I broke my toe in Minneapolis. This is far from the glamorous image of leaving my heart in San Francisco and infinitely more painful. I stubbed it on a faux Chippendale dining-room table leg during a breakfast meeting at the hotel. It was a hot autumn morning and the traffic on the freeway was gently buzzing outside when my toe lightly brushed against the raw metal end-claw of the table leg which was sticking out menacingly, and my howl of pain pierced through the almost bucolic setting. After X-raying at the local hospital, the doctor announced, ‘Yup, it’s a severe fracture of the metatarsal, involving the metatarsophalangeal joint.’ ‘What can I do?’ I wailed. ‘There’s nothing you can do with a broken toe except wait. Only time heals toes.’
Hobbling sandal-clad back to NY and several meetings, I soon realised, as autumn cast its gentle glow, that I could not cram my foot into any of my stilettos, flats, boots or even sneakers, since my right foot had swollen to a size bigger than the other. Being somewhat of an Imelda Marcos, I locked myself in my closet for a marathon shoe-fitting session which ended up making me feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters as I tried cramming into pair after endless pair, so off I went to Saks and Bloomies for a restock and refit. After I had spent two weeks in considerable pain every time I put any weight on my foot, my husband insisted on whisking me off to the Number One foot-man in New York, Dr Rock Positano. Anyone with a name like that is bound to rise high in his field and Dr Rock was no disappointment. After examining the toe he told me the doctor in Minneapolis was wrong and should have insisted I keep my foot iced twice a day and bandaged all the time — so much for Middle-American medical advice. Needless to say, with the bandage on I now needed shoes two sizes bigger and so another shopping rampage was afoot. Now, two months later, I’m still hobbling around in my heels, gritting my teeth and remembering Grandma’s immortal words: ‘You must suffer to be beautiful.’
Bells were not ringing at a lavish black-tie wedding celebration we attended recently, at which 40 of the 400 guests didn’t even bother to show up, let alone call and cancel. This left many empty spaces at the beautifully appointed tables, and some of the guests, in search of dinner conversation, even resorted to talking to the waiters. It seems some New Yorkers are not very good at the basic social graces, so the poor mother of the bride was tearing her hair out trying to reseat some 40-odd tables at the last minute, which of course ended in utter failure. Since the event — complete with elaborate cabaret and faddish ‘after party’ featuring a complete disco and band — must have cost close to the million-dollar mark, if not more, and she had spent a week agonising over the star-studded placement, I would have expected that a simple phone call would not have been too much to ask. By contrast, only two of our 200 closest friends went inexplicably (and inexcusably) Awol for our wedding at Claridge’s, so I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had my reception in London, as the last strands of our hostess’s hair fell softly to the floor.
As soon as we got off the plane at Heathrow, my driver told me the sad news that Christopher Reeve had died. His persistent struggle to recuperate after a tragic accident at the height of his career which would have left anyone else’s morale utterly devastated was truly inspiring. He was a gentleman of the old school, always charming and polite. For example, when I first met him at a movie première, I was with my daughter, who like all girls at her young age was smitten with Superman. He was utterly delightful and took plenty of time to take pictures with her which she will always cherish.
Since then we saw each other here and there over the years until last year, when I attended two events in New York for the Christopher Reeve Foundation for stem cell research. He was calmly dignified in his motorised wheelchair and still full of joie de vivre and charm, in spite of the crippled state of his body, and gave the most electrifying and moving speech for half an hour, without the aid of breathing apparatus, modulating his mellifluous voice with controlled breathing and mesmerising us with his piercing blue eyes and sweet smile. I am thankful I have that last image to remember him by.
An air of apathy pervaded the atmosphere at an election night party at a friend’s house in LA. Although television sets had been strategically placed throughout the reception rooms and dining area, few people really seemed to care about the result. ‘It’s a no-win situation,’ said one veteran of many election nights gloomily. ‘Whoever gets in is the best of the worst.’ Looking at the candidates I had to agree. Hatchet-faced John Kerry with his stooped Lincolnesque posture and uncanny resemblance to Lurch in The Addams Family held little appeal, and Bush with his twisted little smirk reminds me of the Joker in Batman. Ah well, only another four years and hopefully we’ll have Hillary Clinton and Rudolph Giuliani running. I know who I’ll be voting for.
Writing a novel is hard but doing promotion for it is even harder. Last month I was all over the place talking about Misfortune’s Daughters — dashing between radio, press and TV interviews to book signings. These can be tricky territory indeed, as any author knows. One famous writer told me that when her first hardback was published she did a signing at a department store. A hundred people stood just staring at her but no one came forward for a signed copy. Eventually a very old man shuffled forward and rasped, ‘When’s it coming out in paperback?’ I was reminded slightly of this at John Lewis. ‘There’s a massive crowd waiting, hundreds,’ said my PA as we hustled through the haberdashery, where a long queue patiently waited. After signing about a hundred books in half an hour, behind the barriers another hundred or so people still stood, just gawking. Cameras and cell-phone videos were trained upon me. Then one person actually shouted, ‘When is it coming out in paperback?’ I tried to do my Jay Leno impersonation, a few pallid jokes, hoping that they would disperse, but to no avail. Luckily a second round of book buyers turned up and I started signing again, no longer feeling like the big panda at London Zoo.
Misfortune’s Daughters is published by Robson Books from all good booksellers, £16.99.
Comments