I went on the honeymoon of my friend John Cleese, so it was fitting
that I should be on the divorcey-moon. The honeymoon was in St Lucia; to
celebrate the end of his not-so-good marriage, we decided to tour
Switzerland.
Not long before, John had called me from his home in Santa Barbara,
California, and said, “I think it’s going to be a very civilised divorce.”
“No way, John,” I said. “Get into the real world.”
I remembered his wife, Alyce Faye Eichelberger – whom he’d rescued from a
council flat – saying to me during a previous marriage-wobble, “I’m going to
take John for all I can. He won’t know what’s hit him.” He does now.
There’s no doubt that John is hurting, but has put on a witty public face.
When Alyce failed to turn up to a judicial hearing, her lawyer said to the
judge, “My client is undergoing a medical procedure.” John observed, “I
think that means a pedicure.”
Their financial dispute will almost certainly drag on well into next year.
Alyce could end up with £12m, an apartment in New York and a £2m mews house
near me in Holland Park, west London. Until the divorce is settled, she’s on
£900,000-a-year maintenance, plus use of a beach house in Santa Barbara and
other properties. Not bad for a 15-year marriage that did not produce any
children.
The only child involved in the marriage was John’s daughter Camilla – aged 8
at the start, and now 24. She’s writing a stage musical of A Fish Called
Wanda with John and they have a major musical producer waiting for it.
When Alyce learnt that Camilla was to stop living with her mother in Chicago
and relocate to be with John in Santa Barbara, she said to me, “I was hoping
to go into the sunset alone with John.” A major problem in the marriage
seemed to be Alyce’s jealousy of Camilla. It was almost as if John had to
make a choice. As our mutual friend Sir Michael Caine observed, “Blood is
thicker than water.”
In her divorce testimony, Alyce claimed that she was entitled to her
extravagant demands because Cleese was a “world-renowned celebrity” and she
was used to “being entertained by royalty and dignitaries in castles”. She
also claimed John travelled on private jets.
“I take private jets,” I said to John. “I never realised you did too.”
“I took two private jets in 14 years,” he replied. He didn’t recall being
entertained in a castle, either. As for the rest of Alyce’s claims, John
sent the divorce papers to his Monty Python colleagues with a note saying,
“Do you think this would make a TV series – Lives of the Seriously Demented?”
“Why didn’t you have a prenuptial settlement?” I asked John.
“I was naïve,” he replied. When I asked what he would do differently if he
could live his life again, John responded, “I wouldn’t have married Alyce
Faye Eichelberger and I wouldn’t have made Fierce Creatures [the film that
followed A Fish Called Wanda].” He also said, “This divorce will cost me
millions, but it’s worth it.”
I myself never married. I saw a neon alimony sign flashing above the girls’
heads. Not that of my fiancée Geraldine, of course. Above her head is only a
halo. She even managed a smile when I told her, “It took me 70 years to get
engaged – don’t hold your breath for the wedding.”
What do Mr C and I have in common? We both studied law at Downing College,
Cambridge. We’re both mildly insane.
In spite of John’s knowledge of law he was surprised when, after years of no
serious bidders, he accepted an offer for his Santa Barbara ranch and Alyce,
through her lawyer, said, “We defer to your judgment.”
“What does that mean?” John asked. His lawyer explained Alyce was reserving
the right to take him to court later to sue him for not getting a better
price. John was outraged.
I first met John in Barbados in 1985. Before our first dinner, he shaved off
his beard and moustache, leaving just enough above the lip to make him look
extraordinarily like Hitler. One day, we walked barefoot in the sea, from my
hotel to his. The sun was shining, birds were singing, flowers were
flowering. He had a new young daughter, Camilla. Everything was rosy.
“You know, Michael, there must be more to life than this,” he said.
I told that story one day to Bjorn Ulvaeus, a member of the pop group Abba,
when we were both staying at the hotel Splendido in Portofino, because he
looked so gloomy. It was the only time I ever saw him laugh.
I once asked John when he realised that his marriage to his second wife, a
tall Los Angeles newscaster called Barbara Trentham, was going downhill. “I
bought 10 stickers reading: ‘I visited the Harrow Leisure Centre’ and stuck
them all over my Bentley. Barbara peeled them off one by one. That’s when I
realised the marriage was over,” he told me.
Some time later, I was walking down the road where I live, and turned left
into Kensington High Street. There was my old friend John, with a woman. As
I walked on with my girlfriend, I said, “That’s funny, John never introduced
me to the person he was with.”
It was Alyce. She and John were on their first date, having been introduced by
the society doctor John Gayner at a dinner party. He thought they’d hit it
off. Don’t go into marriage brokering, Dr Gayner. It ain’t your speciality.
At John’s request, I later found him a house to rent in Barbados owned by the
parents of Jemma and Jodie Kidd. For many years, he stayed there at
Christmas and new year; it was also where he married Alyce one Christmas.
From there, he set off for his honeymoon with Alyce, me, and my then
girlfriend, the actress Jenny Seagrove.
We spent a lot of time in St Lucia with my friend Colin Tennant, aka Lord
Glenconner. When I told him two days ago that John’s marriage to Alyce had
collapsed, he said: “I’m not surprised. She was rather grim.”
John and I started our buddy-buddy divorcey-moon in Lugano. Our dinner at the
hotel Villa Principe Leopoldo was moderate, the service odd. When I
complained, John observed, “You’re a very good influence on me because you
behave so badly.”
The shrimps came from South Africa – “jet-lagged shrimps,” observed John.
Waiters kept trying to take our plates away before we’d finished. John said,
“They’re frightened the food’s going to go bad in front of you and you’ll
sue.”
I didn’t like the table position; John hated the breakfast coffee. I also
objected to plastic butter containers with foil you had to peel off. “You
have to remember, Michael,” John explained , “that the staff are too busy to
unwrap it.”
John, a great exercise man – as opposed to me, who finds lying down tiring –
said of the hotel’s gym: “It was a dump – I could show you better places in
Weston-Super-Mare [John’s birthplace].”
When we came out of dinner, he got into the lift. “Your room’s on this floor,”
I said. John shouted sarcastically from the lift, “I’ll see you later,” as
if telling me I was wrong. “Look, John,” I yelled, “a sign here says Rooms
AM. Yours is G.” “We’re becoming like Laurel and Hardy – except more
abusive,” remarked John, as he exited from the lift.
The next day, John was humping suitcases into a white Range Rover. “I must
have offended the porter,” he muttered. He’d texted Camilla: “I’m going to
really impress you at last. The car I’ve hired is the one Paris Hilton
always uses.” She texted back: “Blow it up.”
Next week: Our heroes continue their tour. Geraldine joins in and a lovely
blonde arrives for John. Gossip columnists, salivate
