My father Ricky Andrews was a madly wealthy socialite, whose second claim to fame was "celebrity playboy."
Randy Ricky's fortune came via a vast family inheritance handed down by his Australian parents. To add to the good luck of his birth, he was a handsome man, blessed with a smooth charm he distributed lavishly. Unfortunately neither faith nor loyalty were part of the Ricky mix. He dumped my mother when I was two and totally disappeared from my life.
As I grew up, I often read about my father in the magazines. Ricky was a collector of stunning women. He was a leg man, a boobs man, and a devotee of the perfect ass. Also, a fancier of blondes -- honey, platinum, or peroxide -- when he wasn't chasing brunettes and every shade of redhead.
The odd thing is that Ricky was also in favour of matrimony. He married six of his beautiful girlfriends and, babe by babe, created our family tree. But really it is more a family thicket -- a hedgerow of trophy wives, children, and grudges, spread round the planet. His marriages bred a known tally of ten children. All this spreading of the Ricky seed means I have nine half-brothers and half- sisters.
I've met none of them because nobody ever tried to pull Ricky's daughters, sons, and resentments together. That is until Alexis, my newest distant stepmother. Alexis, an almost comically beautiful blonde, looked like she'd been custom crafted (along with Bentleys, Lear jets, and Cuban cigars), for the most discerning sugar daddy. It's turned out this dishy blonde is one determined woman.
Alexis's place in the family thicket is wife number six. She is a young-looking 23, as fresh faced as a teenager, which would be the reason for Ricky's attraction. Alexis played a cock-teasing schoolgirl in a popular Australian television soap called Heartache High, but she decided to abandon that occupation after Ricky proposed -- there was too much shopping to do.
Five months after Ricky married Alexis (it was a ceremony in Bali, covered exclusively by Hello magazine), he crashed his Ferrari into a milk tanker, ten minutes from his Sydney mansion. Ricky went to his maker minutes after a baby faced ambulanceman humiliatingly identified him via his Senior's discount card.
I was in two minds about going to the funeral, which was 1200 miles away. My mother Jillian, a New Zealander like me, died three years ago. She wouldn't utter Ricky's name, and she certainly wouldn't have crossed an ocean for his final rites.
While I had no personal memory of him, Ricky had intervened in my life just once, and that moment made me feel that perhaps I at least owed him attendance at his funeral. During my early twenties I was a professional golfer, on the margins, and broke. I came second in an Asian tournament which, out of nowhere, qualified me to initially play three tournaments on the rich American PGA golf tour. It was a huge opportunity, but I couldn't afford to get there. My problem was mentioned in a newspaper article and out of nowhere, a $20,000 cheque appeared -- from Ricky to me, his forgotten son, James Andrews.
So, I got to the U.S. and played the PGA Tour with its name sponsors and huge prizemoney, for five good years. I won the "big money" three times but blew my chance of real glory when I took the final round lead in a US Open until (I hate to admit this Tin Cup moment) I choked on the last three holes. Soon after, I was injured in a car wreck that killed my friend and caddie, who was driving. I spent nearly a year on crutches and although I'm in good shape now, the golf career was finished.
I decided that a journey to pay final respects to my biological father might perhaps help put him behind me.
It was a three-hour flight to Australia, and I arrived just in time for the ceremony. Ricky was a "somebody," so about two hundred people crammed into the short service held at an inner suburb crematorium. While the furnace workers swept up after "Chapel Three, Two PM," and potted Ricky's ashes in a tidy urn, the mourners drove back to the Four Seasons where Alexis, the very young widow, had hired a function room for the post funeral pleasantries. Here, Ricky was sent off with style and suitable expense. Looking across the harbour to Sydney's Opera House, the gathering nibbled elaborate canopies, and drank flutes of epically pricey Dom Perignon champagne, which was Ricky's favourite leg-opener.
Alexis could afford all this. She had been widowed while still the incumbent bride, so the prenup that Ricky used to control the cost of his divorces didn't apply to her. More than a little stunned, she inherited $80 million.
People were used to the television Alexis, dressed in a ludicrously short tartan schoolgirl skirt, and bobby socks. Now, wearing haut couture black, with stylish gloves and a hat carrying a wisp of veil, she stood at the door uncertainly, receiving guests she clearly didn't know. My turn came, and I looked at a blonde who was even more beautiful than her girlishly pretty TV publicity pictures. Alexis looked back, seeming a little puzzled, and put out her hand to be shaken. As she did, the woman next in line reached past me, pulled her into a synthetic hug, and began an "Oh you poor little darling, I'm so sorry," routine.
She was a "look at me" mourner. I took a glass from a waiter and searched the room for a friendly face. I knew nobody, but I saw a couple who looked vaguely familiar standing near the waiters' station.
"Hello - I'm one of Ricky's sons - James Andrews," I said, introducing myself.
They looked at me, sizing me up. "Yes, I can see the connection," the man announced. "And I suppose it's odd we've never met. We're Ricky children too. The first born. It's Roger and Phoebe -- Marion, our mother, is his first wife."
Roger, who I saw looked a little like myself, weighed his words. "I don't know about you, but we're here because of duty. We're Sydney locals, but there was no way mother would come, particularly after finding he'd left us nothing in his will. Absolutely zip, and it's us who are his original family. It's an insult.
"And look at her. Bimbo child bride, hardly arrived on the scene, and she walks off with almost everything," he complained. "But which Ricky wife did you say is your mother?"
"Jillian - a country girl from New Zealand. She served her time as wife number two, but she did manage to re-marry. And happily, too."
They looked at me, startled. "Jillian," spat Phoebe. "Jillian, the beauty queen." (It was true my mother had won a small-town charity beauty quest and wound up as a Miss Universe finalist. She might have won but forgot to say her dream was World Peace)
"That tart stole Ricky from my mother. The bitch broke mom's heart," snapped Phoebe, and turned on her heel.
"Don't worry, Jillian's heart got broken too. I think that's how it worked with Ricky," I said to their backs, as they stalked away.
It hadn't crossed my own mind that Ricky might remember any of his forgotten children in his will. Besides, he'd have had trouble dictating our names.
An elegantly suited man with a distinguished mane of grey hair, rang his glass, picked up a microphone at the front of the room, and called for silence. "My name is Ken Corbyn and I want to pay tribute to our friend Ricky Andrews," he announced. I recognized Corbyn from media pictures as one of Ricky's sidekicks - another ageing playboy who'd inherited wealth. The pair were sometimes named together in accounts of Ricky's mistakes.
"Ricky was a remarkable man who came from a remarkable family. You'll all know his grandfather William Andrews started up a chain of service stations and mini markets that eventually spread right across Australia. And that William's only son Michael next expanded Andrews Petroleum into refining and distribution, making it one of the country's biggest businesses."
The successes Corbyn outlined had lifted the Andrews family into Australia's Top 50 Rich List. I find it hard to grasp that Michael and William Andrews, its founding geniuses, were my own blood - my grand and great grandparents.
The folk lore on ridiculous wealth is that the first two generations build it, and the third witlessly blows it. Ricky Andrews made a textbook job of delivering on that tradition. Unlike his father and grandfather, Ricky wasn't overly smart. However, he was supremely confident of his abilities, and rapidly progressed the family business backwards. My father started life as one of the Super Rich and finished it merely extremely wealthy.
Corbyn spoke for five minutes about his "talented friend," who, at only 67, had been cruelly taken from a world he still had much to offer. He offered no condolences to those members of Ricky's embarrassing extended family who were present, and pointedly ignored his young widow, who stood pale-faced, not ten feet from Corbyn.
"So, here's to our friend Ricky," he pronounced, raising his glass.
"To Ricky," the group echoed, and downed the vintage champagne.
It was clearly Alexis's turn to speak about her late husband -- if her emotions were up to it. She took a hesitating step towards the microphone and put her hand out for it. But Corbyn turned his back deliberately, switched the microphone off, and handed it to a waiter. The gathering looked elsewhere awkwardly and then, siding with the insult, began to chatter. Pink with embarrassment Alexis stood alone and ignored. I stayed ten more minutes and decided that I could stomach no more of Ricky's crowd. As I edged towards the door, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"You're James, aren't you? Ricky's second son?" a small voice asked. Ricky's young wife was struggling with her emotions.
"Yes, I'm James," I said. "Sorry, I should have come over and said 'hello.' This must be a big shock for you - how are you managing?"
"It's bewildering, but I'm getting there, "she said. "I'm sorry I didn't recognise you were when you arrived. The penny was just dropping -- you've got some of Ricky's looks -- but we got interrupted," said Alexis.
"No need to apologise. The only apologies due are from this lot for snubbing you," I said, gesturing at the gathering. "I didn't think they could fit so many jerks in the same room."
"I wasn't sure there was anyone here who cared," she said, clearly relieved. "Do me a favour? Could you stay on a few minutes because I'm stuck by myself. My parents tried to get flights -- they live in London - but couldn't get here in time. Ricky's friends aren't my friends, and I could do with someone beside me."
She took my arm firmly and clung to it. "Sure, not a problem," I allowed, and led her towards a corner of the room. People stole glances at Alexis -- nobody can ignore in-your-face beauty. But they were contemptuous of her young widowhood. Nobody was willing to think she might be grieving.
"There's a lot to come to grips with. Have you got anyone here to help you?" I asked.
"Just Ricky's house staff, who treat me like an imposter. My friends are back in Melbourne where I was brought up, but a couple arrive tomorrow, and they'll help for a few days. My dad gets here from England next week. He's said to just stay put and not rush any important decisions."
"Sounds good advice. I'm glad you'll have friends here soon."
The conversation paused. Ricky was the only connection we had and that was a precarious one. Technically Alexis was my stepmother, but she was fifteen years younger than me, and we came from very different worlds.
