Friday, April 9, 2010

Miss Scarlett, in the (Soho House) Library, with the Cocktail Stick

"Where exactly is it? We've been here before haven't we? Late at night. You know that time. After that thing. With that guy on his Crackberry."
"That was someplace else."
"Are you sure?"
"Yep. And it's here. It says on the door. After you."

The people on reception are busy finding Paul Rudd's bags. In real life, he's a total Baldwin - although there's something not quite right about him. A glitch in the matrix. It's not until we're in the lift that I figure it out.

"His head's too big."
"What, the actor guy? So you saw him too. I wanted to nudge you, but I was trying to play it cool."
"So you resisted the urge to tell him, 'I love you, man'?"
"And 'slap-a de bass'?"
"Well, I was going to do that. Just as the doors were about to close. But then I worried that someone would press the button and we'd both be standing there."

Our brush with celebrity is far from over. It's the launch of a glamorous friend's fabulous book and there's a crush of stylish people and a rash of mistaken identities. If this were a romcom, the men coming up and kissing me would have been handsome young bounders, looking to score with a bestselling authoress, but then falling hard for my clumsy, unpublished charms after a serious of neat misunderstandings and amusing mishaps. As it is, it's sharply suited men of my father's generation, swooping in and hurriedly shipping out when they realise I'm the wrong short brunette. I try not to feel like an apple with a worm in it.

And then there's the actor. I spot him as soon as I walk into the room, because we've been to the opening night of his play the week before. I didn't know that it was either an opening gala or a play of his until I saw the collectable Playbill.
"Look who's here."
"You know him don't you?"
"Well, I've met him."
"So go say hi."
I pull a face. A passing waitress snatches back her tuna tartar in offence.
"Maybe later."

Several cocktails and coctail sausages later we snatch a goodbye with the real authoress and slip out. It's tempting to stop the lift on every floor and explore.

"You wussed out. You didn't say we saw the play. That we liked it."
"Yeah. I didn't get a chance."

The receptionist doesn't glance up as we leave.
"Big heads."
"Big heads. They look good on film."
"That makes sense."

We set off, back to Brooklyn

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