High life
Down Memory Lane
Taki
Ken Lane, the man who is escorting Ivana Trump around London this week, is a nice Jewish boy from the wrong side of the Detroit tracks, and as confirmed a bachelor as one can be and still be allowed inside Mortimer's. I have been an ac- quaintance of his for some 30-odd years, ever since he crashed the party scene by being the first to make fake jewels chic. This Kenny did rather easily. After all, imitation is to Lane what giving comfort to the enemy is to Hanoi Jane, as in Fonda.
Kenny made a quick buck with his imitation jewels, but had a harder time denting society with his imitation English accent. Back then things were tougher for the nouveaux, although one would never guess it by reading the things Kenny has to say today. He recently wrote a nostalgic piece in an American magazine about . . . Diana Cooper of all people, and his close
friendship with her. He also mentioned growing up in the Riviera, and the magic times he had enjoyed in the Villa Fiorenti- na. The only trouble being that I, too, was around at the time, and unless I'm lying like the proverbial rug, I somehow don't remember him being there. But such are the joys of being old. One can always claim tricks of memory.
But back to Ivana. What les mauvaises langues are saying is that now that la Trump cannot afford real jewels any lon- ger, she has reverted to Kenny Lane ones — as mean-spirited an aspersion as me not remembering him at the Agnelli parties on the Riviera.
Needless to say, I like the fellow, as I do Ivana, whom I've never met. They have both invented themselves, which is the next best thing to the real McCoy, after all. Neither of them is envious of those geneti- cally privileged, a condition that eats away at a surprising number of aristocrats, mem- bers of the middle classes and all commun- ists and Marxists. And one more thing: I hope the Donald makes it, because at least he creates jobs, and doesn't do away with them a la Kravis, although being supersti- tious I don't think the Georgia Peach has exactly brought him luck.
Ivana and Kenny and those awful New- doors (Portanovas to you polyglots) have been hanging around Annabel's all week, but I have missed them because I've been keeping company with Robin and Jane Birley. Robin and Jane are the children of Mark Birley, the Fiihrer of Annabel's, who as of late has been a bit put off by their behaviour in the greatest night-club of all time. In fact, their conduct has been downright scandalous, and the Fiihrer was right to ban them. The last time such a thing happened Iran and Iraq went to war for eight years.
As some of you may have heard, the Vane-Tempest-Stewart family, of which Robin and Jane's mother is a member, has always had a propensity to throw things in enclosed areas. In view of the plight of Ethiopia, Jane Birley decided no longer to throw food . . . but socks. Smelly ones. About a month ago she was at her daddy's nightspot when she spotted a large table of Arabs pretending to eat their dates under their proverbial tents. She grabbed the socks of an Iranian friend sitting next to her and flung them rather accurately. Too accurately. The Arabs were furious and complained to Louis, the best maitre d' this side of Sumatra. Louis tried to placate them by yelling at the Birley children an old Arab curse ('May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits') but to no avail. The Birleys kept firing missiles. Finally Louis showed them the door.
Worse was to come. The next day both children received a fax from Papa inform- ing them that they were banned from all family watering places for life, which is a small price to pay for their vile action. As a longtime buddy, I had to show solidarity and stay away for one week only. But next week it's back to Berkeley Square.
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