks were hungry for the
Kravisesą wealth and status.
Henry Kravis, one of Americaąs richest men, had been the legendary hero
of the takeover battle for of RJR Nabisco, immortalised in the book
Barbarians at the Gate. Marie-Josée, an attractive, intelligent
economist, was a director of two multi-billion-dollar corporations, Ford
Motors and Vivendi.
Securing their friendship was pivotal to the Blacksą social and
commercial aspirations for stardom. After careful persuasion,
Marie-Josée agreed to become a director of Hollinger International, a
newly minted part of the Black empire floated on Wall Street in 1996.
To rank among Manhattanąs A-list required power and wealth, implying the
unencumbered possession of at least $1 billion. The Wall Street Journal
assessed Blackąs wealth at $600m. Those encountering the Blacks were
unaware that because of his debts this estimate was an exaggeration.
Black himself gave the impression of much greater wealth than the
Journaląs assessment. His vast business as an international media mogul,
he casually suggested, was a means for him to display his brilliance as
a confidant of the powerful.
Blackąs desire to please Amiel never faltered. An uncanny chemistry bred
a mutual understanding about lifeąs priorities. Black wanted to appear
as a billionaire, and Amiel was an eager accomplice to his desire.
During their discussions about grander houses, more clothes, increased
staff, travel and her jewellery, Amiel barely thought to inquire whether
her husband actually possessed sufficient millions to afford those
luxuries.
As a director now of Hollinger and Ravelston, the private holding
company through which he controlled his empire, Amiel could have
discovered that her husbandąs income was insufficient to finance their
ambitions, but she preferred not to investigate.
Sensitive to appearances, Amiel took control of decorating Hollingerąs
new Manhattan headquarters on Fifth Avenue. The walls were covered with
silk, the boardroom was filled with a massive mahogany table and 24
matching chairs, and the interior designer recommended a blue-rimmed
Limoges china dinner service. His bill was $4m. Black placed a photo of
Al Capone in the boardroom. łA Hollinger shareholder,˛ he joked.
Amieląs status as the employer of about 17 butlers, cooks, chauffeurs
and cleaners influenced her to re-evaluate her lifestyle. łIąm never
going to a public cinema again,˛ she told a friend. łThe smell is too
awful.˛
During a dinner in Manhattan with the Kravises, the discussion swung
around to the inconvenience of flying across the Atlantic on commercial
airlines.
łItąs so much better to fly on our own plane to Europe,˛ remarked
Marie-Josée. łYou leave when you want, and can sleep in your own bed.˛
Amiel shot a familiar look at her husband. łArenąt you ashamed you
havenąt got a bigger private jet?˛ she later asked him. Black knew that
that was a trophy too far and remained silent.
Soon after, the Blacks were having dinner in Manhattan with two couples.
łWeąd better go,˛ said Black. łWeąve got to check in.˛
Amiel froze. Once in the limousine en route to JFK airport, she turned
on Black. łIąve never been so humiliated in all my life. Why havenąt we
got our own jet?˛
Black did have a jet. His Gulfstream II could fly around the United
States but not cross the Atlantic non-stop.
Some weeks later Amieląs Concorde flight from Heathrow was delayed. In a
fit of anger she tried to reach Lord King, the British Airways chairman
and a Hollinger director. When that attempt failed she decided to vent
her spleen through a Telegraph employee.
łTell Lord King,˛ she declared, łthat Iąll never fly commercial again.
Iąm finished with British Airways, public transport and the lot of them.˛
Black leased a Gulfstream IV. The annual cost charged to Hollinger would
be between $3m and $4m. At last the Blacks could eat dinner on the same
day on both sides of the Atlantic.
Amiel told friends she planned to install new leather seats, two divans
and an extra lavatory. łWeąve got to have two toilets,˛ she explained,
łbecause I donąt want the crew coming through our cabin to use the one
at the back.˛
The cost of improvement would be $3m, including $250,000 for the second
lavatory. That did not include the cashmere blankets purchased from
Leron in New York, or the china dinner service.
The spending project engaging most of the Blacksą attention in 1997 was
in Palm Beach, the Florida resort colonised by the super-rich.
Although Amiel did not always enjoy Palm Beach, she was certain that 150
Canterbury Lane, Blackąs house there, was inadequate. łHow can we invite
the Kravises here?˛ she asked. To set off from such a nondescript house
for morning coffee dressed in the resortąs uniform of Chanel casuals and
half a million dollarsą worth of jewellery was, she implied, too
embarrassing.
For $9.9m Black bought 1930 South Ocean Boulevard, an opulent 14,000 sq
ft house overlooking the sea, which had a tunnel under the road to a
300ft private beach. He then virtually rebuilt it.
łWhy are you building such a huge house?˛ Black was asked by a visiting
English banker.
łI hope you think it suits my position,˛ he replied.
The Blacksą flamboyance aroused sniggers among the few who understood
their finances. łI donąt understand why Conrad wants to be the poorest
billionaire in America,˛ commented one observer, noting that his
standard of living was higher than that enjoyed by the two richest men
in the world, Bill Gates, the founder of Microsoft, and the investor
Warren Buffett.
The City apart, London society continued to embrace the couple. Guests
packed into their parties at Cottesmore Gardens.
By 1998, Amiel was 57 but boasted the looks of a woman 10 years younger.
She was indulged by her proud husband. Her behaviour suggested the
vulnerability of a woman hurrying to compensate for lost opportunities.
Medicine and drugs kept her exterior youthful. Surgery to her face and
body had tautened her skin. She described fat being extracted from her
buttocks and injected into her face as preferable to Botox.
The corollary of pleasure was pain. Unseen, she was suffering from
dermatomyositis, a rare auto-immune disease causing muscle inflammation
and degeneration. Every two to three months she required three or four
days of treatment, including blood transfusions.
Gossip spread among London jewellers that Amiel was a big spender. After
one lunch in Victoria she encouraged her female companion to drive to
Bond Street. Stepping from the Bentley, she was welcomed like royalty by
the manager of SJ Phillips. A huge 19th-century necklace displayed in a
special box was ready for her inspection.
łIąll have it,˛ she announced. The manager knew the procedure. He was to
telephone Black and reveal that his wife would be pleased if he could
make the purchase.
Stepping back into the Bentley, she urged her friend to travel to Theo
Fennell, the jewellers in Chelsea. łWeąve got a very high-powered dinner
tonight,˛ announced Amiel, łand I need some presents for the guests.˛
Her friend understood that she herself was not sufficiently grand for
the dinner or a present. Indeed, when they arrived at the shop she was
asked to remain in the car. łWait here. Iąll be five minutes inside.˛
Forty minutes later Amiel emerged with several boxes and barely uttered
an apology. In the car she telephoned a friend. łHave you decided what
to wear for Imran [Khan] and Jemima Goldsmith]ąs wedding?˛ she inquired
breathlessly. Little was omitted in her quest to prove her importance.
Before every occasion she tried on a succession of dresses, some costing
over Ł20,000, regardless that her indecision would mean a late arrival.
Many garments would never be worn. Black waited indulgently. Before the
Princess of Walesąs funeral at Westminster Abbey he had shown remarkable
patience as she tried on more than a dozen hats, fussing about the
appropriate colour and shape and mentioning her star appearance on Sky
News.
Under the control of senior butler Andrew Lightwood, second butler Peter
Wilson and a succession of third butlers, Amieląs life in Kensington had
become what her constantly changing staff called łbizarre˛. Each recruit
was taken by Lightwood on an introductory tour of the house, ending on
the roof.
łMake sure the landing lights are on at all times,˛ instructed Lightwood
solemnly, łbecause Madame takes off from here on her broomstick looking
for cats. She needs the lights to guide her return.˛
His face would crack into a smile. łMost important, take care that she
never sees you. She hates seeing any of us.˛
Amieląs eccentricity demanded that her staff hid whenever she
approached, diving into cupboards if necessary, and never entered her
quarters when she was present.
Every day, all the bed linen was changed and subjected to łthe penny
test˛. A coin was dropped onto the sheets. If it failed to bounce they
were not drawn sufficiently tight. Every cushion was arranged to a
precise pre-ordained position, and each towel placed exactly as Amiel
had predetermined.
łAndrew!˛ she screamed down the telephone on one memorable occasion,
łthe towels are in the wrong place!˛ Lightwood, as Amiel knew, was in
New York, but he was expected to telephone the staff in the house in
London to rectify the error.
łYou f****** pillock!˛ she yelled at another member of staff for reading
her Daily Mail before it was delivered to her.
Her close girlfriends blamed her bad behaviour on insecurity. Pledged to
fighting age łuntil the end˛, she expressed a fear of younger women
chasing her husband. łIf he leaves me, at least Iąve had a good run,˛
she sighed.
On occasions, the relationship between the Blacks became fraught. At a
weekend party in Wiltshire Black said to a glamorous young journalist:
łIf it ends with Barbara, are you up for it?˛
The woman was puzzled by the crass approach. The strain was also noticed
at a party hosted by Sir James Goldsmith in Paris. Amiel spotted Black
engrossed in conversation with Nicola Formby, an attractive writer.
Glaring, she stood behind her husband until, as an observer noted, the
hairs on his neck were łreceiving electric messages to tell him to
leave˛.
Shortly after, Black was again speaking to Formby. łBeat it,˛ Amiel said
to her. łYouąve been with my husband long enough.˛
In the summer of 1998 Black sensed a recurrence of her sulks during the
preparations for the annual Hollinger dinner for 300 at New Yorkąs
Metropolitan Club.
He brought in Carolyn Peachy, one of Americaąs premier events
organisers; but, since the writer Tom Wolfe was the guest of honour,
Amiel insisted on becoming involved.
Samples of the tablecloths, napkins, cutlery and menus were sent to
London for her approval. A łfinal˛ draft of the invitation list was
faxed to Kensington for her endorsement. Half an hour later her
hysterical curses were winging to Peachyąs office in Washington. The fax
machine, Amiel screamed to Peachyąs assistant, was on the ground floor,
while she was upstairs, łand thereąs no butler to bring it up, and Iąm
not going down˛.
Black regarded her anger as the single flaw in an otherwise perfect wife
‹ as she would prove with her loyalty when the money ceased to flow and
the investigators moved in. But Amieląs conduct arguably contributed to
their predicament.
Opinionated, ostentatious and undisguisedly extravagant, she never
judged her own and her husbandąs obligations towards Hollingerąs
shareholders by the same criteria she applied to other mortals. Had she
been more self-aware, she might well have saved her husband from the
risk of life imprisonment he faces when he goes on trial next year in
Chicago.
© Tom Bower 2006
Extracted from Conrad and Lady Black by Tom Bower, to be published by
HarperCollins on November 6 at Ł20. Copies can be ordered for Ł18
including postage from The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585
Itąs an honour (please) Maąam
Impatient to reap the prizes due to The Daily Telegraphąs proprietor
after he took it over in 1986, Conrad Black yearned to meet Margaret
Thatcher, one of his idols. łCan you arrange it?˛ he repeatedly asked
Andrew Knight, his managing director.
As a preliminary, Knight arranged to call on Charles Powell, Thatcherąs
foreign policy adviser, in Downing Street.
łWhat do you think Powell thought of me,˛ Black asked Knight afterwards.
The judgment in Downing Street, Knight did not reveal, was that Black
was ła provincial hick˛.
łHello Margaret,˛ smiled Black as he entered Chequers with Knight a few
weeks later. Thatcherąs close staff, accustomed to calling her łprime
minister˛, were surprised by Blackąs assumption of equality.
After the pleasantries, Black embarked on a monologue, lecturing his
hostess about her place in British history alongside Pitt and Disraeli.
He was too enraptured by his own verbal elegance to notice his hostessąs
astonishment. Unknown to her visitor, Thatcher rarely listened to what
she was told. Her only interest was what she would say in reply.
Impervious to her true sentiments, Black was pleased, as they bade
farewell, that Thatcher patted him on the shoulder and said: łThat is
very good, Mr Black. Do come back.˛
Before their meeting, Thatcher had been aware of Blackąs opposition to
hanging, not because he was against capital punishment but because
hanging was łtoo good for them˛. She had wrongly assumed that that was
said in jest. After their meeting she told her aides that compared to
Black, łIąm a liberal wet˛.
An intimidating bore, she concluded of the new proprietor. She decided
to tolerate him because the Telegraph was important, but he would be
classified as łlow profile˛.
Undeterred, Black called at 10 Downing Street and asked Powell: łWhat
does one have to do to get a peerage?˛ Powell was not helpful, so Black
put out feelers among Thatcherąs advisers. His peerage, he believed,
would not take long. Like Lord Thomson, the Canadian former proprietor
of The Sunday Times, he too might be posthumously remembered in St
Pauląs Cathedral.
In January Thatcher turned down an invitation for lunch or dinner at the
next board meeting of Hollinger, Blackąs international company.
Undeterred, he suggested that the directors visit her for 20 minutes in
Downing Street. Powell minuted Thatcher: łWe need to keep the management
of the Telegraph on side (particularly now there are rumours that Conrad
Black is thinking of buying the Express Group).˛ She agreed.
At noon on September 6, 1989, Black arrived in Downing Street with a
convoy of eight cars containing 17 men summoned at Hollingerąs expense
to witness his new status. He had been offered a 30-minute slot in which
to hear the prime ministerąs opinions about the international situation.
Ninety minutes later the visitors departed.
Black was ecstatic. Over lunch he proposed that the directorsą fee for
attending board meetings be raised from $500 to $1,500, and that their
annual fee be increased to $12,000. Amid merriment, his proposals were
approved unopposed.
Only one bauble was missing: a peerage. The Blacks consoled themselves
that it was only Thatcherąs demise in 1990 that had deprived them of the
honour. Those close to Thatcher knew the truth. Despite the lobbying,
Black was never considered for a peerage. In Thatcherąs opinion he had
done nothing to deserve it.
Thereafter, his quest for a title depended upon John Major. Regarded as
uneducated and unsophisticated, Major was disliked for his broadly
pro-European policy and came under attack in the Telegraph and The
Spectator. Hyper-sensitive to opposition, Major was not minded to grant
Black a peerage, and the Telegraph groupąs antagonism towards the prime
minister increased.
By the time Black did get a peerage in 2001 ‹ with the increasingly
unwell Lady Thatcher as one of his proposers ‹ time was running out for
him to enjoy the honour.
--
Work is love made visible.
‹ Kahlil Gibran