Other stories

I say this often but let that not prevent me from saying it again: I would not be able to attend my own dream dinner party.

Martin Amis would be there, and so would Christopher Hitchens and James Wolcott; AA Gill would attend and I'd be horrified to hear the next day what he thought of the ambiance and food; maybe Diana Vreeland would show up and certainly Ines de la Fressange, meaning that no matter what I chose to WEAR to the party, I'd be wrong; Johnny Depp might be there but perhaps the dining room is not quite where we want him; I think maybe Ryan Adams would show up for a drink surprisingly enough, he's great fun at a party and I know that for certain.

Another person who really should come over is David Remnick. A Pulitzer-prize winning author, terrific writer (these two things, Pulitzer winner and great writer are not always the same thing) and editor of the New Yorker he is a guy of whom one of my more clever friends says "if you read anything, read Remnick."

So imagine how thrilled I was to hear that another friend was actually going to a cocktail party chez Remnick!

My friend Jack was given explicit instructions to be my avid emissary, to take note of food, drink, company, interiors, books, art, plants (if any), fashion (who wore what, specifically Rem and wife). He asked if I thought it would be wrong if he took pictures (I said yes but maybe not with the phone) or wore a wire (tough call, that -- I was very tempted and am lousy at turning back temptation).

Jack did a pretty good job though there was no word on the contents of the cabinets and drawers in the loo. Perhaps he didn't go to the loo. Or, perhaps, being a guy, he didn't figure out how to get to the real one and not the pristine and anemic one meant for guests.

It was with great delight that I read Jack's diary notes on the evening as it unravelled. And unravel it did, just a bit, when Jack's date for the event observed slightly loudly (champagne has that effect on me too) that Sir David was spending a great deal of time in a close tete a tete with a very pretty, nubile young woman. Said comment alerted the wife.

Here are snippets from the story Jack sent:

"Spent most of Saturday plotting what to wear. Nancy (his pal) said costumes. Met at Felix Café and immediately riffed the ideas of a fox stole and a king’s jewel-encrusted scepter. The fox was to have been killed in the Royal Hunt at Sandringham, the Queen’s Norfolk estate, and the scepter was that royal touch that kept that nasty critter in line. That was our story and we were sticking to it.

The fox stole was ordered on e-Bay and never arrived until after the fact. The scepter was ordered from a costumer in Albany, arrived on time, but resembled more Tinkerbell’s wand than anything fit for a king. It will now be used by Jack as he looks at creative work. He will point to the best work with the wand.

Nancy and Jack were both very nervous in the final few hours leading up to the event. No fox for the fox, had to settle for Minky, which proved to be the right call. The fox would simply have been too garish, to in-your-face, too much road kill for one girl to pull off.

Nancy wore a fab black wool dress onto which Minky was sewn. A great pelt laid out across her left shoulder. He had very off-putting glass eyes. Those have to go. The dress was set off by a pair of stunning black lace tights that cost as much as Nancy’s $200 hair coloring and blow dry. Ahem.

Jack wore full-on Etro, as dandy as was reasonable. Vivid striped shirt with purple, pink and navy floral tie, and accompanying pocket puff. Pin-striped suit. The coup de grace was his carved wooden Fox head cane from France. Just the thing to keep the mink in line, a mink we should add that was trapped by Nance’s dad when he worked the trap lines for HBC many moons ago. Problem was he snared the beast on hallowed Indian burial ground, thus imbuing Minky with a supernatural spirit. He has been known to come alive at parties and rip into the jugular of the host. Fox Head was on hand as a bludgeoning instrument, as seen on CSI New York.

Nancy picked up Jack at his place just down the road from Remnick in UWS. A glorious, sunny spring evening. On tenterhooks they left the taxi, took a few snaps in front of the house, and, after a limping lesson to make the cane seem more authentic, they ventured in.

A small group of people waited for an elevator. A burly prick of a businessman in a J.C. Penny suit glowered at Jack’s cane and poor Minky. He did not approve. We were clearly not the kind of people he wanted in his building.

In the elevator Jack tested Nancy’s resolve and acumen in telling the HBC trap line story by asking her in front of the others if her father had ever worked traps north of the 60th parallel. To his surprise she informed him that he had laid out a series of traps along the northern frontier, a kind of early warning system to keep out foot-bound Russians, pre-Norad. At least one person in the crowded elevator laughed. It was Jack.

We left the elevator and entered directly into David’s home. A small vestibule at first, then a larger receiving room in which we were, well, received by David Remnick and Drew Schutte themselves. Drew is the new publisher for whom the party was being thrown. Drew shook Jack’s hand and broke it. This was clearly a publisher with something to prove. Jack felt like sending a glancing blow with Fox Head off his temple but that would have got the party off to a dodgy start. David introduced himself to Nancy and Jack. He is tall, good looking, and for a reporter dresses quite well. Navy blazer, pale, open-necked shirt, grey trou. Drew had on a navy blazer and a bolder blue checked shirt, no tie as well. Here is the verbatim conversation that followed:

JACK: “Hi David, Jack Neary.”
DAVID: “Jack, that is one g-r-e-a-t tie.” (said with a drawn-out emphasis, a good thing)
JACK: “Thank you! We do what we can, but the real item worth noting is this fine mink here."(Jack gestures with his cane to Nancy’s black pelt.)
DAVID: “Ohhhhh.” (said admiringly)
JACK: “We are celebrating the retirement of Nancy’s father from his trap line in the far Canadian north.”
NANCY: “This was one of his first catches.”
DAVID: “What a clean catch.”
NANCY: “It was a very clean catch, some of his better work.”
DAVID: “Is this for real?” (we think he meant our story, not if the mink was real)
N & J: (in unison) “Ohhh, yeah, he was a trapper.”
DAVID: “Well, welcome, please make yourselves at home.”

Floating on a thin layer of ether we enter the drawing room."

My heavenly days, how great is that? And isn't my David sharp and charming? Actually, maybe I can't invite Jack either.

You can see why I would be a no-show at dinner.