Diary – 21 July 2007

I miss Issie. I am waiting outside in the Orangerie in the Parc de St-Cloud, in Paris, where the Chanel show is about to begin. The incessant driving rain, the clouds, thick, and black with purpose, as another deluge begins. The huge white bright spotlights shining undiminished give a silvery magnificence to the scene. The team of Karl Lagerfeld and Chanel, undefeated by the elements, succeed in staging one of the best couture shows I have seen, and I have seen quite a few. Contrary to what one might expect, the rain heightens the senses and gives it a poetic surrealism. Showtime. The moment the first model exits to explosive music and flashbulbs, the runway has become a stream in the gravel. No one can do drama like Karl, and this is a drama. He is a master at the apogee of his game and a true artist. It is Metropolis meets Les liaisons dangereuses, neat and exquisite silhouettes encrusted with jewels and paillettes. Perfectly executed, Quintessentially Karl. But, as I sit here, I feel a huge void. Isabella. My friend. Brilliant, irreverent and visionary. Gone.

Valentino in Rome. One day more splendid than the last. Rome is ablaze. It is the Beistegui ball in Venice and Le temps retrouvé by Proust simultaneously. Everyone is here. A myriad of people from all worlds. From our hosts Valentino and Giancarlo Giammetti to Mario Testino, the Cecil Beaton of our times, to Princess Firyal of Jordan, Amanda Harlech, Karl Lagerfeld again, Mick Jagger, Barry Diller and the perceptive and glamorous Diane von Furstenberg, the provocative Francesco Vezzoli, Tom Ford, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin and Louis Benesch, Philip Treacy and hundreds of others. I was so happy to see Princess Alessandra Borghese, whom I had not seen since the

legendary Thurn und Taxis ball in 1986.