She called me in Bermuda. She'd had a look at a couple of the flats, she said, and thought they were OK. Euan hadn't gone with her in the end. “But,” she said, “I took my friend along - he's a businessman and knows about these things, so I thought that could be useful. He thinks it's a good deal. In fact, he's thinking of getting one himself. Here, he can tell you.”
The new man came on the phone, confirmed what Carole said and added that he thought I could get the price down. He also told me, just as Sheila had [Sheila Murison bought flats to let], how, with a bit of manipulation with the garage, I could avoid stamp duty. Again I made it quite clear that I wasn't interested. By this time I thought he sounded a bit pushy, but I thanked him for his help and that was that. Or so I thought.
A week later, on October 28, the day after I got back from Bermuda, I had an e-mail from Peter Foster, the new man in Carole's life, attaching copies of floor plans of The Panoramic. He appeared to have been talking to the developers on my behalf, which was ridiculous - Sheila was handling all that. I supposed he had been talking to them anyway about his own possible purchase, and talking about mine as well strengthened his hand. In another e-mail, he put his mortgage broker in touch with me and I passed the details on to my own accountant, who I'd been with since 1982. Again there seemed little harm in it.
Two of the available flats were next door to each other, and it occurred to me that if I got both I might trigger a discount; then Euan could be in one and I could let out the other. I discussed the possibility there and then with the person showing me around, and offered an overall figure of £430,000, which in the end was what I paid.
The next day a further e-mail arrived from Peter Foster. Carole was obviously relaying everything that was going on but, given that she had just told me she was pregnant, this wasn't the time to be prickly. In one of his e-mails he said that he knew some letting agents, so to keep Carole happy and him out of my hair, I said he could forward me their details. I was puzzled by his wanting to get involved, and started feeling distinctly uneasy.
The Manchester Trust agreed to allow £100,000 to be invested, and the rest I raised by mortgage in the normal way through my bank. We exchanged contracts on November 22, and completed a week after.
On Sunday, November 24, Downing Street special protection officers received a report from colleagues in Cheshire. They'd had a tip-off: a convicted conman called Peter Foster was claiming that he was involved with the Blairs through Carole Caplin. He planned to involve her in a scam concerning a diet tea, which had already landed him in prison. There was also some talk of involvement in a property deal, and he'd boasted that he had met the Blairs' son, Euan. Then Alastair rang. He'd just had a call from a former newspaper colleague, Ian Monk, now working in PR. He was advising Carole and Peter Foster, he said. Foster had just lost a deportation case and, as Carole was now expecting his child, he was looking for “advice”. He also claimed he was being blackmailed - by the man who had tipped off the police - and, having contacted the News of the World, via Max Clifford, they were planning to set up a “sting” - that is, to record a meeting between me and Carole and Peter Foster.
I felt sick, Tony was beside himself, Alastair was merely grim. Sooner or later, probably sooner, he said, it would come out. For him this was the ultimate I Told You So. Carole would now have to go. We saw Carole at Chequers that Sunday and faced her with it. She admitted she knew all about Foster's past, but he was completely innocent: he'd been stitched up by the security services. “Please, Carole,” Tony said, exasperated. “This is ridiculous, the man is a fantasist. You've got to understand; we cannot be connected with a criminal.”
On Saturday, November 28 the headline in the Daily Mail ran: “Cherie's style guru has fallen for a fraudster”. That afternoon, The Mail on Sunday sent through a list of 22 questions to the Downing Street press office, all Foster-related. It was horrendous and Tony was fuming.
“I told you not to buy any bloody flats.”
“He had nothing to do with the bloody flats. I have never met the guy. He has never been here, he has never been to Downing Street. What more can I say? I can't believe you'd believe a convicted conman rather than your own wife!”
“So you categorically deny you have had any contact?”
“Apart from a few e-mails, no. I'll show them to you if you like.” Technology and Tony are like oil and water and, waving that offer aside, he dashed off the form, filling in yes's and no's - mostly no's - then faxed it back. Unfortunately I think he told Alastair in very firm terms that I'd had no contact with him whatsoever. I, on the other hand, didn't talk to Alastair at all.
For the next few days a stream of denials issued from Downing Street. Then, on Thursday, December 5, the Daily Mail published the exchange of e-mails between Foster and me. Alastair's look of superior satisfaction changed completely. I had never seen him so angry before. As he saw it, he had lied to save my face and he was determined that if anyone went down for this, it wasn't going to be Alastair Campbell.
That morning Hilary Coffman [the PM's communications adviser] came to my bedroom while André was doing my hair ... within seconds she was giving me the third degree, clearly on instructions.
“But Hilary, don't you see, there isn't a scandal. It's you lot who are making it into a scandal. Look, I've used my own money to buy two flats. I've paid the going rate for them. Nobody paid £295,000. OK, so I got a discount on the published price, but that's standard - it's a marketing ploy to make you feel you've got a bargain. No, I have never met him - I once said hello to him in passing at the gym. No, I did not ask him to help me to avoid paying stamp duty. No, he was not my financial adviser. No, I did not find him a barrister. No, I did not intervene with immigration or any government official or legal representative on his behalf. No, no, no, no, NO, NO.”
In the mirror was a face I barely recognised. My reflection was blurred as I blinked to try to control the tears. On my dressing table were photographs of all the children. If things had gone differently, in two months' time there would have been another one ... I was forced to issue a statement saying that Peter Foster was involved. Damage limitation is the term, I think.
Fiona's take was slightly different. “Everyone in the press office hates you,” she told me. “They've told lies on your behalf and none of them ever wants to work for you again.”
On December 9, Peter Foster's solicitors issued a statement saying that I had contacted them about his deportation case but that I hadn't intervened in any way, that it had only been to reassure Ms Caplin. This, of course, did more harm than good. But it was true. I had phoned them, but all I was doing was checking that everything that should have been done had been done.
In the afternoon I had my annual children's Christmas party. Every year children from one charity are invited for tea. Father Christmas comes and there's an entertainer. I tried to enjoy myself but I felt like a pariah. André [Cherie's hairdresser] was just getting up steam on my behalf when Alastair came storming into the bedroom.
“That's it,” Alastair said, his arms folded, looking at me via the mirror. “It's now political. The Tories are asking questions and your husband is going to have to answer them. One more time, Cherie, did you at any point have anything whatever to do with the immigration case?”
“I've told you, no. You're determined to humiliate me, aren't you? I know you've been briefing against me.”
“I don't need to. You do it all on your own.”
“Don't you dare talk to Cherie like that!” André exploded.
“You mind your own business,” Alastair retorted. “Remember you're just a f***ing hairdresser.”
“Apologise,” I said.
“I don't think so,” Alastair snorted. “For the last time, I want that woman out of your life.”
“She has just lost a baby, her boyfriend is threatened with deportation. I'm not going to abandon her. I've said I won't talk to her, isn't that enough?”
“Don't forget you brought all of this on yourself.”
The worst aspect for me of the whole Bristol flats nightmare was that I had let Tony down. At the moment in his life when he most needed me, I was a drag on his energies rather than a source of support. Yet, however bad things had been, I never felt that he had abandoned me. For a quarter of a century we had been not only lovers but best friends.
Cherie seems to have 'let Tony down' on an number of occaisons - he must be a saint to have put up with Cherie. She sounds like a buffon...
John, Surrey,