I was home by eight thirty, even with the twenty block walk which I dallied over, walking up Park Avenue to an audience of liveried doormen who all seem to perch on stools, faces pressed wistfully against their glassed in vestibules, like puppies waiting to be picked at the pet shop, watching the world go by, ready to spring into door opening action.
Do you have a doorman? asked the woman from Harper Collins who was sending round a box of books for the party the next night. No, we have a cook and a butler and a housekeeper and a handyman and a gardener and an estate manager and a secretary. More help in the house than rooms for them to help in. They have to do lunch in two sittings.
Tonight, back at the house where Audrey and Mr Audrey are having dinner and I'm joining them for wine and home made ice cream, it's only the fantastic Russian cook, who talks with razor blades.
Marion, I reading your book. Can I be honest weeth you?
No.
She laughs. Razor wire.
Ha ha, no, I can't be honest weeth you?
Yep. No honesty. I don't need honesty.
Well I reading the book but eet eez very hard for me to get into.
(What part of no honesty don't you get?) I try to back out of the kitchen but she has me pinned to the marble worktop with a tray of pine nut cookies fresh from the oven.
Too, much description - cheek bones, face, shoes, too, too much description. Eez very hard to read.
(La la la la la, I'm not listening)
But zen I keep trying and after while get past the first chapter, and now I like very much. You write good.
I slide out, into the elevator and cower in my bedroom, but the blonde uber glamorous butler, is also Russian and she has an access all areas pass. Next morning, she knocks on my door where me and my hangover are hiding in bed.
Marion!
I resist the urge to jump to attention and click heels. She says my name like there's whiplash in the middle - the 'r' stings my cheeks.
So. I read your book.
(God help me. It's like the KGB critic's cell)
Yeah... Look Natasha already told me she thought it had too much detail (and just wait until the next time she asks me for an honest opinion on her lamb stew...)
No, she interrupts, I like very much. I say to self when the man slap her - oh, oh - it doesn't get any more good happen after zis. She going to run again.
I unpeel myself from the wall to which I've been clinging for the past five minutes and slip to floor.
You going to write any more books? You must.
I must, I must. Indeed, yes, definitely.
Take the alka setzer. With water. It help you feel better. She thrusts a glass into my hand. God love her, she's taking care of me body and soul.
Now drink.
I do as I'm bidden. Plink plink, fizz fizz.
Phew. Manhattan is a tough audience.
And tonight's the party.
