Diana was playing the polite hostess to perfection. Claire was an heiress herself and had recently become engaged to Josh Salzburg, the young Internet-stock king. She was unfailingly good natured, well dressed, and interesting, but, Diana reflected, there was something about Claire that made her just a bit uneasy. Claire was interested in local politics; Hillary Clinton and Rudy Giuliani duking it out in New “York, that sort of thing. The race for the White House just made Diana yawn. Plus, Claire actually read the Wall Street Journal and dabbled in stocks. True, she wasn’t a workaholic; Diana loathed those hard-edged New York women, the type of go-getting American girl who just made her feel bad, and she only had them over to her apartment on extreme sufferance. Sometimes the wives of Ernie’s top executives fell into that career-girl category, and then, to her annoyance, Diana just couldn’t cut them. But Claire Bryant still seemed full of excess energy. Diana had invited her out to the shopping excursions, spas and Broadway matinees she attended regularly with Jodie, Natasha and Felicity, but Claire was busy half the time. Busy! What did that mean? Diana wondered. Sure, Claire had a little interior design business, but Diana just thought of that as another toy, something to occupy her while Josh went out and made the real money. Why couldn’t Claire just relax with the rest of the girls?
‘You know, you really do have a flair for design. You
could work in that area. Why don’t you consider it?’ Claire pressed, setting down her Limoges cup.
‘I simply don’t have the time, darling,’ Diana said, a little defensively. Claire always made her feel that way. ‘Let me show you out. Give my love to Josh.’
‘I will.’ Claire kissed her warmly. ‘Say hi to Ernie.’ When Claire had gone, Diana gazed out at the terrace of her apartment and congratulated herself. Really, Central Park West was the place to be. The view over the leafy greens and blue splash of water was very soothing, such a necessary contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. Actually, though, she thought she was fitting in rather well.
It was easy for an Englishwoman to make a splash in New York society. First, there was the accent, of course, that had never hurt anybody. Diana found it conferred cachet as soon as she opened her mouth. And she thought she was very popular among all the young New York wives … she was something of a rarity, in that her husband was not in his late forties or early fifties and on the ‘third model already. She liked to dress a little unusually, too. Most of these ladies had abandoned the big hair and shoulder pads of the eighties, but they were still stuck on that social X-ray thing … if the scale showed a hundred and fifteen pounds they screamed and went on a diet. And they were slaves to fashion.
Diana dressed differently. She had her own personal style which didn’t pay attention .to what the designers had in the stores. She loved to show off her firm curves and wear court heels. Diana eschewed the itsybitsy skirt and the designer sport-styled anoraks and went for a 94os look. Pure classic. Tight skirts which hugged the firm curve of her bottom, neat jackets that sliced down to her small waist over her larger bust, a softly waving, sheeny-shiny Veronica Lake haircut. Of course, there were some concessions to the Natty Zuckerman set;
Diana went blonde at Oribe’s, and had her brows done weekly at John Barrett. Crisp white shirts were her trademark, along with a dinner-party menu that had nothing fat-free on it - unless you counted vintage ‘champagne. At first she had raised some brows, sure. But when the husbands started to flirt, the wives started to take notes.
Soon her proper little twin sets and neat, tweedy skirts were the talk of the gossip columns. She was a regular in Liz Smith’s column and Heidi Kirsche’s page, always photographed in make-up by Chanel, with a little
‘You know, you really do have a flair for design. You
could work in that area. Why don’t you consider it?’ Claire pressed, setting down her Limoges cup.
‘I simply don’t have the time, darling,’ Diana said, a little defensively. Claire always made her feel that way. ‘Let me show you out. Give my love to Josh.’
‘I will.’ Claire kissed her warmly. ‘Say hi to Ernie.’ When Claire had gone, Diana gazed out at the terrace of her apartment and congratulated herself. Really, Central Park West was the place to be. The view over the leafy greens and blue splash of water was very soothing, such a necessary contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. Actually, though, she thought she was fitting in rather well.
It was easy for an Englishwoman to make a splash in New York society. First, there was the accent, of course, that had never hurt anybody. Diana found it conferred cachet as soon as she opened her mouth. And she thought she was very popular among all the young New York wives … she was something of a rarity, in that her husband was not in his late forties or early fifties and on the ‘third model already. She liked to dress a little unusually, too. Most of these ladies had abandoned the big hair and shoulder pads of the eighties, but they were still stuck on that social X-ray thing … if the scale showed a hundred and fifteen pounds they screamed and went on a diet. And they were slaves to fashion.
Diana dressed differently. She had her own personal style which didn’t pay attention .to what the designers had in the stores. She loved to show off her firm curves and wear court heels. Diana eschewed the itsybitsy skirt and the designer sport-styled anoraks and went for a 94os look. Pure classic. Tight skirts which hugged the firm curve of her bottom, neat jackets that sliced down to her small waist over her larger bust, a softly waving, sheeny-shiny Veronica Lake haircut. Of course, there were some concessions to the Natty Zuckerman set;
Diana went blonde at Oribe’s, and had her brows done weekly at John Barrett. Crisp white shirts were her trademark, along with a dinner-party menu that had nothing fat-free on it - unless you counted vintage ‘champagne. At first she had raised some brows, sure. But when the husbands started to flirt, the wives started to take notes.
Soon her proper little twin sets and neat, tweedy skirts were the talk of the gossip columns. She was a regular in Liz Smith’s column and Heidi Kirsche’s page, always photographed in make-up by Chanel, with a little
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