Before I get started, let me just say that I succumbed to your book, Bergdorf Blondes, after finding it sandwiched between the rusty kitchen utensils and delaminated furniture at my neighborhood thrift shop. Much to my surprise, I actually liked it. Well-documented Philippa Gregory obsession aside, I am not a reader of chick lit. Give me Rushdie or give me Death, I say! But something about your sequin-sprinkled prose tickled my funny bone.
Ah, Plum. Plum, Plum, Plum. We have so much in common. I, like you, am an author. (I use the term loosely.) I too share a passionate allegiance to Anna Wintour. (Vogue subscription since the age of 11.) And during the summer of 2003, I dated a rapscallion English entrepreneur who was a fast Ibiza buddy of your own rapscallion English entrepreneur beau. (I heard a rumor he was going to propose--do you by chance now have a rapscallion English entrepreneur husband?)
Yet despite all that uncanny similarity, I've never imagined we'd be friends. I'll be honest: you seem a little snotty. And skinny. (Perenially hungry ladies are perenially grouchy ladies.) I did, however, figure you'd be a hoot over a Negroni or two. Listening to you eviscerate the general public over misguided outfit choices with your posh accent and keen insider knowledge--what's not to love? Just so long as you never trained that radioactive fashion eye on me.
You can imagine then, the cold, sweaty case of POES (Party Outfit Emergency Syndrome) that smacked me in the forehead when I heard you were a confirmed attendee of the New York launch party of my one and only book. I get away with this Not New gig largely because the crowds I run in couldn't tell a DVF from an INC. But you and your cadre of elite editrices? Show up in three-seasons-old Zara and I'd be skewered alive.
Thinking only of that convivial Negroni, I set about to impress you, Plum Sykes. I established campsites at every designer consignment shop in town. I trolled every vintage boutique, each time pausing at the threshold to manifest the Corréges-esque mini or Pucci shift I hoped to find inside. For seven straight days, I delved. I dithered. I despaired. I even got perilously close to betraying my Not New pledge with an ill-advised visit to a local den of trend iniquity. But I did not find the Golden Ticket.
And so it was with much trepidation that I arrived in New York for the event. Armed only with a kicky blouse, my trusty JBrand skinnys, three exorbitantly expensive vintage bracelets and a blow-out appointment, I steeled my quaking insecurities and hoped my charm alone could secure your boozy acquaintance.
But of course, you did not come. Apparently, this is what editor/socialites often do: flake. Maybe you had an aggressive chemical peel the day before and didn't feel ready to brave Getty Images' blinding flash. (It really is blinding, no?) Or perhaps Marina called and asked you to be her wing woman at a DeBeers soirée uptown. In any case, our Negroni was not to be.
And so it is that we arrive at the purpose of my letter: I just wanted you to know, Plum, that I and my outfit prevailed. I was neither over- nor under-dressed. My hair endured the drizzle with aplomb, assuming a fetching aura of brunette Veronica Lake. I even took pictures wedged between two fashion models and managed to hold my own, as seen in the style file blog on style.com:
Please don't misinterpret my intentions here, Plum. I'm not trying to elicit guilt or regret. You really didn't miss anything: the party was a yawner, with scandalously cheap wine. I merely wished to share my fashion odyssey with you, and to give you credit for serving as its muse. I look forward to the moment our paths actually cross. I feel certain we'll clink glasses and snigger menacingly at the sad footwear choices of others.
Fondly,
Natalie
