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Spoilt for choice
John Arlidge of The Sunday Times learns that you should always expect the unexpected when househunting with the super-rich
Going househunting with the rich and famous can be a tricky business. The American pop diva Mariah Carey “doesn’t do stairs”. Paris Hilton won’t look at property without a walk-in refrigerator, “where I can chill out”.
And then there is Yuki Oshima-Wilpon.
Like Miss Hilton, Yuki, 24, is a darling of New York high society. Her father, a Korean-Japanese entrepreneur, is worth $1.4 billion (£795m), according to Forbes magazine, the American business bible. She is married to Bruce Wilpon, 27, son of Fred Wilpon, the New York multimillionaire real-estate developer who also owns the New York Mets baseball team. They recently left New York for London because they want to establish themselves out of the shadow of their parents.
The golden couple are trying to raise their profile and launch themselves into London society, which is why I find myself at Farnborough private airport on a cold winter’s day. Yuki wants to buy a home in the hills above Monaco and has invited The Sunday Times to join her, to see her in action and to hear her “strong views” on animal welfare.
Yuki does not “fly commercial”. Her Club 328 private jet is waiting on the tarred apron, and the pilot is growing fidgety. Yuki is late. Very late. Twenty minutes before we are due to take off, her car finally arrives and she rushes into the terminal, her Dior earrings and matching watch jangling. “I really need to pee!” she shrieks, and rushes to the lavatory. Five minutes pass. Then another five. And another five.
“Is she okay?” I ask her husband, who is beginning to look embarrassed. “Oh, she’s always like this,” Bruce smiles. Yuki finally emerges, freshly made-up. “I want to look right. Can you Photoshop out my love handles?” she asks The Sunday Times’s photographer.
Crossing the French coast a few minutes later at 30,000ft, Yuki disappears into the lavatory again. This time she takes 20 minutes, and we are descending fast towards the Côte d’Azur by the time she emerges. Sensing that I am suspicious about why she is taking so long, she comes, er, clean.
“I like to wash my hands all the time,” she says. “I like to clean the toilet and put paper on it and stuff. Cleanliness is definitely one thing. There’s not, like, a rational explanation.”
Waiting for Yuki at Nice airport are Wendy MacAnthony and her team, from international property firm, MacAnthony Realty International.
On her way to view the first property, Yuki explains what she looks for in a house. She is a Buddhist, whose homes must have perfect “placement” and perfect feng shui. Walls should be white inside and out, and there must be a “sense of fluidity and continuity between the spaces”. Leather and fur products are strictly off-limits. The garden must be certified pesticide-free, with organic plants. Energy must be provided by solar panels and the pool naturally cleaned with marine salts, not chlorine.
When she arrives at the 230sq m (2,475sq ft) modern villa in a gated community near Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Yuki asks to see the bathroom, and once it is spotlessly clean she completes the tour of the house. She hates it. The kitchen is a “joke” and the lawn is too green. “It’s pesticides.” The place has “no soul”. Nul points.
Back on the road to the next property, the blue BMW Yuki is travelling in heads down a steep hill. This, she says, breaks the rules of feng shui: “You should not live on a descending hill”. The modern glass and steel house meets her hygiene standards, but the view is too ugly — it looks out over the flat roof of a neighbouring apartment block.
It’s almost time for lunch, but Wendy and her team decide to squeeze in one more viewing. “There’s a house owned by an artist that might have the character you’re looking for.” Oh, Wendy, how you must wish you hadn’t done it! Why didn’t you just take Yuki to the nearest brasserie for a vegetarian croque monsieur? Three hours later, Yuki is sobbing hysterically, Bruce is having a stand-up fight with the caretaker, and the police and an ambulance have been called.
The problem starts the moment Yuki arrives at the artist’s house. She takes an instant dislike to Véronique Deguilhem, the French estate agent representing the house, because her coat has fur trim. Yuki walks into the house and spots a black crossbreed dog lying on the kitchen floor. She kneels down to pat it — and begins to sob. “She’s so sick,” she says. Bruce agrees. “She’s got tumours,” he says, pointing to painful-looking growths on the dog’s legs. “We can’t leave until we get a vet,” sniffs Yuki.
Wendy pales. It is lunchtime, when most French businesses, including vets, are closed. Time is short, and Wendy is determined to show Yuki the house she thinks she and Bruce might buy: animal-lover Brigitte Bardot’s former villa. She cannot afford to linger. “We will sort out a vet on the telephone and make sure the dog receives the treatment it needs, but we need to move on,” she says.
“Poor baby. She’s in so much pain. She might pass away. I’m not leaving,” sobs Yuki, who is now lying on the floor, paralysed with grief.
Wendy and her colleagues try to call the local vet. The office is closed. Bruce asks the maid for the telephone number of the homeowner and calls him. The owner tells Bruce he knows that the dog is ill but claims that she belongs to another local family. Bruce, spotting pictures on the wall featuring the dog with family members, accuses the owner of lying and tells him he is going to call the French equivalent of the RSPCA. Yuki promises to chain herself to the railings until the dog’s “torture” ends.
An hour passes and Madame Deguilhem explains that she cares about the welfare of the dog but has to go to another appointment and so the party must leave.
“Oh, yeah. Like she cares? She’s wearing a f***ing fur coat!” shrieks Yuki. Deguilhem storms off into the garden to smoke. “This woman is completely mad,” she says. “This is a farce.”
After half an hour, Bruce finally manages to persuade Yuki to call off her canine intervention — by promising that they will return to the house with a vet later. They retreat to the back of the BMW, telephoning the local town hall, the gendarmerie, the vet and an animal ambulance service.
Two hours later, they are back at the house with a vet. He examines the dog before placing her in the ambulance. Wendy frowns. “I’m not comfortable with taking the dog without the owner’s permission.” Yuki snaps: “I spoke to the police and they say it’s okay.” They are still arguing when a Peugeot tears down the driveway and parks behind the ambulance, blocking its exit. A man and two women leap out. “Where is this mad Japanese woman?” they cry.
The man, who is the caretaker, spots Yuki, marches over to her and calls her “a hysterical imbecile”. Bruce calls him “a dickhead”. Wendy’s assistant intervenes to stop them coming to blows. The caretaker persuades the vet to take the dog back in to the house as Yuki shrieks: “I’ll have you arrested for animal abuse.” “I’ll have you arrested for dognapping,” he replies.
Fearing that the police will be the next to arrive, Wendy decides it is time to cut and run. She arranges for the private jet to come early to pick up Bruce and Yuki and coaxes the pair into the BMW. “We just need to get you guys to the airport and be done with the day — as soon as possible!” But the drama is not over. As the car is about to leave, the vet blocks its path. “Who is going to pay me?” he shouts. Bruce thrusts a €100 note out of the window, and the BMW speeds out of the drive.
Yuki and Bruce have not bought a home, nor have they seen anything they remotely like. The poor dog is back where she was at the start of the day. What was meant to be an MTV Cribs day has turned into Pet Rescue. And the whole story is going to appear in The Sunday Times.
“I could get fired for this,” Wendy sighs as the car pulls up at Nice airport. “This is the last PR trip I ever want to go on.”
MacAnthony Realty International, 0808 178 5191, www.macanthonyrealty.com
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If she's that fanbatical about the cleanliness of bathroons, no wonder she wants to move as far away from Shea as possible.
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