1991 began with me walking around in a brace—still in pain, but profoundly grateful there was no lasting damage to my spine. I was still hopelessly in love with Terry. I forgot to mention: before the accident, I had phoned my dad to tell him I’d proposed. He was over the moon and immediately offered to buy us a house. I mean, who gets that lucky? My goodness.
At the same time, the world was shifting. Iraq had invaded Kuwait in August 1990—right around when I met Terry—and by January 1991, the Americans, backed by the UN and coalition forces, had launched Operation Desert Storm. What made it unique for me was that South Africa now had DSTV (Digital Satellite Television) and CNN, so I watched the war unfold live from the couch at Terry's parents' place. First-person footage of bombs dropping down drainpipes and exploding buildings in Iraq—completely surreal. Mesmerizing and horrifying at once.
Our wedding was set for April 6th. My dad and Terry’s mom, Mary, were coordinating the event—about 200 guests—via fax machine and phone. My dad had insisted I get them a fax, and he loved to write longhand letters and send them off this way. Mary was in seventh heaven. Terry had been a bit of a challenge to her devout Catholic family. She’d become sexually active quite young, and when I asked her why, she said, “Because everyone was making such a big deal about sex—I just wanted to find out what it was all about.” That was Terry—unconventional and unapologetic. Good for her.
Still, I was insecure. I’d just discovered my extremely heterosexual sexuality and found myself comparing our experiences. I questioned her unnecessarily about her past—each and every detail. One evening in bed, I asked about her different lovers. When she mentioned Blair McKenzie—someone I hadn’t heard of before—something in me sparked. “Who’s Blair?” I asked. “He was a lodger,” she said. “Staying with us in the spare room in Linden.”
I knew about John Alexander, Stuart Lavery, a few others—but none of them triggered me like the mention of Blair. Maybe it was her delivery. My intuition radar went straight to red alert. And as you'll discover further on in this memoir, I wasn’t wrong.
We planned a little European tour before the wedding—first to visit my dad in Spain. I think he wanted Kirsten, his girlfriend at the time, to meet Terry. I also wanted to visit Briony, my socialite sister, who was living in a house in Chelsea—three or four stories, funded by her extremely wealthy lover, John Bredenkamp. Still married, with three kids. My mother was highly critical of that relationship. So was I. But it was Briony’s life.
When we landed in London, Terry was in a tracksuit. I remember thinking, I hope she puts on some makeup before we meet Briony. Looking back now, what a disservice that was to Terry. Who was I to care about such superficial nonsense? But back then, I wanted her to dazzle Briony. Because Briony had been a model—an absolute beauty. I wanted Terry to impress her physically, because I knew that would land harder than character or wit. And that tells you more about me than anyone else.
Terry did put on some makeup, but I think—justifiably—she resented that unspoken pressure. She didn’t come from a world where looks held the kind of currency they did in my family.
We flew to Mallorca, and I couldn’t wait to show Terry the places I loved. One was a restaurant in Genova that served caracoles—Mallorcan snails, picked fresh from the fields and cooked in garlic. I convinced her to try them, and later borrowed my dad’s car to drive her 60 km north to Las Cuevas del Drac. Beautiful cave system—but she was violently carsick en route, losing all the snails. Poor girl.
One night, we got into a massive argument over Wilbur Smith. I loved his books—so did my dad—but Terry dismissed them as “not real literature.” Back in the guest room at my dad’s place, soaking in the bath, I found myself wondering if we were just too young, too immature, to take on marriage. That was my intuition speaking again. But I overrode it—because so much else felt so good.
We made up. Then took a ferry to France and the train to Paris. We stayed at the Louis Deux Hotel—a quaint little place. It was magical. Then we headed south, planning to visit Sally in Andorra. She had met a really nice English guy named Hugh and started a restaurant there.
We took the fast train down to Tarbes. My dad had bought me a beautiful camera, and I captured some lovely images of Terry in the streetlights—long before digital. When we arrived in Andorra, Terry struggled at first with skiing, but picked it up quickly thanks to a South African instructor. I was running out of money—badly. I had no credit cards, only traveler’s cheques, which meant finding a place to countersign and exchange them.
I judged it so we’d have just enough to get across the Channel by ferry, then catch the train up to London. When we arrived at Trafalgar Station, I realized we didn’t have a penny left to get to Briony’s place in Chelsea. I winged it. Pulled over a black cab. “Hi, gov. Lamont Road please” I said.
We got there. “Could you hold on a sec?” I asked the driver, praying Briony was home. Her Filipino maid let me in—Briony wasn’t there. I asked if there was any cash around, and she said no. I dashed upstairs, rummaging through coat pockets, hoping for enough spare change to pay the cabbie. Nothing. No Briony. No phones. I went back out and said, “I’m really sorry—I thought my sister was home. I don’t have any money.” The driver looked at me—scorn, amusement, disbelief. Then smiled and said, “It’s okay, gov. Have a good day.” And off he went. What a gentleman.
And so ended the pre-honeymoon.
Back in Johannesburg, wedding preparations were underway. One moment stands out: Bruce pulled me aside and said, “Look, I like Terry a lot—but you do realize she’s marrying you for your money, right?” I was stunned. “That’s insulting,” I said. “You don’t think she’s capable of loving me for me?”
He replied, “I’m not saying that. But she wouldn’t be doing all this if you didn’t have any money.”
I said, “Well, neither would I. I wouldn’t be marrying her if I didn’t have the money to afford to. But we do love each other—and we’re in a lucky position.”
To his credit, Bruce—who is one of the kindest, most grounded people I know—nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. And gave me his blessing.