High life
Toeing the party line
Taki
ast week I flew into London, went through Customs unscathed, and was in a taxi and homeward bound while some of the rich were still deplaning. The trick, of course, is never to sit in a window seat with a fat man on the aisle, and never to be stuck with luggage.
Once chez moi I got into bed and began going through the mail. The very first letter I opened was an invitation for that even- ing, and this is where character plays an important part. I was tired from the night before in the Big Bagel, plus the three- hour 20-minute trip 60,000 feet up in the air. But a party is a party, and despite an all-important meeting in the Big Olive the next day, I decided despite my better judgment to go.
Well, thank God I did. First of all, as my buddy the conductor told me in the taxi on the way to the dance, 'We'll have a long rest one day in hell.' Secondly, the orches- tra never once played Zulu music, but numbers a Greek man can dance to. Last but not least, I never once heard what Kingsley Amis refers to as the most horrid phrase in the English language: 'Red or white?' In fact it was champagne through- out.
To my surprise I ran into an old flame, one who now lives in America, having left these shores after a break-up with a rock star who has since done even worse and become a marquis. Funny how old flames look awfully good once they tell you thanks but no thanks. But I had a torrid tango with her, which I suppose is the next best thing to you-know-Koo. Alexander Chancellor and his co-host Auberon Waugh were celebrating their 50th birthdays, so no wonder there was no Zulu music. Alexander is the ex-sainted editor, and the man who gave Taki his break after a recommendation by Simon Courtauld. Both gents have made a lot of enemies as a result, but I ain't counting. What is important is that for once I was not the last person to leave. Bran and Alexan- der were, but not for lack of trying. Susie Chancellor simply ordered me out. To Annabel's, for a change, in the company of the world's greatest future restaurateur, Christopher Gilmour.
Sir Ian's son used to be known as the pork-belly king in Chicago, but having run off with most of the wives of the Chicago Bears football team, he had to . . er, leave town. He plans to open an American-style steakhouse in London, probably to make those who are about to come after him feel at home. I have already made an agreement with him for a permanent corner table, a sort of answer to Jeff's Coach and Horses. Who knows, they might even write a play about us one day.
What is sure is that I had a great time that night. In fact I not only missed the all-important meeting in Athens the next day, I also missed Athens altogether, landing in Rome on a whim in order to look up my buddy Dado Ruspoli. I guess the moral of the story is that business can always wait, and that one should never say no, never think it's too much trouble, never feel too old or too tired.
Except for the tango and the old flame I don't recall too much detail, except for one. I cannot reveal the person's identity because it was a private conversation, but they did worry like hell whether the Duke of Westminster's Rembrandts were fake. I said I hoped they were, as the Shylock Duke already has too much, but that it shouldn't matter anyway. I have just inher- ited my daddy's art, and if I found out some pictures were phony it would make absolutely no difference. I love their looks, not their worth, but try and tell that to the Richard Feigens of this world.
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