One of the final August holidays to visit my dad wasn’t actually to Mallorca—it was to Marbella on the Spanish mainland.
Now, at that time, Briony was deep into a hot-and-heavy affair with John Bredenkamp, an arms dealer who, just to spice things up, was married with three children. Needless to say, my mother wasn’t exactly thrilled. But I was around sixteen—what the hell did I know? The plan was to stay at John’s massive holiday home. And when I say massive, I mean massive—complete with four full-time staff.
Joining us were Briony’s friends Susie and Sandy Ord, along with their two kids, James and Sarah. Susie had a drinking problem and was in the thick of serious marital issues, so her cheerful presence cast a long shadow over the trip. Still, being the eternal optimist, I was looking forward to sun, sea, and some adventure—especially because Sally and her boyfriend Peter Sikta were due to arrive a few days later. As I mentioned in a previous chapter, Peter is an absolute laugh-a-minute, and sure enough, the mood lifted the moment he showed up.
Behind the villa loomed a mountain. It might not have been that massive, but to two overconfident lads, it looked both majestic and climbable. I suggested we give it a go, and Peter was immediately in. So, early one morning, we set out to reach the summit. It turned into one of those long-haul hikes where every crest reveals another crest. But we made it—more or less.
What really stands out, though, is what happened near the top. After hours of hiking, Peter needed to answer nature’s call—unfortunately, a number two. He disappeared behind a bush, and moments later, there was a shriek. He came charging out, pants around his ankles, flailing in panic. Apparently, as he was settling down to do the business, he looked down to see a curled-up Spanish adder beneath him. That image still cracks me up.
Another standout from that holiday was convincing my mom and dad to drive to Gibraltar. I’d always been fascinated by the idea of an English colony at the tip of Spain, and I was eager to see the Rock—and catch the hydrofoil to Morocco. My parents weren’t as keen, but after some solid lobbying, they gave in.
Gibraltar was bizarre: English pubs, English-speaking locals, all smack in the middle of Spain. Then we crossed to Tangier. The moment we stepped off the hydrofoil, we were swarmed by touts. One of them latched onto my dad like a barnacle. Even at sixteen, I could see this guy was a grifter of note. But somehow, he became our “guide.”
He led us through a series of predictable stops—each more obviously owned by a cousin than the last. Museums, shops, random attractions. The grand finale was a Persian carpet emporium. They gave us mint tea, rolled out carpets, and then brought out a leather-bound book filled with celebrity names of supposed past customers. My dad was hooked. He bought a massive carpet for something like $3,000—an outrageous sum at the time—and had it shipped to Mallorca.
When it arrived, it was deemed too precious to walk on and ended up mounted on the wall. A few months later, Briony visited. My dad proudly showed off his prized possession. She took one look and said, “I don’t think so.” She clipped a tiny thread from the corner, held a match to it, and sniffed. “Polyester.” The poor man was gutted. He had adored that carpet—until that moment.
But that wasn’t even the most dramatic twist of the trip. While we were in Marbella, my dad got a phone call from Steen—Kirsten’s ex-husband, now weirdly his friend. They’d both invested their savings with the same Danish banker, and Steen was getting seriously nervous. That night, my dad couldn’t sleep. We were sharing a room in John's villa, and I remember waking up a few times to see him wide-eyed, clearly stewing over it. The next morning, he cut the trip short.
He flew out, went straight to the banker’s office, and demanded a full withdrawal—despite heavy penalties. He’d lost all trust. Steen, on the other hand, stayed in, refused to take the hit—and eventually lost everything. It was a close call.
Speaking of money, something else important happened when I turned 18.
My dad opened a bank account in my name at Unibank in Luxembourg—now known as Nordea. He transferred all his wealth into that account and had me sign papers giving him power of attorney. Technically, the money was mine, but he retained full control. He told me outright that this was how he planned to avoid taxes, and that when he died, the account would be mine outright.
I remember signing the documents, but I didn’t feel rich—just a bit baffled. Still, that account becomes quite important later in the story.