Chapter Thirteen Life with “Other-Man” #2
It must’ve been that same afternoon when, against the advice of the concierge, I decided to walk to the village market and take some photographs.
I was in Africa, after all, for the first and perhaps last time in my life.
It would be a shame if all I saw was the inside of a hotel.
As I set out, I’ll admit I was taken aback by how many beggars lined the streets.
I soon found myself surrounded by children, many of them tugging on the sleeve of my jacket, their palms outstretched.
Some were painfully thin, and I could see hunger in their eyes.
I turned a corner, and the crowd around me dispersed but for two young boys just ahead of me.
They looked like brothers, and as I watched them kicking a tin can back and forth in the street, I was struck by their joyfulness.
They were just as skinny as the other kids I’d noticed, and their clothes were dirty.
But when I caught up with them, they spoke to me in English, and their enthusiasm and curiosity won me over.
I asked them why they weren’t in school, and they said their family was too poor to send them.
Maybe it was my own regret about quitting school before graduating, but the way they talked made me sad.
The boys seemed to accept that kicking a can in a dusty street was all they could hope for.
For a second, I was reminded of myself—so used to unacceptable living conditions that I had stopped even hoping for what I lacked.
But then I felt guilty about the comparison.
How could I feel sorry for myself, a well-fed, well-dressed American who was staying at the El Minzah?
Without thinking, I opened my purse and emptied my wallet, pressing nearly two thousand US dollars into the boys’ hands.
Before saying goodbye, I handed a disposable camera to a passerby so the brothers and I could pose for a photo.
(I’d keep that photo for years, until one of my lawyers asked for—and then lost—it.) When I got back to the hotel, Epstein made fun of me for giving so much money away.
But it felt good to try to help someone whose circumstances seemed bleaker than mine.
A day later, the architects and designers peeled off, and our original foursome flew from Tangier to London.
We arrived late in the afternoon, and Tayler headed off to visit family (her father was a professor at Oxford University).
The rest of us went to Maxwell’s pied-à-terre—a white mews house in Belgravia, a short walk from Hyde Park.
Epstein and Maxwell were going out to dinner, but I begged off, claiming exhaustion.
With the house to myself, I took the opportunity to call my parents and was thrilled to find that both my brothers were there.
As they passed the phone from person to person, I strived to paint a glowing picture of their adventurous sister, making good money and seeing the world.
After I hung up, however, I felt exhausted and empty.
It had been hard work to project positivity when at my core I was struggling.
Eager to be unconscious, I took a sleeping pill and fell into bed.
The next morning, on March 10, 2001, Maxwell woke me up by announcing in a singsongy voice: “Get out of bed, sleepyhead!” It was going to be a special day, she said.
Just like Cinderella, I was going to meet a handsome prince!
Her old friend Prince Andrew would be dining with us that night, she said, and we had lots to do to get me ready.
Maxwell and I spent most of that day shopping.
She bought me an expensive purse from Burberry and three different outfits.
When we got back to her house, I laid them out on the bed.
There were two sexy, sophisticated dresses she’d picked out and a third option that I’d lobbied for: a pink V-necked, sleeveless mini-T-shirt and a sparkly, multicolored pair of jeans embroidered with a pattern of interlocking horses.
After I showered and dried my hair, I put on the jeans and top, which left a strip of my stomach exposed.
Maxwell wasn’t thrilled, but like most teenage girls then, I idolized Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, and the third outfit was something I imagined the two of them might wear. I told Maxwell it felt more like “me.”
When Prince Andrew arrived at the townhouse that evening, Maxwell was more coquettish than usual.
“Guess Jenna’s age,” she urged the prince, after she introduced me.
The Duke of York, who was then forty-one, guessed correctly: seventeen.
“My daughters are just a little younger than you,” he told me, explaining his accuracy.
As usual, Maxwell was quick with a joke: “I guess we will have to trade her in soon.”
In contrast to his appearance today—stout, white-haired, and jowly—Prince Andrew then was still relatively fit, with short-cropped brown hair and youthful eyes.
He’d long been known as the playboy of the royal family, and as a divorcé (he and his wife, Sarah Ferguson, or “Fergie,” had split in 1996) he was holding tight to that role.
That night he wore slacks and a light-blue dress shirt, open at the collar, with French cuffs, and elegant cufflinks.
When I noticed that Epstein called the prince “Andy,” I began to call him that too.
As we chatted in Maxwell’s entryway, I suddenly thought of something: my mom would never forgive me if I met someone as famous as Prince Andrew and didn’t pose for a picture.
Excusing myself, I ran to get a Kodak FunSaver from my room, then returned and handed it to Epstein.
I remember the prince putting his arm around my waist as Maxwell grinned beside me. Epstein snapped the photo.
After a bit more small talk, the four of us headed out into the cold spring air.
The prince rode with his security detail.
Epstein, Maxwell, and I were in a separate car.
We went to a restaurant for dinner and afterward to an exclusive London nightclub called Tramp.
The prince went to the bar and came back with a cocktail for me.
Then he invited me to dance. He was sort of a bumbling dancer, and I remember he sweated profusely.
I had another drink, and the prince did too.
We then headed back to Maxwell’s, again in two cars.
On the way, Maxwell told me, “When we get home, you are to do for him what you do for Jeffrey.” I knew better than to question her orders.
That empty feeling descended upon me again.
More and more, it felt like my default state.
Back at the house, Maxwell and Epstein said goodnight and headed upstairs, signaling it was time that I take care of the prince.
In the years since, I’ve thought a lot about how he behaved.
He was friendly enough, but still entitled—as if he believed having sex with me was his birthright.
I took him first to a bathroom, where I drew him a hot bath.
We disrobed and got in the tub, but we didn’t stay there long because the prince was eager to get to the bed.
He was particularly attentive to my feet, caressing my toes and licking my arches.
That was a first for me, and it tickled.
I was nervous he would want me to do the same to him.
But I needn’t have worried. He seemed in a rush to have intercourse.
Afterward, he said thank you in his clipped British accent.
In my memory, the whole thing lasted less than half an hour.
The next morning, it was clear that Maxwell had conferred with her royal chum because she told me: “You did well. The prince had fun.” I nodded appreciatively, as I always did, but in truth, I didn’t feel so great.
Soon, Epstein would give me $15,000 for servicing the man the tabloids called “Randy Andy”—a lot of money.
But while being pimped out to strangers was something I thought I had to endure and had even become used to, it was wearing me down.
When I was sure I couldn’t be overheard, I called Tony and told him what had happened.
I hadn’t wanted to have sex with the prince, I said, but I felt I had to.
Our livelihoods depended on it, for one thing, but I also truly believed there was no way for me to free myself from Epstein and Maxwell’s grip.
While traveling, Maxwell had made me hand over my passport.
That night Tony’s voice sounded worried.
He was scared that I was alone in a foreign country with people so powerful; he said he understood why I felt powerless.
Less than four years earlier, Lady Diana had died in a car accident, prompting some conjecture (never proven) that the royal family had somehow been involved.
Tony and I had no way of knowing if this was true, but we were sure that I was surrounded by people who wielded vastly more clout than I ever would.
After a few more minutes of trying to soothe each other’s paranoia, we said goodnight—but not before Tony and I agreed that, especially while I was abroad, I needed to keep Epstein and Maxwell happy.
After we returned to Florida, I took my FunSaver cameras to a one-hour photo developer near my house in West Palm Beach.
Thanks to the store’s system of marking the back of each print, I can tell you exactly the date I first held the image of me, Prince Andrew, and Maxwell in my hands: March 13, 2001.
I showed the four-by-six-inch photo to Tony.
At the time, we were both just glad I’d made it home in one piece; we had no idea what a commotion this photo would later cause.
Skip Notes
* Thanks to flight logs that have been made public in various court proceedings, we know the exact date of the flight that Matt Groening was on: February 23, 2001.