I can’t quite believe I am going back to England so soon. I’m away for 17 days, with my shoots taking up twelve of those one way or another, and then Miss P’s wedding will account for several more. It certainly will be no holiday: I expect to return as exhausted as I left.
And that is completely my fault for having been out every evening for the past week, although I attempted to calm down yesterday by spending the day with BA lolling about on the Soho House rooftop. Before my first bikini-clad outing there last Spring, I thought it would be all taut models frolicking in the pool and Sex & The City type action, but fortunately everyone looks refreshingly normal, if somewhat more glossy & groomed than they do down Gospel Oak Lido. (It’s always reassuring to spot copious amounts of cellulite on a bronzed beauty’s bottom.)
It was the first properly hot, sunny day we’ve had for a while, tempered perfectly by a cooling breeze. Consequently I have a rather fetching patch of sunburn on one shoulder and a rather ruddier complexion than I would choose. Still, the English papers, brunch & an incredibly powerful caipirinha consumed from the comfort of our sun loungers poolside made up for any lingering discomfort. As did the Pimms we drank later at Schiller’s. So, this evening, after a huge bowl of pasta at Settipani in Harlem with my most erudite New York friend, Ed Epstein, & joined by Richard Temtchine, I am packing up my clothes, books and 35 pairs of shoes, ready to move to my new apartment the night before I fly to London.