New York
‘Why would he run for Parliament?’ screams the headline in the New York Times. A subheading lists ‘An inherited passion for women, gambling, the environment and politics’. As I start to read, I fear the worst, but as it turns out it could have been a lot worse. Zac Goldsmith’s name is big in Britain, less so in America, although in green circles he’s an international prince. Although meant rhetorically, it’s quite dumb to ask why a person would run for Parliament, as if being rich and normal — liking women — disqualifies one from holding office. In fact, that’s what’s wrong with politics. The wrong people are in it. If more people like Zac Goldsmith threw their hats into the ring, fewer smiling professional wallet-lifters would be running our lives.
In May 1997, election night, I dined at Lord Black’s and immediately after dinner headed for Jimmy Goldsmith’s house as the first results began coming in. I had had lunch with Jimmy that day, along with Kate Reardon and the historian Andrew Roberts — not as famous and ubiquitous back then as he is today. Jimmy was in a funny mood, reflective, nostalgic almost. None of us knew that he was dying. He was to ring me a week later with the ghastly news, although he sounded quite chipper: ‘I’ve got quite a scoop for you, old boy…’
Sir James, an aide, Zac and Jemima, Robin Birley and myself left for Putney and the election centre where the results would be announced. I was drunk. The Times reported that I tried to get the telephone number of a female journalist, as if I had committed the greatest faux pas ever.
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