Zsa Zsa went through domestic staff — housekeepers, cooks, maids — like most people go through tissues. They either quit, unable to face her daily dose of insults and scorn, or she would find some pathetic reason to fire them. In this case, she had just hired an enormous black lady as a maid, who had incurred the wrath of Gabor over some petty misunderstanding.
From my desk, I heard raised voices. Then Zsa Zsa stormed into my office, and yelled: ‘Tell that f*****g n***** bitch she’s fired!’
With that, she turned and flounced off. But the maid wasn’t going to take that racist insult lying down.
I heard heavy footsteps pounding from the kitchen down the hall, towards my office.
Stepping out, nothing could have prepared me for the bizarre sight I was to see.
To my left, Zsa Zsa was once again hurling hurtful profanities at the maid. To the right, the maid was charging towards her, a massive glass ashtray held high above her head.
I was right in the middle of what looked like a lethal collision course. In a gesture of foolish gallantry, I stood fast in front of the maid, held out an upturned hand and said, quietly but firmly: ‘Think what you’re doing. This could change your life for ever.’
Still panting from her effort, the maid stopped in her tracks and backed off. Within minutes, she was off the property. Zsa Zsa retired to her boudoir. I had just saved her life, and she couldn’t even say ‘thank you’.
…
As for that PR executive who had offered me a guarded warning when I took the job: she was disabled, and while well aware of Gabor’s devastating rants, even she could never have guessed the disdain in which Zsa Zsa held her. Gabor regularly told me to:
‘Get that f*****g Jewish cripple on the phone!’