Elizabeth Hurley's Fashion Diary
According to British Vogue's Fashion Bites:
"ELIZABETH HURLEY wasn't in Paris just to shop this week. The model and actress is having a go at fashion journalism. A diary of her front and backstage experiences will appear in a forthcoming issue of French glossy Citizen K."
The Corsair (wink, wink) managed to attain (wink, wink) a rough draft of some of her notes:
July 6, Galliano Show: Incredible! All those fur lined gowns and opera coats, I must have some of these fairy tale outfits. My American Express Centurion card, oops, I mean "boyfriend," (insert soft chuckle here) Arun Nayar -- what's the difference really? -- is sitting here beside me as I catch the Galliano show. So imaginative, that man. Almost as imaginative as Melania Knauss, who is here with Vogue, where she will write about how she picks out her "trousseaux," which is, I guess, what you get when you snag The Perfect Billionaire. In other words, this nonentity, this Knauss, is marrying The Billionaire Donald, of late NBC TV star, writing for Vogue, trailed by Andre Leon Tally, and I am here with something called Arun Nayar, while writing for Citizen K. I'm about as "happening" as the sink where Alec Wek just went sick. Someone please shoot me.
July 7, Chado Ralph Rucci Couture: Lots of bold statements with animal skins, and crystals embroidered into earth tone fabrics. And speaking of earth tones: Oprah's taking notes, but I looked over at her pad and all it had on it were elaborately drawn pictures of great beefsteaks and juicy briskets. Oprah says she will buy 4 or 5 of Rucci's pieces. She is a billionaire and my last three films have grossed roughly a hundred dollars, what? Someone please shoot me.
July 7, Christian Lacroix Haute Couture: The creme-pleated bustier dress would have looked flattering on me a few years ago. Can't help thinking that my old lover Hugh Grant, that doff, the man who got preferred the ministrations of Divine Brown to my own considerable charms, is now knocking boots with Jemima Goldsmith, of the uber-rich Goldsmiths, and here I am, scribbling for something called Citizen K. Now who'se the wanker. Someone please kill me, while I can still make a decent-looking corpse.
July 9, Gaultier: Thank god Jean Paul Gaultier used sky blue chiffon and forgoing the bread this time around; heaven knows I'm starving myself enough to try and snag a billionaire with a heart condition, and don't need to be reminded of how carbs can thwart that process. Lots of "demi-couture" going on here. His daring wedding gown only reminded me that the skin is just a little bit looser this year, which makes hurts the billionaire prospects. Perhaps I should start lowering my standards? Does the oily John Lovitz still have some of his SNL loot, or has he spent it all on the Playmates yet? Someone please kill me.
July 9, Elie Saab Couture: Lilac, shiffons and diamante accents blah-blah-blah ... what about me, Citizen K Magazine? What about me? I was my generation's Zuleika Dobson, the pretty and winning English girl who would be "taken care of" by the Lords in Sussex. Ten years ago, I wowed the world in my black Versace safety pin dress, and now, my film production company, Simian Films, is worth approximately three hundred dollars. Ah, those wonderful Clinton 90s, the Golden Age of Eurotrash-- Tina Brown ruled Vanity Fair, Emma and Thompson and Kenneth Branagh were the uber-couple, Hugh actually was a celebrity, and I, ah, me, I basked in his reflective glory. The early 90s: When Middle Aged Housewives in the Midwest put their Bingo money into Merchant and Ivory features. Ahh, those were the days. America was a British colony all over again. That was before the loose skin and the regrettable Bedazzled. Someone please shoot me.