My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [124]
Then I meet Jay McInerney, which is the biggest deal of all for me. I’ve been reading him for twenty years and Bright Lights, Big City was the inspiration for the tongue-in-cheek title of my second book. I worship him as an author, and I’ve been in awe of his talent since my twenties. Which is why I assumed I’d end up blurting all the stupid thoughts at the forefront of my mind, like “Hey, do you ever want to punch people when they tell you how much they loved Less Than Zero238 and American Psycho 239 and do you think Michael J. Fox totally ruined your movie240 and does anyone ever get up your ass about writing Bright Lights in the second person because, really, pretentious much? And how cool is it that being on Gossip Girl totally introduced you to an entirely new generation?”
Instead, I steel my nerves, quiet my Shame Rattle, introduce myself, and say, “I’m honestly thrilled to meet you because I’ve been a fan since the eighties. Here’s the thing—I’ve been working on a project and one of the phases of it is to read classic literature. I have to say in a hundred years, everyone’s still going to know who you are. The way you write is every bit as important and poignant as the classics I’ve been covering. Think about The Great Gatsby—that book’s still alive because Fitzgerald was able to take the Jazz Age, a very specific moment in time, and freeze it forever. And that’s exactly what you did with Bright Lights, Big City. You captured what it was like to be in New York during a key moment of the eighties so no one will ever forget it. When people talk about the classics years from now, you’re going to be part of that conversation.”
He seems a bit surprised at my monologue and he’s quiet for a second before responding thoughtfully. “Thank you, that’s . . . a really great compliment and I’m quite flattered. Thank you.”
He seems so genuine in his appreciation that I wonder if he didn’t hear about Gossip Girl and Less Than Zero more than once tonight.
We pull up to a hulking home directly on the water. Some earlier Google-stalking tells me that the host has her own strip of private beach and this causes new waves of terror to flash through me. Although the evening has cooled, I’m sweating through my wrap. Despite the success of the event, the Sword of Dumb Ass is back and feels like it’s dangling right over my head again.
We pass through giant boxwood hedges, traverse the crushed-shell circular drive, and arrive at the front door. Fletch squeezes my hand for luck before I ring the bell.
The door opens and my trial by fire begins.
Three hours later, I pass through the same door and I emerge . . . unscathed.
“You didn’t get kicked out.”
“Not only were we not kicked out, but we were fun and charming, and people seemed to like us. We were possibly the very best behaved guests there.”241
“No way.”
“Way.”
I’m at lunch with Stacey, doing the whole post-Hamptons wrap-up. I’ve already described how great the authors’ cocktail reception was, and Stacey was totally excited to hear that our favorite Real Housewives character is just as funny and snarky in person. I’ve moved on to describe the dinner portion of the evening.
“We get to the house and it’s frigging enormous. It just goes on and on, and from where we stand in the entry hall, we can see a bunch of different wings spiraling off of it. I knew I’d be in this giant mansion by the sea, but until I saw it, I didn’t have the full perspective.”242
Driving up to that house, with my heart in my throat, I was ready to simply turn around and run. Fletch said we’d do whatever I wanted, but gently encouraged me to stick with it, as I’d already come this far.
“The host’s the one who answers the door, only instead of looking like the enemy or something,