Has this glamorous heiress really decided to create a haven for asylum seekers? It seems a stretch, to be honest. She could be bored, her usual jet set lifestyle curbed by ‘covid’, or perhaps for once the news coverage has prompted a latent social conscience. In any case it’s an offer the authorities can’t refuse. The publicity won’t do her any harm either, especially after the last escapade.
The Times – Monday 9th. August 2021
‘HEIRESS FOILED IN LOVE’
‘Savanna Craven, glamorous daughter of billionaire Harry Craven was caught sobbing into her sequins as her latest love, Adam Corrin left her stranded at Saturday’s annual Stiford Ball. The couple, who had been together for three months and were engaged to be married, quarrelled after allegations of Corrin’s association with a former girlfriend. The heiress was seen leaving the ball early in a distressed and highly emotional state.’
‘SOBBING SAVANNA STEALS AWAY’ – gloated The Sun, while our paper with ‘WHEN WILL SHE EVER LEARN?’, was slightly more subdued but no less judgemental. These thoughts were going through my mind as I drove north following my editor’s instructions.
‘Right’ he’d said, tossing the press release across my desk. ‘Get up there and find out if she’s for real or just play-acting.’
The would-be facility, an ex RAF camp in Derbyshire would need a lot of work to fulfil Savanna’s expectations if the glossy artist’s impressions in the press pack were anything to go by. The press, predominantly photographers looking for a sexy Savannah pose, gave the information a cursory glance before tossing away their cigarettes at the door and lugging their equipment into the building. Few of them would need the hard hats provided, preferring to secure the right picture and spend the rest of the day in their hotel bar rather than tour the premises.
Savanna appeared looking fabulous in brand new dungarees and builders boots without enough wear to convince us of the sincerity of her intentions.
‘Is Adam involved?’ was the first question, followed by
‘Is Daddy footing the bill?’
I asked her why she hadn’t just given money to the appropriate charities instead of embarking on such a large project.
‘I wanted to get involved,’ she replied to snorts of derisive laughter.
The press conference was getting out of hand and the P.R. ladysoon ended it leaving Savanna to pose for the photographs that were all the press wanted in the first place. Once the fun was over I waved to our photographer who was packing up his equipment, ready to head for his first pint. I was the only one left to enjoy a solitary tour with Savanna’s P.R. who explained their plans for the facility. I left her my card, saying I had a few further questions for Savanna, should she want to contact me and made my way to my hotel. I’d just settled in, showered and ordered room service when my mobile rang. Savanna’s P.R. informed me that I would be granted an interview within the next couple of days on my return to London. I rang my editor.
‘Is she giving interviews to anyone else?,’ he asked.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Hmmm. OK. Give me a few paragraphs for the news section and you can have a slot in the weekend magazine. Don’t let her seduce you.’
I took a taxi to the hotel chosen for my interview and made a pact with myself not to be influenced by Savanna’s wealth or any charm offensive on her part. I hadn’t been with the paper long and this was my first major assignment. The taxi stopped in a side street in Mayfair at one of the most discreet entrances I’d ever seen. The door opened from the inside as I approached, the doorman quietly confirming my name and glancing at my press card before ushering me across the lobby towards a door to the right of the reception desk. The whole operation was as smooth as silk. I felt as if I could almost have been a spy about to deliver a package of sensitive information and wondered if I should listen in case the door was locked behind me.The room, like the lobby, was furnished with expensive and neutral, good taste. Savanna’s P.R. lady was nowhere to be seen. She’d been replaced by a slim young man who was courtesy itself, leading me to a large armchair facing another in front of a fireplace with a coffee table in between.
‘Savanna will be here in a moment. We won’t be disturbed,’ he informed me. ‘Do you have everything you need?’
I assured him I had, and he retreated to the back of the room.
The Savanna who appeared a few minutes later, preceded by a waitress with a tray of coffee, was unlike the one encountered at the RAF base in Derbyshire, or any of the photos that had littered newspapers in the last few years. With hair in a neat topknot, minimal makeup, a light grey knitted dress and low heels she could have been anything from a discrete ministerial secretary to the receptionist for a private consultant in Harley Street. She shook my hand
‘Thank you for coming’
‘Thank you for inviting me’
Savanna sat opposite and asked me how I liked my coffee.
I started gently, praising her on plans for the future facility and asking how she had decided on the layout and location.
‘How much is your father involved?’
After this question there was a movement from the back of the room and Savanna’s new P.R. minder came forward.
‘I don’t think —’
‘It’s all right Peter, you can leave us.’ Perfectly poised, Savanna waved the man away and after a pause we heard him retrace his steps and close the door. The heiress immediately turned towards me, her eyes assuming an almost childlike intensity which begged me to believe her.
‘My father thinks I’m a spoiled, useless piece of fluff, good for nothing but the ‘right’ marriage,’ she blurted.
‘Do you think you’ve let him down?’ I queried.
‘Probably, but then I’ve let myself down as well.’
I waited.
‘I’ve had fun of course, loads of fun and I’m very privileged. I don’t want to sound like a poor little rich girl.’
Again I waited.
‘I think it’s time I did something useful. I’ve got the resources and access to as many experts as I need.’
‘But why this particular project?’
‘Originally we were immigrants. My great Grandfather came from Russia.’
I made a mental note to delve further into her family background.
‘Apparently, Russia was too dangerous to stay, and my great grandfather and his parents more or less ran for their lives. They arrived here with nothing. Everything we have we owe to the courage and hard work of our ancestors.’
‘Is that how your father feels?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you feel?’
‘I think it’s time I stopped playing around.’
‘Has your broken engagement had anything to do with this?’
Savanna paused and looked away.
‘I suppose it has. I felt like a complete fool. I want to do something for myself instead of just behaving as everyone expects me to.’
‘And you feel this is the way to do that.’
‘Yes, this is the way to do it.’
In the end my article was inconclusive. Much as I wanted to believe Savanna I doubted her cosseted lifestyle had prepared her for this substantial undertaking, and wondered if her boredom threshold would stretch long enough to see it through. My photographer took a few photographs when I’d finished my questions and the editor chose one, to run opposite a more familiar shot of her, dressed for a night out. The headline ran ’TWO SIDES OF SAVANNA?’ I was surprised, after publication, to receive an email from Peter saying that Savanna had requested we had lunch. Seated in the small restaurant of her choice with Peter a few tables away I asked her why she’d invited me.
‘You gave me the benefit of the doubt,’ she smiled, pouring champagne for us both.
Over the following months the press were informed of progress,( with one or two rumours of setbacks) at Savanna’s new facility until it was finally finished and opened by the Home Secretary. The general consensus of opinion was that it was a model to which future projects should aspire and Savanna’s company was granted charitable status to help her build them. A fundraising gala was to be held at The Savoy to which the press were invited. I was surprised when my editor informed me that our Whitehall correspondent would be accompanying me.
‘Go and enjoy yourself,’ he said. ‘Let Jeff do all the work.’
I treated it like a night off, with the excuse to buy a new dress and have my hair done. Savanna was resplendent in all her glory as she took the stage with her father.
‘I’m so proud of her,’ he told the wealthy audience to thunderous applause.
‘I bet he is,’ whispered Jeff, before leaving to file his copy.
I didn’t rush into the office the next morning, allowing myself a leisurely breakfast for once, remembering Savanna’s beautiful smile as she’d stood beside her father the previous evening. How happy she looked. The day’s paper was on my desk by the time I arrived and our photographer had captured father and daughter together just as I remembered them. The headline ran:-
‘SAVANNA OPENS DOOR TO GOVERNMENT CONTRACTS.’
The work of a glamorous socialite has helped her father pursue lucrative government contracts. A source close to the treasury confirmed last night that Stanley Craven, whose business empire is reported to be worth over £12bn.,and is known in government circles to have chased M.O.D. development projects since 2010, is now having talks with ministers. His daughter, Savanna’s successful completion of the Derbyshire asylum seekers facility is believed to be a strong factor in ministers’ change of heart.
‘Craven’s past history of allegedly dubious deals with foreign companies has always held him back,’ said a government insider, ‘but now, following the success of his daughter’s endeavours, doors appear to be opening.’
I didn’t bother to read any more but sat, shocked, at the realisation that the whole thing could have been a means to an end. Jeff came in and plonked a coffee on my desk.
‘Don’t take it badly, she could have been acting out of the goodness of her heart.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘In this job it doesn’t pay to believe anything.’ He pushed the coffee cup towards me. ‘Now, drink up, put in a couple of hours work and I’ll buy you a drink. Welcome to the club.’
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
