TA K I
WHEN IN ROME
From left: Robyn and Rupert Hambro; Boris Johnson.
I WAS VERY SAD to read of Rupert Hambro’s death. I didn’t know him well, but first met him long ago, along with his younger brother Rick, also gone, both quintessential English gentlemen, handsome, kind, and with a great sense of humor. Rupert invited me to lunch quite a few times, but because of circumstance I was never able to reciprocate. The last one was at Wilton’s, which he owned, I 66 QUEST
believe, but he never gave any indication all was not well. In an age of crybabies and professional victims, Rupert stood out like a saint in hell. He leaves his lovely wife, Robyn, a Philadelphia-born beauty, and two children. I was thinking of Rupert and Wilton’s, where long ago I gave a dinner for my friend Nick Scott to meet some of the Spectator people. Nick was a very funny
man and writer who had not managed to publish his gems, so I decided to turn him into Shakespeare by introducing him to The Spectator’s hierarchy: namely our chairman Andrew Neil, then editor Mathew D’Ancone, and the recently departed editor Boris. Also invited were my then High Life editor Liz, and the love of my life—unknown to her or anyone else at The Speccie—Mary Wakefield. I