It’s taken nearly 20 years for the American reality franchise to wind its way across the Atlantic to the capital. In the meantime, there were pretenders and near-misses – Ladies of London, Real Housewives of Cheshire – but now, finally, west London’s ex-model community has a viable retirement plan.
The delay seems all the more inexplicable, when you consider how to the manner born – if not to the manor born – these ladies are. Take Amanda, who lives in Belgravia, drives a Bentley convertible, runs an underperforming luxury beauty brand and is in a co-dependent relationship with her poodle-cum-stylist, Monty. Amanda has it all – clearly – and in the first episode’s first five minutes, she cements her status as RHOL’s Queen Bee by saying: “I’m actually a really private person.” Direct to camera. On a reality TV show. With a straight face. Now that’s a Real Housewife.
It’s all about being “real”, you see – in the sense of being fake, but in a really committed way. The “house” bit also matters. Hence, we’re introduced to every cast member with a property-porn interiors montage (a slow-pan of the walk-in bag/shoe closet is the obligatory third or fourth shot). To a lesser extent, the “wife” bit is also important. That’s why, and no offence to the one from Wham who’s not George Michael, but Amanda is going to need to accrue some more impressive ex-husbands if she hopes to secure her top spot for many more series to come. I’m rooting for you, babe. We’re all rooting for you.
All except RHOL’s five other cast members. They’re not rooting for you, Amanda. They’re perfectly poised to snatch the crown, should it ever slip. And, as befits a city full of history, some of these society girls go back. Way back. Like, all the way back to “when Annabel’s first opened”, which should lend a certain “heritage” texture to their feuding.
There are two Juliets, at least one of whom rides horses in Hyde Park and has a husband named Tiggy. Indeed, with such aristo bona fides, one might think it unnecessary to further signpost your status ambitions by dressing up for the confessional in a royal insignia and ruffs, like a Poundland Elizabeth I. But perhaps this was done for the benefit of Juliet M’s nemesis, Panthea, whose husband, a lowly lawyer, has recently been made “Master of the Solicitors” as a “prestige thing” (never heard of it).
In London, we’re told, “wealth whispers”. That’s in contrast to the outrageous overconsumption of OG Real Housewives like Teresa Giudice and Jen Shah – both convicted fraudsters – from the New Jersey and Salt Lake City shows, respectively. In practice, it’s investment banker turned baker Nessie wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, while saying things like “We were in a very … comfortable position, let’s say”. Or describing her husband’s line of work as “entrepreneur in the mining industry”, which is certainly one of the more transparent euphemisms for “earthly emissary from hell’s 9th circle” that I’ve heard lately.
None of this rises to the level of the class analysis or psychological insight that we’ve come to expect from the franchise at its finest, but happily there’s still time for deeper themes to develop. And happily there’s also Karen, from Jamaica via Jersey, whose main function on the show is cracking up at the foolishness of these Englishwomen, while delivering teeth-kissing side-eye, as only a posh Jamaican can.
With chaos agents like these on the guest-list, Amanda is quite right to brace for trouble ahead of her International Women’s Day soiree: “This loo needs to be checked every 15 minutes,” she tells her housekeeper sternly. “Remember. Because it will be carnage in there.” Ominous … But maybe Beluga caviar has some digestive side-effects which are well-known in society circles? Or is it the Ozempic?
In the event, RHOL’s inaugural bust-up happens outside the downstairs loo, after Panthea made a toast that was 10% empty girl boss platitudes and 90% shady digs at Juliet.
God bless Panthea, the only one vulgar enough to break that “wealth whispers” omertà and put a price-tag on her bragging. She once dropped a cool £140,000 in a single Harrods trip, she says, which “back then is equivalent to 300-and-something thousand”. I’ve done the maths, and this dates Panthea’s spree to some point in 1963 – around the same time private members’ club Annabel’s opened, in fact. So either they’re all time-travelling vampires, let loose on one of Nessie’s husband’s Hellmouth expeditions or – good news, girls – the botox really works!
• The Real Housewives of London is on Hayu.
