Prince Dmitri and I Struggle as the Multis in Sensational Departure from the Country «

Prince Dmitri and I Struggle as the Multis in Sensational Departure from the Country

Monday 30th January 2012

It’s intensely dramatic. The Multis have left the country! For India. I went all through lunch with Prince Dmitri at Ottolenghi (he took the day off from his blue-chip in the docklands); we talked about cleaners – his dusts the needles right off the pick-up arm of his turn-table (yes! he’s a vinyl freak, rare bands, only to be played on trad. record player) and dumps his rubbish all over the neighbourhood provoking near-suing letters from the council. Only afterwards did I remember: it’s Prince Dmitri’s birthday! My iPhone told me on Saturday. But then it went clean out of.

Such a thing would never have happened if the Multis had been here.

They never forget a birthday. They would have lavished, booked Heston, had menus personalised.

Will they ever come back? What about their jobs, or rather their enterprises? Have they abandoned everything? They’re to take a mud and salt health farm for two weeks in the Himalayas. Pyjamas are issued on arrival to be worn for the duration. There might even be group therapy or at least opportunities to become emotional. It’s unthinkable. The Multis are not exactly normal, nor are they glazed and glossy like the Earls Court Gays. But they forge on, like Margaret. ‘I fight on, I fight to win.’ Fracture and fear are tossed out of the way. What will India do to them, these blindingly entrepreneurial, property and company owning Multis? They could come back as Bhagwashes. Or Gandhi, only eating salad and no outfit, craving the Poor.

It’s very worrying.

Only two weeks ago I lunched at Lady Carmichael’s. As you know, she is the Blond Multi’s mother. Her home is probably the most immaculate in England, even though she’s got dogs. It is an unshakeable oaken crucible (yes, it is half-timbered) of English comfort, from which the Blond Multi emerged. There are three sisters and a daughter-in-law, all dynamos, all unflappable. Pergola Trehair, the youngest sister, flowed thus: don’t re-inflate the breast-implant women on the NHS; I’m not killing the pig just yet; yesterday my husband was shooting in Connecticut; today he’s back and slumped; New York’s looking up; there were two shoot suppers before Christmas, one high, one low.

This is the cradle that made the Blond Multi. But what will India do?