The Oxford-educated Plum…spins out witty articles as a staff writer for Vogue….Anna Wintour, her boss, said that Plum, “lives the ideal Vogue life,” and that she’s the “quintessential Vogue girl.”—Bob Morris, “The Plum and Lucy Show,” The New York Times, Sunday Styles, October 4, 1998
Wednesday 14 October 110 lbs., 82 cigarettes, free clothes delivered this morning: Yohji Yamamoto hand-knitted peasant skirt, Louis Vuitton checked messenger bag
Well, toss my salad, baby! I can’t believe that just two weeks ago I was exiting the ultra-exclusive Voyage shop in the Fulham Road when my cell phone jangled with Anna Wintour ringing all the way from America to say, “Pomegranate, how would you like to sit front row at fashion shows, go out every night to gala openings, parties, and soirees, and pen witty little articles for American Vogue?” “I’m there, Anna,” I said, throwing a few fuzzy jumpers and a couple of pairs of woolly tights in a duffel and catching the red-eye. Now, between lunches at Nobu, dinners at Jo Jo, and the occasional steak breakfast at Les Deux Gamins (my Pilates instructor says I need protein), I’ve barely had time to finish my first Vogue article, “Limey Disease—Why Trendy Americans Wish They Were English.”
Friday 23 October 108 lbs., 116 cigarettes, excellent haul of free clothes: pink–and–yellow Galliano for Dior suit, Prada vinyl car-wash skirt
Barely able to open my peepholes even at four in the afternoon. Very, very, very late night at Mercer Kitchen. Vaguely remember dishy fireman dousing my McQueen dress with hose after it caught fire when I accidentally dropped my ciggie while ascending the famous Mercer staircase so people downwind could see what a pair of proper English knickers look like. Thought my hair was lovely by firelight, though.
Tuesday 3 November 107 lbs., 131 cigarettes, good day! Scrumptious Armani tuxedo suit brought by nice FedEx man
How wonderful it is to be in a place where nobody cares a thing about Daddy! All anyone knows here is that I grew up in a castle, went to a school with a posh name, and have a silly title. That business of father absconding to Kenya with a zillion trillion purloined Eurodollars draws an adorable blank stare from my new American friends. Why, the loves don’t even know where Kenya is!
Thursday 12 November 104 lbs., 147 cigarettes, amazing free stuff in mail: brilliant Philip Treacy flying saucer hat, stainless steel Gucci G watch with sky blue face
4 a.m.: Just came from bye-bye Isaac Mizrahi party at Moomba. Sad, but not as sad as bye-bye Gianni Versace bash last year. Tonight off to darling Alzheimer’s benefit at the Pierre. Mustn’t forget to fax Anna next article, “London Bridgework—Why Trendy Americans Wish They Had Bad Teeth.”
Tuesday 24 November 102 lbs., 164 cigarettes, ripping day! Super-lovely UPS fellow delivers Alberta Ferretti mohair sweater, 92 Hard Candy nail polishes
Go to bistro for luncheon with other imported-from-England Condé Nasties. Lots of fun ’til funny waitperson brings piece of paper at end of meal with scribbling on it which we promptly discard. Can’t imagine why he runs out the door after us, nor understand what he’s yelling about in his impenetrable American accent.
Monday 7 December 101 lbs., 171 cigarettes, stupendous day!!! Ducky pair of champagne satin Christian Laboutin mules plus Martin Margiela for Hermés cashmere pullover left on doorstep!
Stupid limo driver drops me off a half block from door of Dolce & Gabbana party at Lot 61, forcing me not only to snag Wolford stockings but also stumble badly in lavender python Blahniks and wreck ankle on meatpacking district’s quaint cobblestone street. Genius doctor at St. Vincent’s fixes me up while mean nurse in nasty polyester frock babbles on about insurance. Why would I want to buy insurance from a nurse? Anyway, haven’t got a car. Toddle back to party with bandaged ankle. Everyone loves it. Sure junior editors and fact-checker types will sport taped legs tomorrow.
Wednesday 16 December 100 lbs., 182 cigarettes, bad day!!! One saggy, dull Gap sweater delivered by surface mail, destined for dustbin
Wish to show Anna I’m a pro despite throbbing foot, so force myself to finish “Grub Street—Why Trendy Americans Wish They Had Stringy Hair Like English People,” before setting off for Krizia perfume launch. Plan to wear McQueen, then remember about Mercer fire. Decide scorch marks are raffish and wear McQueen anyway. It clings fetchingly to ankle cast and looks sexy. Hobble into limo.
Monday 28 December 99 lbs., 189 cigarettes, very excellent day!!! Black herringbone and snakeskin Givenchy halter arrived by private messenger!!
Guess what? Mummy called on cell phone from London. Daddy’s back! Tabloid press going mad, Granny barricading herself in castle, retainers frantically battling paparazzi. So glad American friends preoccupied with own daft political story.
Thursday 7 January 98 lbs., 194 cigarettes, so-so day, no clothes, but 112 MAC lipsticks
Mummy says I must come home at once. Anna not happy. Looks at me squinty-eyed through scary blue sunglasses. Tell her I’m the only one who can talk Granny out of turret. Will fax article from plane. Anna unmoved.
Saturday 9 January 97 lbs., 198 cigarettes, special Concorde goodie bag which includes chinchilla-lined eye mask and Evian face spray in sterling dispenser
Well, toss my salad, baby! I’m winging back to swinging London. Fax Anna, who I hope isn’t the type to stay mad, my latest: “Loo Grant: Why Trendy Americans Are Importing Rough British Toilet Tissue.”
Monday 11 January 96 lbs., 211 cigarettes, absolutely nothing cheery or charming in putrid British post
Forgot how much I missed the old sod. Jump into Galliano suit and nip round to Harvey Nicks. Suddenly realize cerise and buttercup look garish in soft, misty British light. Return to flat. Pull on shapeless pilly sweater, woolly tights. Pick up soggy chips at Wimpy bar. Set off for castle.