I am in the business of covering of all things that are glamorous. Or perhaps I should preface this by saying “I am in the business of all things that are perceived to be glamorous.” It’s a role that I have I undertaken the way Jesus carried his crucifix before he looked unto God. In so many ways, I have become the reluctant paparazzo, and by extension
the thing that my camera has trained itself on. The irony of course I am enjoying being crucified, and despite my initial hesitation I too have become enamored with the literati, glitterati, the fabulous, the iconic and the divine. This is how I found myself once again with my dear friend Lucy George…
It is a Saturday night, and I have sworn off all parties, store launches, magazine happenings, Veuve Clicquot and the high cheekbones that make for my every day consumption. I simply can not and will not do it. I will not under any circumstances answer my phone, zip in a taxi, look at one more magazine cover or for that matter pass by that restaurant where the maitre d’ is always asking me if I he could possibly come along to my next event.
Of course this is all wishful thinking and hyperbole, and worse I know it. I am like a dope junkie who has sworn off the illicit, a sex addict who has had his last affair…until that is I recognize the digits screaming on my cell.
She is my honey, my preferred erudite femme fatale, my dear friend, the one who confuse us for a couple when they see us out (yes- it’s always about affairs…), but really she is my dear friend from my home country, and I am so proud of her, even if she tells me to stay easy on the Veuve.
So there I am once again sauntering into another hacienda , the one you have seen in Wallpaper magazine, with swooning elongated dining tables, sweeping views, tasteful commentary, remarks and those killer cheekbones.
My first instinct is to look for the cameras, I know they are here somewhere lurking, sizing everyone in the room. I take a step back, take to pull my coat off, and observe the nitty gritty of (my) society- “…mmh to my left Roy Kean, socialite and real estate extraordinaire, to his left Elle Straus- Fashion Editor of Lucky magazine, and giggling next to her (what is she giggling at I wonder?) Karen Mulligan- Annie Liebowitz’s producer. Finally removing the thing that holds me back I wince as I wonder if that is famed Armani model Jay Bulger (yes, I declare after careful reflection of those cheekbones), the girl salivating in front of Jay is Cianluca Berardi, couture textile guru, and the gentleman salivating over (oops, did, I really think that?) is financier James Orford.
To be sure, my evening has been ruined, completely, it was all meant to be an evening devoid of cameras, diamond bracelets and revolving bottles off champagne. I nervously look for the cameras which I know for certain must be here somewhere, lurking, smirking, hulking, crying –“Peek a boo!”
But they are nowhere to be seen, and yet they must be, no? Of course it is then when I realize that I myself am the camera. I sigh heavily and head straight for the bar only to be mercilessly hugged and adored by Lucy.
I look at her and all my inhibitions are set aside. Listen to her boomerang vowels and the way she holds herself and the behemoth called her extended family.
“I’m sorry, if I’m late. I wasn’t sure if I was going to come.”
“You not come? Please you were made for this,”
I hate her because I know she’s right, I am after all the reluctant paparazzo.
“How’s the mag?” she dares to ask.
“Darl’s (that’s Aussie slang for gorgeous friend) I have to tell you I’ve taken to sleeping in taxi’s and elevators, because that’s the only time I ever get a chance to steal a few zzz’s.’
She laughs, swings a cabernet in my hand and tells me ‘not to be silly.’
I meekly comply, and head for the nearest corner and proceed to do what I love doing the most- that’s right –watch other people.
It’s amazing to watch my friends at work, amazing because when you read about them, see them in some party picture all you can think is how immortal they are and all the affairs they are suppose to be having. The truth is they are really sensitive people who have trolled for years at their craft, accepted their calling (I promise to do likewise one day…) and as a consequence risen to the top of their echelons.
They are simply people like you and me, well less like me, who have held on and succeeded, when so many of us just throw it away or can no longer bear the burn marks. These people can and have.
Yet that said it still doesn’t excuse the fact that they are glamorous, or as I have prefaced earlier- perceived to be glamorous.
I sit back in my corner and listen nonchalantly (but intently) as one of the guests (I refuse to name her name my dears) go off about how she went to a sex store earlier that evening and bought herself some new toys.
What type of toys I wonder? Not to fear, I find out the next moment, ‘anal’ toys for him she cavalierly retorts to one of the room’s celebrated guests.
It’s at this point I am unable to hold back, I go looking for our host, dearest Lucy George and plead for pen and paper.
“But darl’s I thought this was your night off?”
“I know, I know, but what’s a girl to do…?”
So there I am succoring all the evenings little banter, sexual tensions (I know can you believe it?), the idle wishes of becoming a sugar mommy at some later date in one’s life so as to have the privilege of taking care of some hot model boy. My pen screaming by now, the wine flowing back and forth, and the door latch very much broken.
It’s finally time to go, and as Lucy gives me one of her heartfelt hugs and invitations to drop by next week for tea (“You’re always welcome here Christopher”) I am deeply touched.
Touched because as glamorous and as beautiful and celebrated everyone that night was (or at least perceived ) we were all at the end of the night kindred souls looking for companionship, romance, affirmation, recognition, solace, intrigue and that thing that bound as human.
“I’ll drop by soon,” I whispered into her ear, my crucifix now finally slipping off…