I met Marshall Heyman from W Magazine on a blustery New York City morning a few days ago. One might assume that working at the hopelessly fashionable magazine might require a kind of vast closet - a trunk-full of bling, a drawer full of dark Chanel sunglasses. And worse yet, being a man who works at W! - a fey dandy with a bow tie, an Andre Leon Talley wanna-be.
Thankfully however, Marshall Heyman was none of those things.
He had just rolled out of bed at 8:00 am, thrown on whatever sweatshirt was closest to his feet and was still working out the kinks of his left contact lens as he walked through the door of the cafe on 6th.
"I just live upstairs," he grumbled as he reached for his coffee and rubbed at his eye.
Now even a very famous author like myself should not presume that Marshall Heyman was all that interested in moi on an early, early Friday morning. And why should I, what with so much Mary Kate to think about? Instead I was privvy to the best gossip in New York, stories of the fabulous parties he was either dying to attend or plotting to avoid and, if I was so inclined, could get the Cliff-Note rundown of every movie playing in America. (Indeed he was off to see Munich on its opening day after breakfast and hinted lovingly at SJP's Oscar potential for The Family Stone).
Now I don't know if W Magazine or Marshall Heyman will ever utter a peep about THE BOOSTER or me in any sort of public fashion, but I happily paid for breakfast anyway (yes, Marshall, you tried and tried and tried to pay the bill yourself!). I was perfectly entertained, informed and satiated with an overload of buttery carbs and caffeine. Plus I made Marshall Heyman pinky swear that he'd take me out for a night of his infamous karaoke next time I was in town. I do a Patsy Cline like nobody's business.
I'll keep you posted.