My bizarre life with Madonna and Guy - by her BROTHER

By CHRISTOPHER CICCONE
Last updated at 8:35 AM on 14th July 2008
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Few know Madonna better than her 47-year-old brother Christopher Ciccone. They grew up together in Michigan in America and learned to dance together.
Then Christopher followed Madonna to New York, where she began her long journey to wealth and superstardom.
From early childhood, through the years of determined struggle to the iconic figure she has become today, Christopher has been Madonna’s constant confidant and shoulder to cry on. He has been her personal assistant and dresser, her interior decorator and artistic director of her show-stopping world tours.
While much has been written about the most famous pop star in the world, only he knows the riveting untold story behind Madonna’s carefully constructed mythology.
Here, in unparalleled and intimate detail, Christopher tells their compelling story.
Madonna and I are standing in the driveway of her new house in Beverly Hills. She is facing me and I am facing the front gate when Guy Ritchie turns up in Madonna's black Mercedes and drives at me.
When he is about a foot from from me, he veers the car away, just missing my foot. I neither flinch nor move from my position.

Christopher Ciccone has been his sister Madonna's constant confidant
He stops the car, rolls down the window and says: 'Are you trying to prove a point?'
I say: 'No, but I think you must be.'
He winds up the window and drives into the garage. Madonna turns to me. 'What just happened?' she asks.
I say: 'I don't want to talk about it,' and leave. No matter how much I dislike Guy, he's her husband and I want her to be happy with him, even though their life together is sometimes difficult.
When Madonna paid our sister Melanie's air fare so she could stay with her and Guy at Ashcombe House, their country estate in Wiltshire, she told me the atmosphere between them was very tense.
A Kabbalah rabbi would regularly come down from London to mediate between them. This does not surprise me. I believe that Kabbalah is helping keep Guy and Madonna together.
I worry about my sister. At 39, Guy is ten years her junior and she has given him latitude to pursue his own interests. But they are very different people with different approaches to things, and I wonder whether they will be able to bridge the divide.
I send her a positive letter, in which I try to help her understand him. I tell her that he is living in an incredible world with her, has an ego of his own and an idea of what he is, and that she may have shattered the illusion. She responds immediately, telling me that she is hopeful she will find her way. I hope she will.

I first heard about Guy in late 1999, after Madonna was introduced to him over lunch at Sting and Trudie Styler's home.
I knew Guy was a British film director and that he was younger than her. Like her first husband Sean Penn, Guy comes from a solidly middle-class family and yet both
are prone to present themselves as tough street kids. My sister, I believe, has always played the identical game.
After all, she is a middle-class girl who propagates the story that she landed in Times Square with just a pair of ballet shoes and $35 to her name. But that's pure mythology and the further she progresses, the more mythological her life story becomes.
Although our father wasn't really allowed to tell us about his job because it was top-secret, he worked in the defence industry in Detroit, designing firing systems and laser optics, first at Chrysler Defense and then at General Dynamics.
Far from being this lost and friendless little waif who didn't even have a crust of dry bread to eat, when Madonna went to New York she had money in her pocket, plenty of contacts and a support system all in place. I often wonder whether her taste for self-invention explains her attraction to both Sean and Guy.
Many of Guy's forebears were highly decorated army officers. He clearly has a great deal to live up to. Which is why I can understand, in a way, why he chose to use his talents in a different arena by making what some term a 'homophobic' movie about London gangsters - Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels.
Nevertheless, I was eager to meet this Brit who appeared to have captivated my sister so much.

Madonna and Guy Ritchie. 'His arrival in her life,' says her brother, 'was the death knell for my relationship' with her'
On Millennium Eve we are both at Donatella Versace's party at Casa Casuarina, her Miami mansion.
Guy is friendly to me and seems like a nice guy. He is conventionally dressed in a white shirt and dark-blue trousers and jacket, and I warm to him. He is personable and respectful and seems as if he might be fun to hang out with. Nonetheless, I tell myself that I doubt he'll outlast Madonna's usual two-year relationship cycle.
We have cocktails at Donatella's table, along with Rupert Everett and Gwyneth Paltrow, and later move  on to the VIP room of a new club.
It's now four in the morning. I pull Gwyneth on to the dance floor. Madonna is dancing on the table. Gwyneth joins her and they dance together. In the middle of the dance, Madonna grabs Gwyneth and kisses her full on the mouth. It's that sort of a night.
My friend Dan has brought a 19-year-old boy to the party with him. Madonna, in a knee-length pink chiffon Versace dress, is on the dance floor, dancing with a group of people. We all look good together, and we know it.
Suddenly the boy squeezes up to Madonna. He edges between us, puts his arms around her, and they dance a slow dance close together. Within an instant, Guy strides across the dance floor. He kicks the boy in the leg to get his attention and drags him away. Then he swings his fist at him. I push Guy back and yank the boy out of the room.
The moment passes. The dancing restarts. I'm on the dance floor with Gwyneth again. Suddenly I sense someone coming up behind me.
Guy grabs me from behind and starts bouncing me up and down like a rag doll.
'Put me down!' I demand. I extract myself from his grip, shove him up against the wall and grind my hips right into him.
'If you want to dance with me, this is how we dance here,' I say grimly. He flushes and pushes me off. I walk away. I don't give Guy another thought. Rupert, however, is watching us intently.
Later, in his autobiography, he comments: 'Guy and Chris were from different planets, and in a way the one's success relied on the other not being there.'
The next day, Guy and I don't say a word to each other at a barbecue in Madonna's garden. I decide that he is a bit of an oaf, particularly on the dance floor, a drawback with regard to Madonna because she likes her lovers to dance well. And it has always been of paramount importance to her that the man in her life should be able to deal with the gay men in her life.
I can't imagine that Guy will be around for long. I am wrong, of course. I have no idea that the arrival of Guy in Madonna's life is the death knell for my relationship with her.

In August 2000, Madonna and Guy's son Rocco is born. Madonna is now firmly settled in England and she breaks the news to me that she and Guy are getting married.
I tell her I am glad for her. Apart from the fact that Guy must remind her of Sean Penn, she is getting older and needs a father for her children. She casts such a big shadow and most men just aren't prepared to subjugate themselves to her. I guess that Guy isn't either, but at least he is prepared to marry her.

A previously unpublished picture of Madonna pregnant with Lola in 1996, with Christopher in the background
In a note with my wedding invitation, she says she is inviting 'my close friends and family members that are not insane to the wedding at Skibo Castle' in the Scottish Highlands, adding: 'We will be married by a vicar in the Church of England because Catholics are a pain and GR doesn't want to convert and besides I'm a divorcee.'
I am not keen to attend the wedding because I really can't afford it. Moreover, I no longer have any affinity for Guy.
But Madonna owes me the final payment for the interior design work I did on one of her houses and when I call to make my apologies, her assistant tells me the debt will be paid in the form of a ticket to Scotland, with the rest of the money sent separately.
I spend a few days mulling over the situation. I feel I don't know this person who is attempting to blackmail me into attending her wedding. So I capitulate. I'm told I will fly to London a week before the wedding, be fitted for a tuxedo and the following morning fly to Inverness, a 45-minute drive from Skibo Castle. On December 21, Rocco will be christened and the wedding will take place on December 22.
Staff for the wedding are forced to sign a four-page confidentiality agreement, none of the guests is allowed a mobile phone and we are all banned from leaving the castle during the five-day celebrations. Seventy security guards will keep the Press out and the guests in Colditz Castle, here I come.
A business-class air ticket is sent to me from Madonna's office. When I check the price, I discover that only a few hundred dollars of my fee remain outstanding. Once in London, I follow  instructions and go to Moss Bros on Regent Street to rent my tuxedo. It's pure polyester, and when I slide the jacket on, it burns my fingers.
The shop assistant presents me with the rental bill. 'Put it on Guy's bill,' I say, and walk out.
Enlarge  
Madonna, centre, in 1970 with, from left, sister Paula, Uncle Chris, brothers Christopher and Marty, sister Melanie, stepmother Joan and father Silvio
A car meets me at Inverness Airport. After about an hour, we arrive at Dornach, turn into a sweeping drive lined with beech trees and Skibo Castle looms in front of me cloaked in mist - big, beautiful and mysterious.
My first sight of the main hall is straight out of Hollywood. A crackling log fire burns brightly, the walls are oak-panelled, there are stuffed animal heads, a sweeping oak staircase and the landing with a stained-glass bow-window where Madonna's wedding ceremony will take place.
At the reception desk, I am asked to hand over my credit card for incidentals. I tell the receptionist that I didn't bring my card with me and that all my charges will be billed to Madonna and Guy. I just can't forget her bullying behaviour.
My room is in the attic of a turret. I go through a door into a small hallway, then into a room about 6ft by 6ft, with a claw-footed Victorian bathtub in the middle and a toilet against the wall. That leads to another door, another low-ceilinged room, and there is my bed.
Back outside, a pretty girl rides by on a horse. She introduces herself as Stella. The penny drops. Stella McCartney - Madonna's maid of honour. As far as I know, she and Madonna have only just met, yet Madonna has chosen her - not her close friends Ingrid Casares or Gwyneth Paltrow - to be her maid of honour. Stella designs and makes a free dress - worth £15,000 - especially for Madonna.
Stella explains the drill. Every morning the men will go shooting and the women will have a themed luncheon. Shooting is out of the question for me.
Later I dress for dinner and go into the library. Guy's friends are in there. I don't know any of them, but one or two look familiar so I guess I've seen them in a film. They are relatively friendly and they all clearly have a history with one another. We have cocktails and I try to make small-talk.
I ask how the shooting went and they tell me that they have shot 300 birds. I ask them if they are kidding. They tell me they aren't. 'So are we having them for dinner?' I ask. They all laugh and tell me that we aren't.
In the dining room, Madonna walks in, says 'Welcome to Scotland' and gives me a hug. Guy shakes my hand. The large table is set for ten. Madonna has a seating chart. Scottish food is served and I pick at it halfheartedly. Then I ask for some chicken.
Tonight, and every night afterwards, the guests toast the bridal couple. Tonight one of Guy's friends makes the toast, which culminates in a crack with the subtext: 'WouldnÕt it be funny if Guy were gay?' I don't laugh. It wouldn't
be funny.
Guy's pride in his own heterosexuality swells noticeably when he's in the presence of a gay man like me. And in his wedding week, with these after-dinner toasts seemingly aimed at underscoring his overt masculinity, he is in his element.
I, however, am far from amused when many of the speeches trumpeting Guy's heterosexuality include the word 'poofter', a derogatory British expression for gay.
The next evening, I am seated between Sting and Trudie. At first they talk about the castle and  the weather. Then Trudie leans in to me and says: 'Christopher, do I  have BO?'
'Huh?'
'Do I have BO? Do I smell?'
'Not that I can tell,' I say, perplexed.
Then she asks: 'Are you into that sort of thing?' Before I can think of an answer, she chips in: 'Mightn't you be?'
'Isn't the smoked salmon delicious?' I say.
Madonna stands up at the top of the table and issues the instruction: 'Christopher, tonight it's your turn to give the toast.'
I lean down the baronial table and, with great emphasis, reply: 'Madonna, you really don't want  me to do that.' It's a statement, not a question.
'No, Christopher, it's your turn!' she barks in a tone identical to the one she always used as a kid when she and my siblings all played Monopoly together.
If she didn't get Park Place [Mayfair in the English version] she invariably stamped her feet and said: 'But it's mine.' In those days, in the face of her strong will, I always capitulated and rescinded my purchase of Park Place.
Nothing seems to have changed. I stand up. My fellow guests fall silent out of respect - the brother of the bride is about to make a speech. I raise my glass: 'I'd like to toast this happy moment that comes only twice in a person's lifetime.'
Then, without skipping a beat, I go on: 'And if anybody wants to **** Guy, he'll be in my room later.'
Everyone erupts in laughter. Everyone, of course, except Madonna, who keeps saying: 'What did he mean?' Guy, who I suspect knows exactly what I mean, says nothing and avoids looking at me.
Soon after, Trudie tells me: 'That was hysterical. I've been listening to all those homophobic jokes. I just want you to know that we were aware of how you must be feeling.'
On the day of the christening, Range Rovers pull up in front of the castle to take us to Dornoch Cathedral. A Press pack of 500 photographers and even more journalists is waiting for us outside the castle gate. We drive past them but they follow us all the way to Dornoch.
Inside, the cathedral is lit with candles and garlanded with ivy and flowers. I sit with Gwyneth and Rupert and only see Rocco - swaddled in his white and gold £20,000 Versace christening outfit, a gift from Donatella - from a distance.
I learn later that a journalist has been hiding in the massive pipe organ for three days. By the time someone discovers him, he has passed out cold.

After about 30 minutes the service is over. We are driven back to the house. Dinner is served, toasts are given. I experience an urge to smoke but know I can't because Madonna has banned smoking.
Gwyneth and I leave the table at the same time. On the way up to my room we stop at her suite, which is massive and beautiful. It occurs to me that I - who sometimes signed my letters to Madonna 'Your humble servant' just to annoy her - have been relegated to what must be one of the smallest rooms in the castle, perhaps even servants quarters. A joke? Or just my sister's way of keeping me in my place?

Madonna and Guy at son Rocco's christening at Dornoch Cathedral in 2000
The next evening, just before 6.30pm, we all gather in the candlelit Great Hall and take our seats at the foot of the staircase, the balustrades of which are garlanded in ivy and white orchids. It is beautiful. I am sitting in an aisle seat, five rows from the front.
The strains of the hymn Highland Cathedral, played by a lone piper, fill the foyer. He is replaced by a pianist, Katia Labeque, who plays as Lola [Madonna's daughter Lourdes], in a long ivory high-necked dress, descends the staircase to the landing above us, scattering red rose petals in front of her. Lola is sweet, winsome and adorable.
Then Madonna, beautiful in a fitted ivory silk dress, enters on our father's arm. On the landing in front of the bow-window, she joins Guy, who is wearing a green Shetland-tweed jacket, green tie, green and diamond antique cuff-links (which, I later learn, are a gift from Madonna), white cotton shirt and a kilt that someone tells me is in the plaid of the Mackintosh clan.
Rocco, snuggling in his nanny's arms, is dressed in a kilt made from identical fabric. Guy and Madonna exchange diamond wedding rings.
Then, in front of a female pastor, they speak the vows they've written themselves. I wish I could hear them, but the ceremony is so far from where we are all sitting
that none of us can make out a single word. Deja vu - Sean and Madonna's wedding all over again!
After 15 minutes, the wedding party descends the staircase and we all congratulate them. We sip champagne, then Madonna and Guy go up to their rooms to change.
At dinner, I have been allocated a seat at the back of the room, sitting with my back to the bride's table.
I'm not surprised because, after all, I've been a bad boy. The best man, nightclub owner Piers Adam, stands up to give his toast. Behind him, a screen shows images of Guy as a baby, Guy as a schoolboy, and even Guy in a dress. Piers points at it. 'You see, Guy was a poofter early on,' he chortles, really pleased with himself. I restrain myself from getting up and throwing a plate at him.
I glance at my sister, hoping to see a look of outrage on her face, but there is none. I am sad that Madonna, whose early success was built on her legions of gay fans, can listen to these comments without protest. I feel even sadder that she is now married to a man who seems so insecure in his masculinity that he thrives on homophobia.
I leave the dinner, go upstairs and fall asleep. In the morning, we all pile into the bus taking us to the airport and we fly back to London. I breathe a sigh of relief. I've served my time at Skibo and it's over.

I have always designed Madonna's stage shows, but in March 2001 I make the chilling discovery that she is going on the road again but isn't hiring me.
Perhaps this is a retaliation for my wedding toast and the disdain I have demonstrated for her new husband. But a few weeks later she writes inviting me to one of the rehearsals. In the same letter, she tells me that she, Guy and the children are now eating a macrobiotic diet - no meat, chicken, bread, sugar, dairy produce or alcohol - prepared by a French macrobiotic cook. She also invites me to come to a Kabbalah class.
Although I am slightly intrigued by Kabbalah, I decline. But I do accept the invitation to the rehearsal. The overall vibe is angry, violent and not fun to watch.
Then she hires me to do the interior design of the house she has bought from Diane Keaton in Roxbury Drive, Beverly Hills. But before I start work, Madonna takes me aside and says: 'You know, Christopher, I've got kids now and a husband and you are going to have to design the house for the kids and to deal with my husband as well.'
I tell her it won't be a big deal, but I am wrong. In theory, decorating Roxbury should be easy. The only construction required is changing the bathroom upstairs so it suits Madonna, building a closet for Guy and enlarging the pool. But Guy's closet turns out to be a massive enterprise, particularly as it involves dealing with Guy directly.
We meet at the house and he tells me what he wants: 'Nothing mincey, mate. Nothing twee.' I stop myself from knocking his front teeth in.

He tells me that the closet must be 6ft long and 5ft wide, with hanging space just so, drawers of only one kind, and - most important of all - a glass case for his cufflinks
and watches. The case, he says, must be lined in red velvet and have lights so he can see his cuff-links and watches displayed there.
It has to be made out of dark wood. The grain must match and run from left to right. Through it all, he addresses me as 'Chris' even though he knows I prefer Christopher. He is lordly, not in the least bit friendly - as if I am just another employee and not his brother-in-law.
Madonna, too, treats me as if I am nothing other than a serf paid to decorate her home. In the past, I researched fabric and furniture for her, narrowed the choice down to three samples of fabric, or three types of chairs, and brought her the samples and photographs so she could pick which she wanted.
Now, though, she says three samples are not enough. She instructs me to bring her at least ten samples, photographs of at least ten types of chairs, and so on. And when I do, she says, she will then confer with Guy regarding the right choice.
I sense that her obstinacy stems from a deep desire to please Guy, and that he is secretly working to edge me out of every aspect of her life. When it comes to selecting the wood for his closet, I show him 12 samples and he tells me that they all look 'twee', using the word over and over. I get the message: I am gay and he doesn't want the house to reflect my sexuality, which is hardly likely.

A provocative Madonna in 1990 photographed by Christopher
Madonna and I argue over the slightest detail - a doorknob, a light switch. We've never argued over such details before, and I feel as if I am falling into a strange, dark hole.
In August 2002, Madonna invites me to her birthday party at Roxbury. The invitation is from 'Mrs Ritchie'. When she was married to Sean, she never called herself Mrs Penn.
Now she has relinquished practically the most famous name in the universe - just to make Guy feel better about himself.
A kind and loving gesture, perhaps, but I also feel that she is acting a part. The invitation states that the dress code is kimonos only. Anyone not wearing one will not be admitted.
I have a red cotton kimono with white writing all over it, which I bought in Tokyo, so I wear that. At the house, all the pathways are lined with votive candles and the garden looks pretty. Gwyneth and I start chatting.
All of a sudden she screams: 'Christopher, you're on fire.' I look down. Flames are curling up my kimono. I rip it off and pour water over it. Gwyneth and I step on it and stamp out the fire. I am wearing black trousers and a black shirt underneath. I stay at the party dressed like that.
Madonna walks by. I show her my burned kimono, which has a large hole in it. She shrugs. 'Put that back on. No one is allowed to stay at the party if they aren't wearing a kimono.'
Don't ask me if I am OK, don't ask me if I am burned, just stick to your rules. I ignore her and go back to dancing with Gwyneth.

The next time we meet is in London, to see her opening in the play Up For Grabs. Guy is in the audience but we don't talk.
The next day, Madonna invites me to lunch at her house in Marylebone. The Georgian terrace home has a dramatic staircase, five reception rooms, a large library, eight bedrooms and a huge drawing room.
We go out for a walk. Suddenly she says: 'Guy told me about this pub - let's take a look.'
'But you don't drink beer, Madonna.'
'I do now.'
We go into the pub and she orders a pint of bitter. I watch her face as she drinks it. She pretends to like it but I can tell she doesn't.
'My husband is a beer drinker and I want to experience what he experiences,' she says in explanation. I realise that it isn't just Kabbalah that has saved their marriage. Madonna is striving hard to please him.

In the spring of 2003, Madonna tells me she is selling Roxbury and has bought a new house on Sunset Boulevard. At her suggestion, I go to see the house, a bizarre reproduction of a French chateau with a swimming pool, a tennis court and an indoor theatre.
I hate it on sight, but when she asks me to design and decorate it in three months flat, I agree. If I hadn't needed the cash so badly, I would have turned her down because the time is so short.
We exchange ideas by email and Madonna senses my feelings. An argument blows up between us, which rages in our emails.
The conflict escalates when she sends me a vitriolic fax on September 23: 'You hate the fact that you have to work for me. There is no sense of urgency or gratitude and I'm fed- up with all of it. This is not a healthy relationship and when you have gotten rid of your issues with me over the fact that I am what or who I am then perhaps we can work together again.'
The message is clear: for my sister, our working relationship is over.
I write straight back to her. 'Fine . . . fire me . . . I will consider this my last day of work for you. Believe me, I have always worked for every penny you have paid me, and generally it was pennies. You need to take another look at Kabbalah and its teachings and start practising it yourself instead of using it as a weapon on others.'
The following morning, she fires off another fax to me in which she ends our working relationship. She admits: 'Perhaps I expect too much because of history, water under the bridge and the fact that you are my brother. Who knows, but it's not good chemistry.'

Madonna going to her first communion in 1967 with her siblings Marty, Melanie and Christopher in front
I suspect that Guy is somewhere in the background, pulling my sister's strings. Either way, she has made my life a misery during the entire job. Finally, the house is completed according to schedule. But I don't receive the final payment of £7,500, so I call her assistant, Caresse.
'Madonna wants me to tell you that she doesn't feel you did enough to warrant the final payment. So she isn't going to pay it,' she says. For a moment, I digest the latest blow my sister has dished out.
'You tell Madonna that if she wants to see any of the rest of the furniture I bought for her and for which she's waiting, she had better pay me.' Caresse gulps and hangs up. Within a few hours my final cheque arrives by messenger and I arrange for Madonna to get the rest of her furniture.
By now, Madonna and I are hardly on speaking terms. But we are not completely estranged. Then, at the end of October 2003, she decides to return one of the light fixtures I've purchased for her. Caresse takes it back to the shop and learns that I have charged a percentage above the cost - the standard mark-up every designer takes.
On October 24, Madonna calls me and says that she can't believe I've done this to her, calling me a thief, a liar, the most untrustworthy person she's ever met and accusing me of betraying her. The accusation that hurts the most is when she yells: 'I've made you what you are. You wouldn't be anything without me.'
I do my best to defend myself. She hits back with a fax in which she hurls further accusations at me, ending: 'Please never contact me again.'
It is as if my sister has taken a knife, stuck it into my stomach and twisted it 25 times. Or ripped my heart out and carved it into a thousand pieces. I've spent the past 20 years helping make her a star, supporting her and protecting her without much financial reward. And now this.
I read her poisonous words over and over, enraged. In frustration, I smash my fist on my desk. I break a bone in my hand and, for weeks after, have to wear a cast, but the physical pain is negligible next to the psychological pain my sister has just inflicted on me.

On the set of Shanghai Surprise in 1986
Every bit of anger I've ever felt at her, every disappointment she's  caused me, every iota of pride I've swallowed on her behalf, every bitter rejection – it all comes to the surface. I reply to her. 'You have never in the entire time I have worked for you since 1985 paid me even close to what I was worth. I gave up my life to help make you the evil queen you are today. Fifteen years listening to your bitching, egotistical rantings, mediocre talent and a lack of taste that would stun the ages.
'Every ounce of talent you have, you have sucked dry from me and the people around you. I certainly never worked for you for the money, now you accuse me of lying and cheating you. You've got some nerve.
'You have lost all sense of reality. I always thought that one day you'd see my worth and behave accordingly, but you never did. A little respect was all I ever wanted from you, and you couldn't even manage that.'
I end with: 'Don't forget to remove me from your will.' Then I press Send.
As I do, the weight falls off my shoulders. All of a sudden, I am free of Madonna. I don't have to protect her any more. I don't have to worry about how my public behaviour will reflect on her. I can be myself at last. Christopher, not Madonna's brother.
Then I am overcome by a deep sadness. The woman I loved above all others, the woman I thought was incredibly creative and loving has surrounded herself with sycophants who do nothing but agree with her and who, I feel, have poisoned her against me.
The Madonna I once knew is lost to me for ever. I am sorry for her, and us.

Abridged from Life With My Sister Madonna, by Christopher Ciccone with Wendy Leigh, published by Simon & Schuster on July 15 at £17.99. To order a copy for £15.99 with free p&p call 0845 606 4213.
$64,000 ... the debt she left me to pay

I am flicking through a Sotheby’s catalogue and notice three 19th Century landscapes – nothing major, just decorative items costing a total of $64,000, but perfect for Madonna’s Coconut Grove house in Miami.
I send the catalogues to Madonna’s apartment, with the paintings highlighted. Madonna says she wants the landscapes. Normally, for ‘small’ purchases, I lay out the money myself and Madonna pays me back.
So I go over to Sotheby’s and, with the bulk of my savings, win the auction and pay for them. Invoice in hand, I take the paintings to Madonna’s apartment and present them to her.
‘I don’t want them,’ she says.
I assume she must be joking. ‘You’re kidding me, Madonna.’
‘I don’t want them any more and I’m not paying for them.’
As she is well aware, Sotheby’s policy is that if paintings bought in auction are returned, they will re-auction them but will retain half the proceeds. But, for her own reasons, Madonna is pretending that she doesn’t know that.
I feel as if I am going to throw up. ‘But, Madonna, I’ve spent my own money on them. I don’t make the kind of money you make. I can’t just drop $64,000. That’s all the money I have.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘But you can’t not care.’
‘Sell them to somebody else. If they are worth that much money, sell them to somebody. I don’t care what you do. I don’t want the paintings.’
She gets up and sweeps out of the room, leaving me standing there, clutching an invoice for $64,000 and three paintings, and feeling as though she has punched me in the stomach.
I reason that in her head, she must be telling herself that because I am her brother, I should cope with whatever hand she deals me. Still, I never dreamed that she would ever treat me with such a lack of caring or lack of respect.
Today, I suppose, is a milestone. My first experience of the full force of my sister’s dark side, her lack of concern for someone she purports to love. Our father instilled the values of loyalty and honour in us. But over the years, my sister’s sense of loyalty and fairness has clearly been eroded by the adulation, the applause and the sense of entitlement.
It takes me six months to resell the three landscapes. Six months during which I can’t pay my rent, have to borrow from friends, have to struggle to survive. My sister, the cause of my predicament, knows this, yet does nothing.
By the time I finally recoup my money, my feelings for her have undergone a radical shift.