Chapter 30
In September 2003, no sooner were we back from Balmoral than Tony was off again, this time to Berlin for talks with Jacques Chirac and Gerhard Schröder on the rebuilding of Iraq. It was no wonder he always seemed so tired: no world leader before him had undertaken so much traveling. Next in the round of talks were the Aznars. At least they were coming to us. That evening over dinner, the conversation again came round to José Maria’s decision to stand down at the end of his second term in 2004.
A few weeks later, we were at Chequers for the weekend. Tony had been down at the police guardhouse, where they had a small gym, exercising on the running machine, and he came back looking distinctly gray. He had a pain in his chest, he said. He didn’t understand: no matter how much effort he put in, he was short of breath and didn’t seem to be getting any fitter. I said I was going to call the doctor. He told me not to be ridiculous, but I did anyway.
Dr. Shah was the resident GP at the local Royal Air Force base, and he expressed amazement that the Prime Minister didn’t have his own doctor on hand. I told him that he had probably been offered one but, knowing my husband, had said no. Dr. Shah arranged for him to go immediately to the local hospital. I went with him.
At the hospital they erred on the side of caution, saying they’d prefer to send him to London. A garden girl arrived at Hammersmith Hospital in London shortly after we did and sat outside the consulting room throughout, with the prime ministerial red box. Tony’s condition, the consultant explained, was an irregular heartbeat, which was usually cured by an electric shock. The procedure would take seconds, so we didn’t need to involve John Prescott, whose job, as Tony’s deputy, was to take charge if Tony couldn’t. Tony immediately felt a lot better.
Although he’d been advised to take a daily aspirin as a precaution, he thereafter made no effort to do so. Not surprisingly, the pain came back a year later. Now it was decided that an operation was necessary. Again it was something quite simple, though he would need to have a general anesthetic, albeit for a matter of minutes. This time John would have to be involved.
The 2004 Labour Party Conference was coming up, and Tony was determined to wait to have surgery until it was over. In my view, the stress of having to write that speech was unlikely to improve matters, and I told him I’d rather they did it straightaway. Again he took no notice. I took matters into my own hands and fixed for him to go into the hospital on the Friday after conference ended, which is usually a very quiet day.
In 1997, at his first Labour Party Conference as Prime Minister, Tony both promised and warned that his tenure would be a time of “high ideals and hard choices.” Never was that truer than in Iraq. There were times when I faltered, when I was worried about the direction that things were taking in Iraq, and I would have to remind myself that I did not have the overall picture that Tony did. But because I believed in his judgment, I was prepared to put aside the doubts; I knew him and knew he would never do the wrong thing. He had enormous strength of conviction, a quality I had recognized very early on, and my job as his wife was to support him.
Although in 2004 conference had voted four to one against pulling our troops out of Iraq, over the previous year the pressure on Tony had became increasingly intense. There was Iraq, and there was Gordon. Gordon wanted to become Prime Minister so much that he failed to understand that had he merely been prepared to implement Tony’s programs involving education, health care, and pensions, Tony would have stood down, no question. Instead Tony felt that he had no option but to stay on and fight for the things he believed in.
As the tension began to mount inside Number 10, Tony once again began to consider standing down, and I felt helpless to do anything. Of course such a close relationship in the hothouse atmosphere of politics was always going to be difficult. Gordon wanted to be leader, and he had a perfect right to want that. Yet my sympathies inevitably lay with Tony, and I wanted him to go on his own terms. The effect that the constant friction had on my husband colored my feelings. I accept that I am not objective on this — and, frankly, it would be odd if I were. Nor am I blind to the many good qualities Gordon has. But I am intensely loyal to Tony and resented any pressure that was put on him.
This time, at least, there was a positive focus: the job of President of the European Commission needed to be filled by June. Tony had always been fired up by the idea of a united Europe, and we started to talk about whether he should throw his hat in the ring. I even went so far as to look up schooling possibilities for Leo on the Internet. In the end, however, Tony decided to throw his weight behind the candidacy of José Manuel Barroso, the Prime Minister of Portugal, whom he admired, who shared his views on the future of Europe, and who was an ally of the United States.
There had been a point, around the time of the debate on Iraq in March 2003, where Tony felt that he might actually get pushed out. With the Tories supporting the invasion, he never believed that the vote would go against him, but had there been a major Labour revolt, he would have had to resign. The idea of our being cast out in the wilderness with nowhere to live was terrifying to me, and I knew that, somehow or another, we had to buy a place in London. This time Tony agreed. My recent history with property buying being so dire, Tony decided to ask our friend Martha Greene to help.
I first met Martha in 2001 through Carole, at the gym. Then in 2002 she developed breast cancer, and we became closer as a result. Martha is an American, an expatriate who came to London when she was young and never left. When I first met her, she was running a restaurant called Villandry, which she had turned around. She catered for our twenty-first wedding anniversary, and she would also bring in supper for Tony when I wasn’t there. As a result, she became a family friend. Tony and I put great trust in her ability with all things culinary and financial.
Where to start looking for a new house presented a bit of a conundrum. Tony had no wish to stay in Westminster, while I was determined that Leo wouldn’t change schools. I also needed to be within hitting distance of chambers, and Tony wanted to be near the Heathrow Express to the airport. Connaught Square, north of Hyde Park, fulfilled all the criteria except one: price. Although it didn’t have a garden, it looked out on one, and by now we knew that for security reasons, Tony would never be able to use it anyway.
The purchase of a house of this size and price represented a major leap of faith. Yet we had to have something. If we had to move out suddenly from Number 10, we needed somewhere to go. I had to work, as did Tony. Three years on from 9/11, we were only too aware of the security implications of wherever we lived once Tony stepped down. The usual rules about cutting your coat according to your cloth, drummed into me by my grandma, didn’t apply.
To raise this kind of money, Martha put together a business plan. In the long term Tony had “prospects.” In the short term we still had to meet mortgage payments. The rent we could obtain would not cover the whole mortgage. We also realized, again for security reasons, that at some point we would have to buy the carriage house behind the original house. As Tony’s income was fixed, somehow I would have to increase my earnings dramatically to cover the balance, hence a series of speaking engagements, which Martha arranged through her contacts in America.
Public speaking seemed an ideal way of doing something I felt passionate about while at the same time resolving a pressing financial situation. As a barrister, I am no stranger to making speeches, and I particularly enjoy discussing women’s rights. In America I would speak on these issues and other legal matters at conferences.
Although I still refute the idea that I had no right to be paid for these speaking engagements, they proved disastrous from a PR point of view, particularly the series I did in Australia. I was just one “item” on a road-show agenda that included dinner, entertainment, and an auction. For this I received a set fee, as did the four other “performers” on the program. The road show went to several cities, the idea being to raise money for the Children’s Cancer Institute of Australia, which in the end it did. The tour was far from the disaster the British press made it out to be, and in fact it exceeded expectations. Altogether the profits from the tour of Australia and New Zealand were £350,000, the most money the charity had ever raised. But though being paid a fee to speak at a charity event may be standard practice in the charity world, it was a painful lesson that “standard practice” did not apply to me.
There was no doubt that in April 2004, with Gordon rattling the keys above his head, Tony suffered a crisis of confidence as to whether he was still an asset to the Labour Party. I remained determined that he not resign, that he fight the next election and win, and in this I was helped hugely by our closest friends in the Cabinet. It wasn’t just for the sake of his reputation that he should stay on, but for the sake of the New Labour agenda — most important, for public services. As before, when he had failed to win a seat or when he was uncertain about whether he would win the leadership, I reminded him that he needed to “pick himself up, dust himself off, and start all over again.” Among many others, I was convinced that if Tony failed to stand for a third term, it would be seen as a response to the negative criticism of the war. It would be read by history as a tacit admission of failure. There was a certain type of intelligentsia who would never forgive him for Iraq, even if he were to flagellate himself in front of them, who would just say, “I told you so. We should never have trusted him.” I always felt strongly that he should not apologize for something he believed to be right. He could regret the lives lost in Iraq, but he should not apologize for taking the right decision for the country.
In an interview with Andrew Marr, the BBC’s political editor, on the last night of the Labour Party Conference, Tony said that if he were elected, he would serve a full third term but would not serve a fourth. He also explained that he had a heart flutter and that he would be having surgery the next day. At the same time, Downing Street announced that we had bought a house in Connaught Square.
That Friday evening, after conference ended, we made our way back to Hammersmith Hospital. I stayed beside Tony until he grew woozy, then returned to the room he would occupy after the operation. I went down on my knees with my rosary, and I didn’t stop praying until the garden girl came up to tell me that all was well.
Without support from the government, the London bid for the 2012 Olympic Games could never have reached the starting line, let alone the finish line. And although my husband is not as keen on athletics as I am, he was very much in favor from the beginning, reflecting not only on what it would mean to London and Londoners but also on the impact it would have on young people, on sports in general, and on the country’s own self-image. And then there was what is known as the “legacy,” not only for London’s East End (where much of the necessary construction would be done) but for the country as a whole. As a showcase, it’s hard to imagine anything more globally visible.
For some years Silvio Berlusconi, the controversial Italian Prime Minister, had been inviting us to stay as his personal guests. As Italy was a key player in the International Olympic Committee (IOC), Tony felt that if he played his cards right, there was a good chance we could get its three votes for London. So he had agreed to an overnight visit at Berlusconi’s summer villa on Sardinia. Downing Street was naturally horrified, fearing bad publicity, but Tony was insistent. Berlusconi had stood with us on Iraq, one of the “coalition of the willing,” and if visiting him could get us the Italian IOC votes, Tony would do it, he said, and “bugger the opprobrium.”
Silvio Berlusconi never does anything by halves, and the yacht that awaited us in the harbor at Olbia put the royal yacht in the shade. And there was Silvio, on board waiting for us. Suddenly I felt Tony tense beside me, and no wonder: our host was wearing what looked like a pirate outfit, complete with a multicolored bandanna around his head.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered, as we made our way across the gangplank. “The office is going to have a fit.”
He was right. It had “foolish photograph” written all over it.
“Whatever happens,” I said, “I’ll make sure he stands next to me.” I sighed. Not only did I have to give up time with my children to go on this trip, but I also had to make myself look ridiculous. “At least,” I said, “the boat isn’t exactly public, and nobody knows you’re coming.” Famous last words.
“Now I am going to show you something of the island,” Silvio announced as we swooshed out of the harbor. This wasn’t going to be a beaches-and-headlands cruise, we realized, as the boat raced into a thriving port. “Please excuse me for a moment,” our host said. “I must just go below and change.”
Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Common sense had prevailed. But when Silvio reemerged minutes later, the only difference was that the bandanna was now white to match the rest of his outfit.
The docks were crammed. No way was this going to remain a private visit. There was no possibility that Tony could entirely escape the cameras, but I did as promised, and a casual observer would have assumed I was besotted with our Italian host, as I never left his side.
The port was extremely well-to-do. Rather than ship chandlers, however, the predominant shops were luxury boutiques, into one of which we were propelled. Silvio wanted to buy me some jewelry, he said.
“It’s very kind,” I protested, “but I can’t accept. It’s not allowed. I won’t be able to keep it.”
“What you mean you can’t keep it! This is not from my government; it is from me. A personal gift of friendship, Cherie.”
“I’m really sorry, Silvio, but I can’t.”
“Nonsense. Here. What about this?” He held up a really expensive piece of jewelry. I realized it would have been insulting to keep saying no, so I desperately started looking for something cheap while trying to explain that if he gave me anything over £140, it would go straight into the Downing Street vault.
“Well, this is lovely,” I said, pointing at an insubstantial-looking piece of gold wirework.
“No, no, no,” Berlusconi protested. “This one is so much nicer. Trust Silvio.”
“Honestly, this is much more me.”
He clearly thought I was a madwoman.
Villa Certosa is as extraordinary as its larger-than-life owner. On our initial tour, we were serenaded by Silvio’s personal guitarist-troubadour, and every so often Berlusconi himself would break into song. Many of the tunes, it turned out, he had written. Dinner also came with musical accompaniment, the grand piano being on a raft moored in the middle of a vast lagoon. I had never met Silvio’s wife, Veronica Lario, before. She generally kept a low profile, and Villa Certosa was very much her husband’s project, she said. Their house in Milan was more her domain.
After the meal we had limoncello from Berlusconi’s own lemon groves, before once again music appeared on the menu. “Do you play, Tony? Do you sing?”
“No. But Cherie does.”
Thanks, I thought.
Our host’s face lit up. The pianist would accompany me, he said. Fortunately my expression was hidden in the dark. I opted for “Summertime.” After a few bars he joined in. In fact he has a very good voice of the “O Sole Mio” variety. Then Tony and I exchanged glances. We were ready for bed.
It was not to be.
“But what about the concert?” Berlusconi exclaimed. The evening’s event was apparently the inauguration of a four-hundred-seat auditorium carved out of the cliff. An orchestra had been flown in especially from the mainland, he said, not to mention the soprano and the tenor. There was nothing to be done. Among the audience were the ’tecs, garden girls, and comms people. I was glad I couldn’t see their faces when Silvio demanded that I do a repeat performance of “Summertime.”
The “just a few fireworks” turned out to be one of the most magnificent displays I have ever seen, lasting at least twenty minutes and ending with “Viva Tony” emblazoned across the sky. So much for discretion. Tony was mortified.
The next morning was a bit lower-key. For me, a whole series of thalassotherapy pools, while Tony played soccer with Berlusconi and the ’tecs. The final hurdle was the masseur. My husband has a horror of male masseurs, but this was the masseur for the legendary Italian soccer team AC Milan. “Look, Tony,” I said. “He does footballers. Believe me, he’s not after your body.” Later he was forced to admit that it was a really great massage.
Was it worth it? As experiences go, it falls into the category of ultrasurreal. As for the IOC votes, Berlusconi promised nothing, and of course the IOC members are independent, but he said he would do what he could. We will never know for sure, but for all his eccentricities, Silvio Berlusconi is a man who does what he says he will.
The 2005 election, held on May 7, was a vindication of my belief that whatever the press might say, the British public still had faith in Tony. Our majority in Parliament was reduced — hardly surprising after eight years in office — but Labour achieved a third successive term for the first time in its history. As for the Conservatives, although they increased their presence in the House, their percentage of the overall vote was below 35 percent for the third time.
During this campaign I made sure that I had no commitments in court and was able to visit fifty marginals, largely on my own, as the party wanted Tony and Gordon to be the story. It was a poignant few weeks for me, as it would be the last time I would be campaigning for the Labour Party in the role of Prime Minister’s wife.
The host of the 2012 summer games would be announced on July 6 in Singapore. As far as Tony and I were concerned, the timing was as bad as it could be: the same day, Britain was hosting the G8 in Edinburgh, seven thousand miles away. The G8 leaders were due to assemble at Gleneagles on July 6. The big question in the run-up to Singapore was, should Tony go? Some voices in Downing Street were saying no: just before the G8, what was the point? Although by now Tony was used to long-haul travel, the constant crossing of time zones — grabbing sleep when you can, grabbing food when you can rather than when you need it — does nobody any good. The risk was that he would end up being tired and unfocused both in Singapore and in Scotland. The 2005 Gleneagles G8 was particularly important for Tony because, in addition to the usual heads of state involved, he had invited the leaders of China, India, Brazil, South Africa, and Mexico — known as G8 + 5 — as well as representatives from Africa and Asia. It was the first time, too, that the focus would be less on the issues of the day and more on the future, namely Africa and climate change. We also knew that because we needed to be back in Gleneagles before the first guests arrived (I was hosting the spouse program), we wouldn’t be able to stay in Singapore for the final vote. But then neither would President Chirac, who would be representing the rival Paris bid.
I remember going through the pros and cons with Tony way into the night. I don’t know what decided him. Perhaps the gut feeling that his presence could tip the balance, that we’d come so far, it was really important to give it a final push. Or perhaps the sense that if he didn’t go and we lost, he would always feel that he could have made the difference. It was a bit like athletics itself. There is no point in competing if you don’t want to win, even though you know you may not — and in this case, the odds were definitely against us. The risk of failure, however, has never caused Tony to back down. He would rather stick his neck out and risk success, which ultimately is what makes him a great leader.
The roll call of support in Singapore covered a spectrum unimaginable in any other world: from Princess Anne to London Mayor Ken Livingstone to soccer star David Beckham, looking wonderful in an extraordinary white and silver tracksuit. We knew we were running neck and neck with Paris, and as this was the third time Paris had been in the last six, there was a real sense that its time had come.
The voting was done by a process of elimination. Round by round, the lowest-scoring city was eliminated. The dark horse was Madrid, which would be heavily supported by Spanish-speaking South American countries, but should it go out before us, the feeling was that those South American votes would come to us rather than Paris.
Tony’s determination to leave no stone unturned — or in this instance, no committee member unspoken to — was extraordinary. Of about 110 IOC delegates, he was scheduled to meet 40. Sitting in adjacent suites, we divided them up between us, one every twenty minutes. With my husband turning on the charm and determination as only he can, I was very happy dealing with the smaller fry — but of course their votes were worth no less.
People really wanted to meet Tony and were genuinely astonished that he was so approachable — very different from Chirac, whom I watched sweeping presidentially through the hall, not staying to mingle, there just to be seen, as if he were doing them a favor simply by turning up. Tony made people feel they were doing him a favor by letting him come along. There was a definite sense that the contrasting styles might make a difference. Chirac’s final blunder may have been Paris’s undoing: on remarking that British cuisine was second only in ghastliness to Finnish cuisine, he waved good-bye to Finland’s two votes.
We could not stay for the announcement of the winner. Rushing on our way, we flew directly from Singapore into Glasgow airport, arriving at Gleneagles at eight in the morning, when Tony went straight into a meeting.
The G8 moves from country to country. We had hosted our first in 1998, in Birmingham. It had been a baptism of fire for me in terms of hosting the spouse program. By then I had two examples to consider. The first was Hillary Clinton’s G7 in Denver, where, in addition to our ride on the train, the wives had been to a craft fair and had had a group discussion. From that I knew we were all intelligent, interested, and, on the whole, educated women. I was determined that when it was my turn, I would treat the ladies as though they had a brain rather than just a husband.
The second example had come just three months later, when Britain had hosted the annual Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting in Edinburgh. Here were fifty women from fifty-two Commonwealth countries, where many of them operated like First Ladies. In Africa, in particular, the role is more like that of a queen: the wife can have real power, initiating and funding really important work, particularly in relation to women, children, and disability. That the Foreign Office had considered us worth only a visit to a tartan factory, a cookery demonstration, and a fashion show was, frankly, patronizing.
Thus, for my first G8, I decided to give the wives a rather more serious program. After dinner a group from the Royal Shakespeare Company performed extracts under the title “Shakespeare’s Women,” which went down very well. Obviously Hillary Clinton and Aline Chrétien (Canada) had no problem with the language. Nor indeed did Flavia Prodi. Like her husband, the Prime Minister of Italy, she was a university professor, and her English was excellent. Although Mrs. Hashimoto and Mrs. Yeltsin needed interpreters, I felt that it was better to aim high than be patronizing.
The next day I had been given permission to use the royal train, and I took everyone to Chequers for lunch. Sticking with what I knew, I invited Rosalind Higgins, a professor at the LSE (later a judge at the International Court of Justice), to talk to us about international human rights. (I don’t believe I am the only wife of a leader whose husband expects her to be able to discuss things with him.)
Now, in 2005, my general attitude remained the same. After two days of nonstop IOC campaigning, followed by a twelve-hour flight, I was shattered and jet-lagged. Sleep, however, seemed impossible. The vote from Singapore could come in at any time, so I decided to have a massage to calm down. Lying there, oiled up and generally not fit to be seen, I was finally drifting off to sleep when there was a knock at the door. It was Gary, the ’tec.
“Mrs. B? Just thought you’d like to know, we’re in the last two.”
I lay there, the guy pummeling away, every muscle tensed. Another knock.
“Mrs. B? I’m sorry to have to tell you, but . . . we’ve won!”
If I’d been stung by a swarm of bees, I could not have leapt higher. Pulling on my sweatshirt, I hopped to the door and started running down the corridor, Gary laughing behind me, continuing through the public areas to our suite and my wonderful husband.
We were both nearly delirious. “It was all down to you,” I said when we finally stopped laughing. And it was true. However many representatives I had been nice to, it was Tony who had made the difference.
A moment of panic flitted across Tony’s face. “Oh, my God,” he said. “What am I going to say to Chirac?”
The relationship with the French leader was already strained because of Iraq. “Whatever else we do,” he said, wagging his finger and giggling, “there must be no crowing!”
That night the Queen was hosting the dinner. Toward the end of the first course, my Elvis-loving friend Mr. Koizumi leaned across the table, waving his fork.
“What do you think, Jacques?” he piped up, loud enough for everyone to hear, including the Queen. “Very good food here!” At which he began laughing. I looked round at the various faces. Chirac’s was a study in diplomacy. The Queen’s reflected total mystification.
“I didn’t say it,” Chirac explained to Her Majesty.
“Say what?” she replied.
Prime Minister Koizumi was in relentlessly high spirits throughout the meal, finally getting everyone to sing “Happy Birthday” to George Bush, whose birthday it was.
As the evening was winding down, the Queen and Prince Philip caught my eye. “Marvelous news, Mrs. Blair,” she said quietly, giving Chirac a covert look.
“Of course,” said the Prince, “I’m so old, I won’t be here then.”
“Oh, sir, please don’t say that. I certainly hope you will.” And I did. I’m actually quite fond of the old boy.
“Well, one needs to be realistic,” added the Queen. “It’ll be for Charles and the boys, not for us.”
How terrible, I thought. How can we possibly have the Olympics without the Queen? She smiled and moved away. I found the idea that the Queen might not be there quite upsetting.
The spouses’ program was surprisingly royal, I realized. The following morning we were going to Glamis Castle, where the Queen Mother was born and brought up. In line with the G8’s theme of Africa and climate change, I had arranged that a tree be planted in the name of each spouse, mirroring a plan in Burkina Faso that encouraged the planting of income-producing trees.
The following morning I was chatting with André as he was trying to restore some order to my hair, when his cell phone rang. He listened, said nothing, and then crossed to the TV and turned it on. It was his boyfriend, he told me, saying he was okay, but there had been some kind of explosion in London. Like any mother, my first thought was for the safety of my children. I called Jackie but couldn’t get through on her cell phone. The Downing Street phones were working, however: Leo and Kathryn were fine. The ’tecs had picked them up from school, and they were on their way home. Next I got hold of Nick, who was in Oxford, and finally Euan in America. Although the two older boys weren’t in any more danger than they had been a day or a week before, when something so terrifying strikes at the heart of all you hold dear, there’s comfort to be found in just hearing your family’s voices. As the enormity of what had happened began to come through, I felt both angry and numb.
A series of four coordinated bombs had gone off during rush hour, killing fifty-six people and injuring seven hundred. Among the dead were the suicide bombers. These were streets I knew. The bomb on the Piccadilly Line was beneath Russell Square, where the first meetings about Matrix had been held. The bus that was so callously targeted after the underground was closed was in Upper Woburn Place, where the old industrial tribunal building used to be.
The summit was to go ahead, it was decided; otherwise the terrorists would be seen to have won. But all the leaders immediately understood that Tony had to go to London, leaving our Foreign Secretary, Jack Straw, to chair the climate change session that morning.
The spouses’ program also went ahead, but the atmosphere was far from the one I had planned and expected. Among the guests I had invited that evening was Alexander McCall Smith, author of the popular No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series and emeritus professor of medical law and bioethics at Edinburgh University. We ended up discussing the finer points of moral philosophy.
That night I lay in a luxurious hotel, surrounded by every kind of security imaginable, and it was dreadful. I thought of all those hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who tonight wouldn’t sleep because they had lost someone close to them, someone they were never able to say good-bye to. To go from the euphoria of the previous day to this terrible tragedy was beyond comprehension.