Last week was a curate’s egg and no mistake. I flew in from my grande luxe trip to the Dominican Republic on Sunday night and, paralysed with homesickness for maybe the first time in my life, moped for most of the week, sobbing at inappropriate intervals, avoiding the telephone and wondering if I had made an epic error in returning to America, when work was going unbelievably well in London, my parents’ hideous divorce was dragging on, and Posetta Baddog needed me.
Monday slipped by, and I was only forced out of my friend’s apartment in Carnegie Hill on Tuesday by the pressing combination of a garment bag of Oscar de la Renta samples to return, an empty fridge and a dead, charger-less Blackberry. I can’t remember what I did for the rest of the week. I certainly didn’t blog much, so I presume I was holed up in the apartment moping & watching House on hulu.com
This enormous billboard in Times Square, which I passed on the way to the Garment District on Tuesday, didn’t help on the cheering front:
I had a drink at The Algonquin on Wednesday night with the volcano-stranded Ms Churchwell, and by Thursday morning I was calling in Tania’s Perspective Police. I shot out of the apartment like a bullet to lunch in SoHo with a charming publicist, determined to accept that I was in New York and that that was categorically A Good Thing. Supper with the also volcano-stranded Ms Dixon at The National on Thursday night helped stopped me climbing the walls.
And I did have a film premiere to go to on Friday evening. Shiny doesn’t cure all ills, but it certainly helps wallpaper over the cracks. Frocked up, hair curled, red lipstick defiantly slicked on, I headed to Chelsea for the TriBeCa Film Festival’s showing of Vidal Sassoon: The Documentary in a positively buoyant frame of mind. (Great film, more to come of this later.)
And God bless my NYC friends for their cheering properties. Dearest S, who I haven’t seen for six months, picked me up at Soho House afterwards, and escorted me to The Standard for the after party.
Packed to the rafters with interesting people, with rivers of vodka flowing, & a wonderful view over the High Line and the Hudson River, it really would have been churlish not to play my A game.
Ebullient S, of course, had a slew of plans in motion as the evening progressed, so we hit up some friends in Soho House, followed in quick succession by a hideous bar in the hell that is the Meatpacking District on a Friday night, a French house party in, erm somewhere…Chelsea maybe? hazy with cigarette smoke, where I caught up with more friends, then Hudson Terrace in Hell’s Kitchen for another French party and lots of tipsy dancing and other shenanigans.
Which is how I found myself being whirled around the dancefloor by fantastic dancer, E, …and was rather surprised when the photo above appeared on a stranger’s Facebook, much to the glee of my friends.
I awoke on Saturday with a cracking hangover, and in a much better frame of mind.
Manhattan is out there, and it’s up to me to make the most every moment. No more lurking in my apartment