Confessions of a billion dollar girl

'Just one more of London's unemployed': billionaire's daughter Libby Caudwell in Soho
Libby Caudwell10 April 2012

Move over Tamara Ecclestone - there's a new Billion Dollar Girl in town. Except without the private jet. And the properties. And the credit card. And the shoes. Okay: without the money.

But Tamara and I do have something in common: we are both the daughters of billionaires. Of brilliant men who have worked like demons to become brilliant successes.

In 1987, while Bernie was building his Formula 1 empire, John Caudwell - who was living in a caravan - bought 26 suitcase-sized mobile phones for £1,350 each. Nineteen years later he sold Phones4u for £1.46 billion.

I came along in the early days. Bypassing the caravan stage, I landed straight onto a Stoke-on-Trent estate and grew up moving to lovelier and lovelier homes, watching my father's transition from unapologetically ambitious dreamer to John Caudwell: billionaire philanthropist.

The Billionaires' Daughters' Club has been pretty prolific of late. Tamara has opened her doors to Channel 5, and Chloe Green is jaunting along with the Made in Chelsea crew. I've heard rumours that Chloe buys her friends clothes from Topshop, which makes me question why I am not friends with Chloe Green.

It also makes me realise that I am doing this BBD (Bratty Billionaire's Daughter) thing all wrong! I watched Billion Dollar Girl and felt myself getting all sneery and superior. And by sneery and superior I do, of course, mean, well jel.

I do have a pretty sweet deal though. I live in my sister's London home rent-free and my dad still supports me financially. It embarrasses me but I think he is happy to do so until I find my feet. I know he would rather I made my own way, not because he demands great things of me, but because he wants me to develop a stronger sense of self-worth. He gives me a monthly allowance of £1,200 and I thank him so much as it means I can try to build a career rather than make ends meet. And yes, it is spoilt. But it isn't "I think I'll have another beige Birkin" spoilt, more like "guys, shall we just get a taxi?" spoilt, at which point my friends roll their eyes and say "No".

Of course, that doesn't make me a better person than other BBDs but I suspect it makes my father a better parent. However, when I was talking to him about this piece, he said something that surprised me: "I wonder if I could have done better by you kids. If I had given you a million pounds to either squander or do something useful with, I wonder if you would have more confidence."

He made the point that while Tamara does spend big, she also does some charity work. I may not squander as much as Tamara, but neither do I put as much back into society. Who's to know what's right, but I'm glad I never had the money. I was not, and am not, ready for the responsibility.

I think I have also been lucky that my father didn't have time to start spending his money until he sold his business six years ago. I was never exposed to the fabulous life growing up, so whenever I am now it is still with a sense of wonder.

I worry for my younger siblings. It is hard to know what such over-exposure to wealth could do to their development. Of course I hope that the influence of my dad and stepmother will keep them safe, but it is a scary world to be trying to discover yourself in.

Meanwhile, I must be the least compelling BBD in existence. I don't have any rich and famous friends (Tamara, seriously, call me! Let's go to Cannes. I'm good at hair and stuff). I don't go to snazzy clubs, take modelling jobs (I know - weird, right?) or get papped.

In general, my bunions and I trudge round London in our size 9 Evans shoes (they do excellent flats for the larger- footed lady) trying to find internships and hoping for the day that someone might actually want to pay me to do some work.

I try (and fail) not to overeat. I try (and fail) to go to the gym. I try (and fail) to remain cheerful through the occasionally overwhelming panic that my life is going nowhere that leads me to wonder how my father must feel about my becoming just one more of London's unemployed. Having said that, there are occasions when being a rich dude's daughter really comes into its own.

Superyachts are a good time. A foully decadent, morally irresponsible, repugnantly wasteful, jolly good time. And the parties are overwhelming. My 21st was like an episode of My Super Sweet 16 but with less subtlety. That most surreal and wonderful of nights saw 200 of my bewildered friends and family, hopped up on free booze, peering through squinty eyes to determine that, yes, that was in fact Leona Lewis singing Happy Birthday on stage. And then there is Elton's.

A few years ago dad became a supporter of the Elton John Aids Foundation. This means that once a year my mum, stepmother (we have a super cosy situation), sister and I get into an over-excited, over-fake-tanned flap about attending the White Tie and Tiara ball.

You know that thing I said about not being that spoilt (Leona aside - ha!)? Forget that. For this one day we are monsters. The cost of our dresses could bail out Greece. We are grouchy and vile to each other because we haven't eaten for half a day in the hope that that will make us celebrity thin. Without fail I get severe abdominal pain because I am so excited, so anxious, so starved and so poisoned by the champagne reception.

One particularly memorable year was "The Year I Met Hugh Grant", though sadly not for the obvious reason. Dad had met him previously and started getting "friendly" with him. If Hugh has no recollection of this, I ask him to have a heart and fake it because Dad was ever so pleased with himself and all puffed up and grinny about being able to introduce us to Hollywood royalty. And we were all grinny and petrified in turn. As much as I plastered confidence on my face, my tummy was not fooled. It became tender and taut and a small alien started rummaging about in my small intestine making me sweat and gurn in pain.

I looked at my sister in horror. It was only a split second but her face clearly said: Libby, you are my sister and I will always love you. But I am about to meet Hugh Grant so your pain is just going to have to wait.

We were introduced. I proffered a sweaty palm, mumbled hello and then darted off to dive into a rhododendron bush where I started to get proactive about my recovery. I hitched my Jenny Packham skirts above my waist and started doing squats. There I was. In Sir Elton John's garden. Having all but cold-shouldered Hugh Grant. Staring at my Evans diamante kitten heels. Trying to fart.

And when that didn't work I did as all sensible people do. I drank through it. Drank through all the nerves and the pain until the remaining members of the Beach Boys were wheeled onto the stage to sing Good Vibrations and I nipped into the bathroom to pass out. Emerging about two hours later to discover that I had missed the Beach Boys and Elton's performance I felt a little sorry for myself and deeply ashamed. You spoilt little twerp. You were lucky enough to attend this wonderful event and you saw it as an opportunity to get wasted. My dad looked at me quizzically. Where were you darling? "Erm. Networking. Yes. Talking to people. Making contacts. That kind of thing." He totally bought it. Or at least pretended to. He's nice that way, my dad.

I don't really fit into the glamorous world. I am too sensitive and prone to confidence crises. And I get it wrong constantly. I once kissed Joan Collins on the cheek. Never do that. She does not like it. I met Prince Andrew and, forgetting royal protocol (curtsy, "good morning Your Royal Highness"), greeted him like he was a mate's dodgy boyfriend. I met Matthew Morrison and called him Mr Schue. I am just not cool.

Tamara would never behave in that way. Perfectly coiffured and styled, she fragrantly navigates the celebrity world with wearied poise. I can't do that. And I will never be able to wash my dogs in money, or whatever it is she does. But neither do I have to schedule appointments to see my dad. Nor enter a restaurant with the worry that he will greet me with anything other than a suffocating hug and a scratchy kiss. And I will never have to wonder whether he actually wants a relationship with me, whether he likes me, whether he loves me.

I suppose no matter what your surroundings, how beautiful your things, we are all stuck with ourselves, for better or worse. I hope one day to achieve something worthy of the opportunities I have been given in life. I am aware every day that anything less than extraordinary is frankly unacceptable in a world where people strive so hard and want for so much. I don't always feel up for it, worthy of it, capable of it. In fact sometimes I wish it would all go away so I could just feel proud of myself for getting a job.

We are all seeking to make our way as best we can. Chloe, Tamara If they are anything like me, then they are desperately trying to find a sense of self-worth against a backdrop of success that dwarfs them. And behind the bluster, we are all just trying to make Daddy proud.

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