I marked international women's day at a dinner at the Savile Club, the legendary retreat of London's literary giants. The list of previous members could double as the English syllabus of an American college, pre-Foucault: Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, HG Wells and CP Snow. Even Henry James, who was practically English, made the club. The list goes on and on, with members even today sharing one other requirement besides artistic merit: they are all male.
Despite, or maybe because of, the membership restrictions, another exclusive club, Svea Britt—the Swedish working women's association in Britain—picked the Savile as the perfect site to usher in international women's day. And so on 8th March, the elegant 19th-century club rooms (which, like many grand London settings, are available for hire) were taken over by 90 Swedish women, two Americans and one Frenchwoman: Laurence Auer, the dinner speaker, honoured for her four years as deputy press secretary for foreign affairs to outgoing president, Jacques Chirac, and for being the first woman to hold the job.
At exactly 6pm, the women poured into the Mayfair club and into the all-male cloakroom, where a fierce attendant swatted them out. "No women's coats in here." A few grumbling members fled towards the back bar, while others ducked down to a basement, where they glued themselves to glowing green computer screens.
Meanwhile, in the ballroom upstairs, the cheerful Swedes blithely sipped champagne and celebrated their post-feminist consciousness by seating themselves at tables named after male movie stars. Propped on each table was a photo of the star in question—in a white Ikea frame, of course. I sat at the Brad Pitt table, the speaker and honoured guests were at George Clooney, and a slightly more elderly crowd got Paul Newman. After dinner, the men were auctioned off to charity for surprisingly low prices. I bought Brad Pitt for £15, although George Clooney fetched £28.50 (Swedes are careful with their pennies).
Then the dinner speaker jumped up, moved not just by the spectacle of the male auction but by the frankness of her Swedish tablemates. "You are all so warm, so open; this is so unfamiliar to me in France," gushed Auer (who was, in turn, refreshingly open herself). Her job as spokesperson for the French president was, she declared, "exactly like the American CJ in The West Wing."
A smart and pretty brown-haired woman with cool, 1950s glasses and a self-deprecating wit, Auer, who now heads the Institut Français in London, bemoaned the absence of women in French politics and the French foreign office: "It was 12 per cent women when I started, and 20 years later, it's still 12 per cent." She praised the Swedes for having a parliament made up of 50 per cent women, until one guest warned her against being over-positive. "Don't be so easy on the Swedes. There are many women at the top of French business. Swedish women are in government, but they are missing at the top of Swedish business."
So what was the secret behind Auer's rise in a male-dominated field, first as a spokesperson for Romano Prodi at the European commission, before being promoted to the Elysée Palace as a public face of Chirac? Lots of studying. "I studied and studied. My grandfather was so happy when I finally became a state secretary. But then he asked: why did you have to study so long to be a secretary?"
As someone who clocked many hours with the French president and his global counterparts, could she share any gossip about the leaders of the G8? "Well, they are human," she revealed. "They have their own special rules. Before each meeting, they joke a lot about the food. Humour is important." Some of them apparently also go out for beers in smaller groups of twos and threes, creating hurt feelings among those left out. And how did this club of eight change with the recent admission of a woman, Angela Merkel? Chirac, apparently devastated when his close buddy Schröder was forced out, took an unexpected liking to Merkel, even allowing her to take credit for recent negotiations. "He is very chivalrous," said Auer.
She dished out one solid nugget of gossip before sitting back down: just before she left the Elysée, Nicolas Sarkozy's people showed up to take measurements, apparently confident that their boss's victory was a sure thing.
After coffee, the Swedish women expressed approval both of the speaker and the splendid surroundings. According to my host, glamorous dentist Gunilla Assmundson, who rides a moped and a has a thriving Harley Street practice, the same gilded ceilings and sprung floors have appeared in countless films and BBC period dramas. As the Swedish women surged out of the ballroom towards their coats, club members ventured warily from the bar. "Who are all these women?" asked one. When informed, he turned to me—I am neither tall nor blonde—and asked doubtfully: "Are you Swedish?" "No, American," I replied. "Ah, that explains it," he said. "Be sure to bring the Swedish women back here again. I like the sound of their voices in our club."
