High life
Good time girls
Taki
ell, one more year has gone the way of Ivan Boesky, and ever since New Year's Day my liver has been acting as if it was about to be indicted for insider trading. The beginning of the end — for my liver, that is — was Christmas Eve, when I had 60 of my closest and dearest for dinner at my house, and it continued up to and including New Year's Day, when I finally collapsed in Long Island with the kind of hangover that killed my ancestor Alexan- der the Great long ago.
As I am neither nouveau riche, nor a social climber, I will not list the people who came to dinner — something that is de rigueur over here among the 'beautiful people' -- I will simply mention that never have so many brains been in one room at the same time. There was a table for the brainy ones, another for the women and social types, and a third for those who had youth. Needless to say, and by popular demand, I sat with the brains, between John Gross and Professor Ernest van den Haag, to be exact, but eventually ceded my place when the Professor demanded that Carolina Herrera sit next to him instead of the greatest Greek since George Papado- poulos.
And speaking of Carolina Herrera, I am willing to bet the Caravel Hotel in Athens (the loser gets to keep it) that there is no more beautiful mother-daughter combina- tion in the civilised world. Carolina mere looks like Rita Hayworth before she knew the ghastly Ali Khan, and Carolina flue, well, words fail me. But let me try. I watched her as she entered the dining room and smiled at everyone. The sum- mery tint of her bare arms. . .the indistinct tenderness of her still narrow but already not quite flat chest. . .the folds of her skirt. . .their succinctness and soft concavi- ties. . .her brushing against me with a bare elbow, invoked an intolerable sensation of sanguine, dermal, multivascular commun- ion with her. Okay, okay, so it's Vladimir Nabokov, but Taki suffers just as much whenever he sees either of the Carolinas.
After dinner I gave a speech thanking my guests for not having gone to Nell's as soon as the food had run out, and after my speech — in fact, during — that is exactly what most of them did, including yours truly. Although the last time I wrote about Nell's I made a few pejorative remarks about the place, I can now safely say that I have logged more hours in the joint than Nell herself. Incidentally, Nell must either be Australian or she must have gone to Eton, because she has a great sense of humour and did not hold it against me. What she does hold against me is the fact that I stuck Anthony Haden-Guest with the bill one night, and Anthony paid it with one of his. . . personal cheques. In fact, Nell's has now replaced Annabel's as far as my favourite club is concerned, at least while I'm in the Big Bagel.
So Nell's it was every night up until New Year's Eve, and then it was Reinaldo Herrera's turn to do the honours. I, needless to say, had the best seat in the house, as I sat between Carolina filk and her step-sister. I ate nothing but drank a lot and sighed even more. While she ate I thought to myself that for the glow of her cheeks, the 12 pairs of narrow ribs, her wisp of a soul, the unknown thoughts that were running through her head, for all this I would have given a sack of rubies, a bucket of blood, anything I was asked.
Yes, yes, I know, it's Vladimir again, but I swear I did think such thoughts. Then the mother of my children told me to stop sighing so loudly, and to give a speech because it was 5 a.m. and the Herreras wanted to go to bed. I did exactly that, and in no time I found myself at Nell's until the mother of my children telephoned and ordered Nell to send me home.
The reason I had such a wonderful time during Christmas week was obvious. The 'beautiful people' had gone underground as there are no charity functions and even their press agents take a rest. So instead of reading about the Gutfreunds, the de la Rentas, and the Zipkins of this world I passed my evenings admiring the two Carolinas, their breathing, their legs, their hair, everything they did. . . . I know, I know, it's that damn Russian again, but I swear that's why I had such a good time.
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