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least for that day, the hottest ticket in town. The diffident tech mogul was famously shy, so, not knowing many people on the island, he would task a couple of associates to invite anyone they thought was interesting. Some- how we made the grade. One of Octopus’s tenders collected us in the
port as we swished past Larry Ellison’s Rising Sun (now owned by David Geffen) and Perel- man’s Ultima III. We were welcomed by members of the 48-strong crew, who stored our shoes and directed us up endless decks (eight in total) to the top, past a Sikorski heli- copter (one of two on board). Allen was al- ways seated to one side at a table with his sister and other family members. I almost never saw him get up to talk to his guests. That was until the concert began. Each
year a different rock star performed along- side him (he always accompanied on guitar) in his open-air music studio, including Jon Bon Jovi and Dave Stewart, and also Robert Downey Jr, who was a surprisingly good singer. That night I spotted Peter Mandelson at the bar. Two nights later we were invited to Perel- man’s annual New Year’s Eve party (the hot
ticket until Roman Abramovich usurped his spot) on board Ultima III, which was moored in the port. I have photos of Harvey Wein- stein in conversation with Russell Simmons (co-founder of the Def Jam label), and other pictures of Ivanka Trump, George Lucas, ac- tresses Anne Hathaway and Ellen Barkin (Perelman’s former wife), Australian entre- preneur James Packer and model Stephanie Seymour with her then husband, publisher Peter Brant. The air vibrated with an exciting but caustic energy, with guests speaking in staccato-like sentences, constantly distract- ed by the next starry arrival. It was a relief to be the silent but observant nobody. Other memorable nights over the years in-
cluded an aſter-party on Larry Ellison’s Ris- ing Sun, which had a basketball court on one deck and where I took a photo of the loo be- cause its gilt decor was so extra; a post- Roman Abramovich’s New Year’s Eve aſter- party on Puff Daddy’s (rented) boat, where the currently incarcerated music mogul DJ-ed all night, brandishing a bottle of Ciroc Vodka (he was at the time in a 50-50 partner- ship with Diageo, helping to propel the brand into a billion-dollar business), and
where we danced with another Def Jam co-founder, Gandalf lookalike producer Rick Rubin, and singer Ne-Yo. There was a dinner with a post-Epstein-
years Ghislaine Maxwell on-board Ocado co- founder Jonathan Faiman’s Akula; an extra- ordinary night on Russian industrialist An- drey Melnichenko’s Philipe Starck-designed Motor Yacht A, where Demi Moore and her then husband Ashton Kutcher were staying, despite not seeming to know their hosts well, and where Eighties pop star Matt Goss performed in an underground nightclub. We also had dinner with Hungarian
Charles Simonyi (the developer behind the likes of Word and Excel for Microsoſt) and Martha Stewart (his then girlfriend), on the former’s boat Skat. Aſter the meal we were invited into his cinema to watch a documen- tary of his trip to the space station. And I mustn’t forget the lunch with Rupert Mur- doch and his then wife Wendi Deng, on his sailing boat Rosehearty alongside fashion photographer Gilles Bensimon and Diana Picasso (granddaughter of Pablo). Over the years I got used to spending time with people who never remembered my name or ever tried to engage me in conversa- tion. It suited my husband and me fine be- cause we learnt something important, namely how miserable the rich are and how being a ‘friend’ of theirs meant you were al- ways second fiddle to their wealth and their need to show it off. Make no mistake, St Barths at Christmas is
still the place to be for the American su- per-rich (the Russians are in scarce supply these days). But I can’t escape the feeling that it may have reached saturation point. Where- as before it was a secret haven, a sort of pri- vate offshore club for those in the know, to- day it has become populated by hordes of the new and nearly rich, who hope their ad- jacency to power will announce their own. The good news is that the madness only
St Barths is a magnet for superyachts, especially at Christmas and New Year
really descends for two weeks of the year. The rest of the time the island is free to be who it really is – an exquisite and proud French beauty, small and beautifully formed, immaculately dressed in verdant foliage, dotted with its signature red roofs and chic restaurants, all encircled in deserted white sandy beaches and cerulean sea. That’s why I have returned 24 times in total since 2003. But now, in 2025, I’m calling it: spending Christmas on St Barths has peaked. I like to think I saw its best years.
MARINETRAFFIC.COM
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