TRAVELING IN STYLE : OUR OWN PRIVATE ISLAND : Mustique Is an Exclusive Caribbean Paradise for the Likes of Mick Jagger and Princess Margaret--but for a Price, Anyone Can Share the Fantasy

Sitting on the broad veranda that encircles our cliff-top house, gazing down at the freshwater pool below, I hear the music of Mustique--the waterfall at the deep end, and, farther off, the surf pounding away on Macaroni Beach. The sea is a translucent turquoise: The air is perfumed with the scents of star jasmine and Hawaiian frangipani. I am living the lifestyle of the rich and famous. Temporarily, at least.

Mustique is an island 122 miles west of Barbados--a jewel amid a string of island pearls stretching from St. Vincent to Grenada in the southeastern Caribbean. (It’s part of the nation of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, an independent state belonging to the British Commonwealth.) Mustique is a small island, less than four miles square, but it has become a famous international playground for royalty and the super-rich. It is on Mustique that Prince Andrew is said to have trysted with soft-porn star Koo Stark. Princess Margaret maintains a home here. So do Lord Litchfield, Mick Jagger, David Bowie, ex-Braniff Airlines Chairman Harding L. Lawrence, Sergei Kauzov (the former Russian government shipping official who became, briefly, Christina Onassis’ third husband) and a host of other globe-trotting luminaries. (Although regard for privacy is de rigueur on Mustique, many resident celebrities are listed openly in the island’s 18-page telephone book, which resembles a slick travel brochure with its cover photo of swaying palms and conch-shell-covered beach.)

I’m part of a group of 15 globe-trotting non-luminaries myself. My husband and I have a group of friends we’ve been traveling with for years. We know them from the world of international finance, in which my husband used to work, and, though they come from all over the United States and Europe, we usually manage to get together twice a year for a group vacation. Sometimes we ski in Aspen or St. Moritz. Sometimes, it’s deep-sea fishing in Cabo San Lucas. Last year, it was a week on Mustique.

A wealthy Scot named Colin Tennant, Lord Glenconner, bought Mustique in 1959 from the Hazell family, descendants of an English dynasty of cotton and sugar planters who once owned the island. He built roads and an airport and furnished the island with electricity; he also planted the palm groves that help give Mustique its lush appearance today and sprayed the island with DDT to reduce its population of the dreaded yin-yins , or mosquitoes, for which it is named. (Mustique is a corruption of the French word for the insect, moustique .) He next deeded Princess Margaret and her then-new husband, Lord Snowdon, 10 acres of prime land on the island as a wedding present--thus bestowing on Mustique a kind of instant royal status.

In addition, Tennant invited Lord Snowdon’s uncle, renowned English stage designer Oliver Messel, to design many of the island’s villas and to resuscitate its 1835-vintage plantation buildings--which now make up part of the charming 24-room Cotton House, the island’s only hotel. In an indisputably theatrical vein, Messel created villas in a smorgasbord of styles, from Indian to Moorish, British Colonial to Italian palazzo. Today there are 75 villas on the island, and more than half of them, including Mick Jagger’s Japanese-style Stargroves and Princess Margaret’s house, Les Jolies Eaux (The Pretty Waters)--officially listed in the Mustique phone directory under the name of her son, Lord Linley--are rented out by their owners when they’re not around.

New villas are still being built on the island, too, many under the direction of Arne Hasselquist, Messel’s successor, though a limit of 130 houses total has been set. One of the grandest of the more recent crop is Harding Lawrence’s massive villa, the Terraces, said to have cost $17,000,000--including furnishings.

Getting to Mustique isn’t particularly easy--a fact that doubtless contributes to the island’s exclusivity. It takes about 13 1/2 hours on an all-night flight from Los Angeles, with a stop in Miami and plane changes in San Juan and Barbados--if you make all your connections. The last leg of the journey is particularly daunting--a 50-minute, white-knuckle flight in a 10-seat, two-engine Islander. One of our group, upon first spotting the tiny plane, asks “Is there any other way to get there?” Someone else answers, “Swim.” We take off. Gazing out my window, listening to the high-pitched buzz of the engines, I see a sea of rippled slate and small explosions of white clouds drift beneath me. “When’s the movie?” somebody asks.

We land on what looks like the world’s shortest runway. The terminal is a small open-air building with cane walls and a palm-frond roof. Customs is a table in one corner. Next to it is a built-in bookcase and a sign that reads “Library.” (You may take a book, but you are expected to leave one in return.) Jeannette Cadet, manager of house rentals for the Mustique Company, official owner of the island, greets us. We are quickly divided into two parties and whisked away in four-wheel-drive vehicles to our respective villas.

As we bump along, three white egrets take short flight in front of us and land on the other side of the road. I ask Cadet if she has stage-managed this. She laughs. The air smells of freshly cut grass. When we arrive at our destination, a villa called White Cedars (after one of the most common trees on the island, Colin Tennant’s palms notwithstanding), we find our butler, cook and gardener are waiting for us at the bottom of an imposing stone staircase flanked by yellow buttercups. I feel like Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa.”

White Cedars (which Oliver Messel did not design) is a series of interconnected pavilions made of native gray stone and teak. Guest quarters, living room, master suite, dining room and kitchen form a crescent-shaped necklace around a pond straight out of Monet’s waterlily paintings--but with tropical accents. An orchard and vegetable garden surround the front of the house--grapefruit, tangerine, orange, lime and avocado trees and a patch of spinach and sweet peppers--and there are breathtaking views of hill and sea. Rum punches in hand, the men toss coins for the master bedroom, which is three times the size of the guest rooms and has a wet bar, a walk-in closet, an oversized bathroom and a private balcony. My husband wins the toss, and we immediately feel guilty.

We plop ourselves down on the soft four-poster bed with its hand-carved pineapple finials. A white ceiling fan turns slowly overhead, and a gust of gentle wind billows our curtains. Paradise. We decide we can live with the guilt.

Dinner is served in a glass-enclosed dining room--one side completely open to the stone pond, which is full of waterlilies, papyrus and koi. The round table is strewn with red hibiscus and yellow buttercups; candles flicker under hurricane lamps. The appetizer is a hearty callaloo soup, made with the leaves of a tuber-like Caribbean vegetable, followed by grilled chicken. The soup has the consistency of a thick cream of pea and tastes vaguely like spinach. It’s delicious. One of our friends from the other house calls during dessert to announce, “We’re inviting ourselves over for a drink and tour.” When they arrive, we proudly escort them around “our” villa. We’re already feeling proprietary.

The next morning, we descend the path to Macaroni Beach. Halfway down, we stop to rest in a gazebo perched above the water. Here, we watch a land turtle with orange polka-dot feet saunter by. We consider going snorkeling--there are said to be trigger fish, moray eels, angel fish, groupers and nurse sharks in these waters, as well as a cave filled with lobsters (which intrigues me more)--but we end up going sailing instead. In a rented 12-foot Zuma, we zip down Endeavor Bay. The so-called Great House, the Taj Mahal-like estate of white coral blocks built by Colin Tennant for himself (Sergei Kauzov now owns it), appears suddenly around a small cape, as if it were a mirage.

That night, our friends from the other house--which is called Cactus Hill--invite us over for after-dinner drinks. Cactus Hill is said to be an easy five-minute drive from White Cedars. Maybe it is--if you don’t get lost. But there are no road signs or street lights, and we do get lost. It is blue-black outside, and we jostle up and down the unpaved, bone-rattling roads. We flash our lights on the chiseled stone pillars along one driveway after another, looking for the right place. At one house, finally, we find a caretaker who directs us: “Next road to the right.”

Half an hour later, we arrive at Cactus Hill, which turns out to be a rectangular group of rooms set around a dense garden with a spectacular open-air pavilion overlooking Endeavor Bay. You can dive into the pool from the living room. It’s lovely, but, our group agrees, White Cedars is better.

In the morning, it is raining. It looks like the monsoons have hit, in fact. One of us, a Type-A marathoner who rises daily at 5 a.m. for a run, greets me at breakfast and says between clenched teeth, “Did you know this was going to be the rainy season?” Well, no, I didn’t. The brochure for Mustique says that the rainy season begins in late August and extends through mid-November, with the heaviest rains coming in September and October. It is now late November--and according to our gardener, not a drop of rain has fallen for the last three months.

We had already decided to throw a party for the group tonight, and the rain isn’t going to stop us. Three of us climb into the little Suzuki runabout that comes with the villa, planning to head for the store. The Suzuki won’t start, and we get soaked trying to push it. Then we have the bright idea of calling the Mustique Company office for help--and they send a new battery over with amazing alacrity.

The store in question, the only one on the island, calls itself “Mustique’s Great General Store.” A turquoise building the size of a 7-Eleven, with bougainvillea cascading down the roof and a topsy-turvy pile of baskets just inside the door, the General Store is high on charm--but, we quickly discover, low on groceries. The store abounds with canned goods, from peas to oil-packed tuna to Del Monte chunky fruits, but there aren’t many fresh fruits and vegetables. (This may be the tropics, but there’s a better selection of mangoes and pineapples at any supermarket in Los Angeles.) We find chicken, but there is no lettuce in sight. We remember the spinach growing in the garden at White Cedars, though, and decide that will do for salad. We find homemade mint ice cream for dessert. Wine is expensive, but there is rum for $10 a liter. We load up on it and on the makings for punch. (If you must have nonfat milk, low-fat yogurt and the like, forget Mustique. The store stocks caviar, pate, French wines and real whipping cream--but nothing dietary. )

On the way home, we stop at Basil’s Bar and Raft Restaurant--the only public eating place and gathering spot on the island outside the Cotton House Hotel. We devour cheese omelets, bacon, toast, coffee and fresh grapefruit juice. The rains continue, but, full of breakfast and high on coffee, we don’t care.

Before we leave Basil’s, we ask the bartender what we can do about music for our party. He calls the island’s one disc jockey, Carlisle Richards--who promptly agrees to a two-hour gig for $100. As we leave, the rain suddenly stops. We spontaneously break into “Don’t worry, be happy” and head for Macaroni Beach. Here, we swim for an hour under a lavender sky. A rainbow overhead stretches from the green hills and disappears into the sea.

By afternoon, the monsoons have returned. The roads are brown rivers. It’s raining and blowing so hard we wonder if our friends will be able to make their way here. The disc jockey calls. “Do you still want me to come?” he asks. Yes, we answer. Everyone manages to arrive--wet, but in high spirits. We dine on barbecued chicken--which our butler has miraculously managed to cook outside despite the rain--and then the disc jockey arrives. We dance and laugh for hours, oblivious to the deluge.

The next morning, the rain has stopped, and the phone rings early. It’s the bartender from Basil’s. “Come quick, the lobsters are in.” We throw on our clothes and race to the bar before they disappear. There we find a tin tub crawling with five-pound crustaceans. We dicker for a while and end up with four of them plus six large snapper-like fish for about $120. We find out later that the other house sent their resourceful butler, whose name is Egg, and he got eight gigantic lobsters for less than $100. By the time we eat our lobsters, slathered in butter, that night, though, we don’t care what they cost. They’re divine.

On Wednesday, my husband and I go horseback riding, with a guide named Fabian. The roads are still muddy, and puddles the size of small lakes have formed in low spots, but cantering down deserted white-sand beaches and across fields of wet grass, we don’t care. It takes us 2 1/2 hours to circle the entire island; then we walk home down a quiet road accompanied only by dozens of white butterflies dancing on the wind.

That night, we all get gussied up (shorts, T-shirts and sandals usually suffice anywhere on the island) for the weekly “jump-up” at Basil’s. Basil is Basil Charles, an imposing St. Vincentian who used to work at the Cotton House and then for Colin Tennant and who now owns not only the bar but also the store, the island’s only bakery and one of its two boutiques. He is clearly the most famous local character on the island, and he is a first-rate host. The term “jump-up,” he explains, “comes from Carnival time, when people jump up and dance in the street.”

After gorging on the jump-up buffet--a spread of roast suckling pig, grilled lobsters, barbecued chicken, coleslaw, salad, potatoes and both key-lime and peanut pie--and downing a number of potent rum-based hurricanes apiece, we are all ready to jump up and dance ourselves. There’s not a royal or a superstar in sight, but a happy melange of yacht people, butlers and residents (both owners and renters) makes it a party to remember. One man, whom I dub “Lawrence of the Caribbean” for his white cap with back flap, doesn’t sit down the entire evening, but sways this way and that to the music for hours--both with and without a partner.

Between dances, sipping more rum drinks in our bamboo-lined booths, with rattan lanterns bobbing overhead, we meet an attractive young widow from Newport Beach who invites us over to her villa, Cocopalm, for cocktails and crab hunting the next evening. Cocopalm, we learn, is the home Arne Hasselquist designed for Kenneth Franzheim II, former U.S. ambassador to New Zealand, Western Samoa, Fiji and Tonga. Our hostess is remodeling it and adding a terra-cotta-colored contemporary-style house next door.

Between us and the other guests, it’s a mini-United Nations at Cocopalm--an English, French, Venezuelan, German, Finnish, Swiss, Israeli and American crowd. The principal topic of conversation: “How did you find Mustique?” One of our hostess’s neighbors, who owns a house called Jacaranda just down the beach, tells a typical story: He came to the Cotton House on vacation half a dozen years ago. When another hotel guest started talking about buying an available beach property on the island, he advised him not to be rash. The man bought the property anyway--and three months later, our friend found himself buying the property next door. And what does he like so much about Mustique? He smiles. “It’s a world apart.”

GUIDEBOOK: The Mustique Mystique

Getting there: American Airlines has a daily red-eye flight to Barbados from LAX via Miami and San Juan. Alternatively, Delta Airlines has a daily flight from LAX to New York City that connects with a BWIA nonstop flight to Barbados. There are several daily flights to Mustique from Barbados on Mustique Airways and LIAT. Mustique Airways also offers charter service for eight to 14 passengers. (Our charter flight, with a group of 10, cost $10 more per person than a regularly scheduled flight would have cost.). For information on charter flights, call (800) 526-4789.

Where to stay: The only hotel on Mustique is the 24-room Cotton House, built around an 18th-Century stone-and-coral warehouse and sugar mill. Rates: $260-$400 (May 6-Oct. 31), $325-$550 (Nov. 1-Dec. 15 and April 2-May 1) and $550-$730 (Dec. 16-April 1) per night for two people, including all meals, afternoon tea and the use of water-sports equipment and other hotel facilities. A minimum stay of seven nights is required between Dec. 15 and 24 and a minimum of 10 nights between Dec. 22 and New Year’s Eve. For reservations and further information, call the hotel at (809) 456-4777 or its booking agent, Ralph Locke Islands, in New York, at (800) 223-1108.

Renting a Villa: Villas rent by the week, with a seven-night minimum, with prices ranging from $2,500 for the two-bedroom Marienlyst to $15,000 for the five-bedroom Rosa dei Venti (which has its own tennis court). Most villas have high and low season rates, the former traditionally extending from Dec. 1 to April 30. For instance, White Cedars rents for $6,500 and $5,200, respectively; Cactus House rents for $7,750 and $6,200. Mick Jagger’s six-bedroom Stargroves rents for $8,000 in high season and $6,500 the rest of the year. Princess Margaret’s (or Lord Linley’s) five-bedroom Les Jolies Eaux rents for $6,500 and $5,000. Included are the services of at least a cook-maid and gardener (some larger houses have larger staffs), the use of a Suzuki or other Jeep-style vehicle and use of the island’s tennis courts. Guests should fax a grocery list ahead to the Mustique Company Ltd., (809) 456-4565, three or four days before arrival date, as it must be shipped in from St. Vincent. Credit card accounts may be established at the Mustique Great General Store. Villas are booked through Resorts Management Inc., the Carriage House, 201 1/2 E. 29th St., New York, N.Y. 10016, (800) 225-4255, fax (212) 689-1598, or through The Mustique Company Ltd., P.O. Box 349, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, West Indies, (809) 458-4621, fax (809) 456-4565. Reservations should be made as far in advance as possible--bookings a year in advance are not uncommon, especially for the high season, which runs from Dec. 1-April 30--but can only be confirmed eight months prior to arrival. The reservation policy is strict: 10% deposit upon initial booking, which becomes non-refundable eight months prior to the rental starting date; an additional 40% required six months prior to rental, becoming non-refundable three months before arrival; and the remaining 50% due two months before starting date, completely non-refundable. (Travel insurance is advised in case cancellation becomes necessary.)