Chapter 56 Economy, Issie-style
Chapter 58 New York, via Iceland
Chapter 59 Economy, Issie-style (II)
Chapter 60 Triumph, Disaster and Recovery
Chapter 62 When Philip Met Isabella
Chapter 63 The Battle of Hilles
Chapter 69 ‘I always hated Tesco’
I was at our flat in Eaton Square in London when I got the call. It was Issie’s devoted younger sister, Lavinia.
‘Detmar, I have just come home from shopping,’ Lavinia said frantically, ‘Issie has swallowed some poison. She says not to worry, as she has sicked most of it up. She seems ok. What shall I do?’
It was my wife Isabella’s seventh suicide attempt in fourteen months, and I felt a surge of anxious nausea as I tried to process Lavinia’s words.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this time she’ll succeed.
But poison? Where the hell had she found that? Was it weedkiller, like my father had used? And if it was, then how could she possibly still be alive? Issie was only 5′2½″ and weighed 7 stone. My father – 6′1″ and 18 stone – had drunk a bottle of paraquat in 1977 and it killed him in half an hour as the liquid burned out his insides. Amaury, my curly-haired 12-year-old brother, was there. He said Dadda never cried out, but that his fists were clenched in pain.
The only thing I knew was that if I was to be of any use to Issie at all, I had to remain calm and non-hysterical. ‘Take her to hospital,’ I told Lavinia. ‘I’ll be down as soon as possible.’
In a trance I called the milliner Philip Treacy, Issie’s best friend, who was meant to be picking me up later, because we had already planned to go down to Hilles, our house in the country, that weekend. I told him what had happened and he came round with his boyfriend Stefan and picked me up and we set off in his car for Gloucester Royal Hospital.
How could she still be alive? Maybe, I found myself hoping, as we crawled at an agonizingly slow pace through west London towards the M4, it wasn’t weedkiller. But I had a dreadful hunch that it was, because just a couple of months beforehand I had taken delivery of a bottle of paraquat at Hilles, ordered by Isabella.
I had been horrified, furious, and had asked Isabella, ‘What the hell is this? What are you doing?’ She had just remained silent.
I took it back to the farm shop in Gloucester where she had ordered it and told them, ‘The person who ordered this is trying to kill herself. Never send it again.’ The poor lady I spoke to was very upset.
I stared out of the car window in a daze as we hit the motorway and finally started picking up some speed. Surely the same farm shop wouldn’t have sold her paraquat? Could it be something she had found in the garage from my father’s stack of poison, left there since the seventies, which would be 30 years out of date?
When we finally arrived in Gloucester, we got lost. The Gloucester Royal Hospital is a big 1970s building with a huge chimney. I thought you couldn’t miss it, but because of the new housing developments around it the road was obscured.
After driving around the hospital for a while and getting nowhere I said, ‘Let’s get out and walk.’ Philip and I had to scramble over a wall to get into the hospital grounds.
We went to the hospital reception and asked for Isabella, but no one knew where she was. Eventually we found out she was in the Accident and Emergency ward, so we rushed there.
And that’s where we found her. My heart went out when I saw her. She was propped up in bed, looking sallow, and wearing a thin white hospital nightgown. She was on a drip, and looked and sounded weak.
‘Hi Det,’ she said.
Why did my wife, Isabella Blow, the fashion icon, the legend, the toast of glossy magazines from London to New York, want to kill herself? To answer that