Andy, Mandy and Jeffrey have a cosy chat in Bathrobe Central
A holiday home on Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. It is a sunny day in 1999. Prince Andrew, as he then was, reclines on a slatted wooden patio chair. He is wearing a white bathrobe. Andrew is joined by his host, Jeffrey Epstein.
JE: Andy, good morning! You’re looking well. Good massage?
PA: Very good. I feel like a new man.
JE: I told you she’s good. I had her flown up from Little St James, my place in the Virgin Islands. Have you been there? I can’t remember. If not, you must come down.
PA: Masses of masseuses?
JE: It’s masseuse central, Andy. You’d enjoy it. How is Sarah, by the way?
PA: Sarah?
JE: Your wife?
PA: Ah, yes. Ex, actually. She sends her love. Told me to be sure to tell you you’re a dear, dear man.
JE: And she is a dear woman, Andy. I know. I’ve got the bills to prove it.
PA: Ah, well, yes. She can be a little… extravagant, shall we say?
Epstein waves this away.
JE: It is my pleasure, Andy. I am a wealthy man and I like to share my good fortune with my special friends.
PA: Well, you’re immensely generous and she asked me to thank you.
JE: Not at all. Tell me, when might you be free to join me and Ghislaine in Little St James? So I can leave a gap in my schedule…
PA: Would love that, Jeffrey. I might have a busy period coming up. The Queen wants me to accept a role as Trade Envoy to drum up a little business for Great Britain.
JE: Really? I can see why. You were born to do that job, if I may say. Just the man to knock some heads together, cut through the BS, get things done. When will you start?
PA: Very kind, Jeffrey. No idea when I start. Mama has to talk to the Prime Minister first, get him onside.
JE: Well, you sure have the credentials. We should talk again. Perhaps there’s some way that we can make an arrangement to our mutual benefit.
PA: I’m sure we can, Jeffrey. (Sighs) Ah, what a shame…
JE: What’s a shame, Andy?
PA: Well, I’ll be heading home soon… and leaving all this behind.
JE: You mean the massages?
PA: Well yes, Jeffrey. I live a lonely life these days. It’s not easy, being in the public eye and all that.
JE: Andy, Andy, fear not. I’ll have her come visit you. She’ll love the Palace. I’ll send her over on my private jet.
PA: You would do that? She would do that?
JE: For a true friend, of course! As for her, well, have baby oil, will travel. Oh, look, here comes Petie. Have you two met?
PA: Face seems familiar. Who is he?
A third man joins them. It is Peter Mandelson, hair still wet, slicked back. He too wears a white bathrobe.
PM: Morning, chaps. Any more of that coffee going?
JE: Sure, Petie. By the way, have you met Prince Andrew?
Mandelson extends a hand.
PM: I haven’t. Your Royal Highness, what a pleasure.
JE: I’d rather we dispensed with the formalities. We’re here to have fun. Andy, this is Petie; Petie, Andy. Sit, Petie. Look as if you’re staying.
PM: Oh, I am, Jeffrey, I am. I’ve just been for a dip… er, Andy. You too, by the look of it.
PA: Something like that, Petie. What is it that you do?
PM: I’m Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. Tony has asked me to sort out the Good Friday Agreement.
JE: Sort it out?
PM: Implement it. Tony’s brilliant diplomacy made it happen. Now I have to make it work.
JE: No wonder you look a little stressed out, Petie. You okay?
PM: Frankly, no. I’ve got high cholesterol. And I’m in this constant state of anxiety. Every now and then, I have a panic attack. It’s dealing with all these Irish people. You never know when they’re going to go… you know, off the reservation. All this checking under the car for bombs, it’s doing my head in.
JE: Petie, how old are you now?
PM: Forty-six.
Epstein lifts his chin, pats his jowls with the back of his hand.
JE: Our politicians look after themselves. Even when they’re eighty they like to look forty. Just don’t ask them to run up airplane stairs, eh?
PM: What are you saying, Jeffrey?
JE: I’m saying you might need a little chemical help, buddy.
PM: What, drugs?
JE: Sure. Nothing illegal, of course. Just some prescription drugs. Calm you down, Petie. Get rid of the turkey neck.
PM: What sort of drugs?
JE: Maybe Niaspan for the cholesterol? I’ll ask my doctor. And I’m pretty sure he can get you some Xanax for the panic attacks. We call them triangles, cos of their shape. Botox for the face, of course.
PM: I’m not sure Jeffrey. Drugs are not my thing.
JE: Fine. Think about it. If you change your mind, I’m here for you.
A voice calls out, asking them to look at the camera. Andrew and Epstein already are and Mandelson looks back over his shoulder. A flash goes off. The same voice calls thanks. Epstein checks his phone.
JE: Look, I have some business to take care of. A good friend of mine, Mohamed Al Fayed, is trying to get me. You know Mo?
PA: Sarah does. Harrods, right?
JE: That’s him. Listen, you two guys stay and get to know each other. Epstein drains a Stars and Stripes mug of coffee and leaves.
PA: Nice man.
PM: Very nice man. He seems interested in our careers, too.
PA: He’s extraordinarily generous. And never seems to want anything in return.
PM: Just as well. We could get into a lot of trouble that way.
PA: Oh, don’t worry about that. He’s one of us. He’s fine.
*****
The Six Nations rugby championship has exceeded everyone’s hopes this year. One of the best ever, capped off by the most exciting match I’ve ever watched.
England finally got rid of the anvil chained to their ankle that is coach Steve Borthwick – and did their own thrilling thing.
France are a superb side and England faced them on the back of three dismal defeats. But they shunned Borthwick’s innate caution and tore it up. The match could be summed up by the galloping try scored by Ollie Chessum from a fearless intercept.
We lost by two points but who cares? It was the kind of rugby that fans pay big bucks for and deserve to see. Wales won, too. Hurrah for that, we need them firing to ensure the tournament remains the best in the world.
And it is. I’d like England to win the World Cup next year but not as much as I would like them to win the Grand Slam. Borthwick should remember that this is the fans’ priority. He treats team selection as peering into a petri dish at his peril.
*****
Novelist Len Deighton has died at 97 and I am bereft.
As a young man, my appetite for spy fiction whetted by Ian Fleming’s James Bond, I read The Ipcress File and gasped at its cleverness and subversiveness.
It was wry and witty in the manner of Raymond Chandler and action-packed and in Harry Palmer – though he was never named in the book – it had a working-class hero for the times, proving that spies need not be posh.
Deighton was a polymath – writer, illustrator, military historian, screen writer (he wrote Dickie Attenborough’s biting satire Oh! What a Lovely War), expert cook and friend to those, especially Michael Caine, who invented Swinging London.
Great though Ipcress was, I was staggered by Deighton’s skill in the Bernard Samson novels: Three trilogies, meticulously planned in advance, about a jaded intelligence agent. So labyrinthine that a man called Edward Milward-Oliver wrote The Len Deighton Companion, to keep readers abreast of who was who.
I nearly got to interview Deighton. He was coming to London – perhaps for his 80th birthday – and I was offered some time with the great man. But he was taken ill and never came. It remains one of the greatest regrets of my career.
RICHARD DISMORE
18 March 2026
