Dinner and dancing happened on five. Bette Midler sang another Marc Shaiman ditty, this one to the tune of “Moon River”： Ms. Couuur-ic grew up on TV / but now AARP wants youuu…
The Jersey Boys crooned “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and Tony Bennett capped it all off with “The Way You Look Tonight.” Dessert was a giant birthday cake in the shape of three stacked Tiffany boxes, along with single-serving blue-box cakes for each guest. And everyone took home an actual Tiffany pillbox. Ellie, Carrie, and I still keep ours on our dressers, and every time I look at mine I think of that spectacular night.
Jimmy had been there, hanging close by the bar while I flitted around. A week or so later, I went to DC to cover the State of the Union. He met me at the Hay-Adams afterward for a drink at the basement bar, Off the Record. Then we rode the elevator to my floor. At the door, I conveyed that I thought the state of our union was not strong…I said that I really liked him but that I didn’t think we were a long-term thing.
Jimmy was so nice about it; I’m sure he already knew.
“Want me to come in?” he said, I assumed for one last roll in the Hay-Adams.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said, laughing, and gave him a hug.
Men.
WHEN CARRIE AND I baked cupcakes topped with gummy worms, I’d bring a few to Brooks’s man-pad in the East Fifties. We played tennis and rode bikes in the park, even though he was one of those dudes who wore Lance Armstrong–y performance gear and kept yelling at me for not staying in his “draft.” We even went rock climbing. I was horrified afterward to see the photos he had taken of me gamely ascending, my butt in a harness. （Not a good angle, ladies.）
After a lifetime of trashing older guys for squiring around much-younger arm candy, I had become the female version. I’d tell my girlfriends, “You know, watching Brooks walk around like Michelangelo’s David in boxer shorts really takes the edge off.” In Miami Beach, when the paparazzi showed up, I was more than happy for them to snap photos of him while I stayed Krazy-Glued to my chaise, clutching magazines and a beach bag to my midsection.
His nickname in college was “Woody,” as in Woody from Cheers—he could be a little spacey. But he was sweet and fun, like a golden retriever, and completely unfazed by the fame part of my job, more than happy to be my plus-one at fundraisers, black-tie galas…even dinner at Jeffrey Epstein’s.
Let me explain. Peggy Siegal, Manhattan’s PR doyenne, had billed it as an evening honoring Prince Andrew at the “largest single-family dwelling” in New York City. At the time, Jeffrey Epstein’s nefarious behavior was mostly under wraps. I’d never even heard of him, but I had heard of Prince Andrew—I’d be covering the nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton the following spring, so getting some face time with the royal uncle didn’t seem like a bad idea.
The place, 40 rooms over seven floors, was Eyes Wide Shut with a twist—creepy chandeliers and body-part art. I saw Charlie Rose, George Stephanopoulos, Woody Allen, and Soon-Yi milling around. We also brought Chelsea Handler; she and I had dinner plans that night, and when this came up, she was game. Suffering from momentary amnesia, Chelsea actually asked Woody and Soon-Yi how they met. Meanwhile, in jeans ripped at the knee, velvet loafers, and an air of studied insouciance, Epstein nursed a drink and held court in front of a massive fireplace. Tables had been set up in the living room in a square where guests ate lasagna out of shallow bowls. Stilted mingling. An early night.
“That was pretty bizarre,” Brooks said in the cab afterward. “Did you see how young the women were who took our coats?”
I couldn’t imagine what Epstein and Andrew were up to, apart from trying to cultivate friends in the media. Which, in retrospect, they must have figured they’d need when the pedophilia charges started rolling in.
Thanks, Peggy.
LOOKING BACK ON the Brooks era, I realize it screamed midlife crisis （even more than the red Thunderbird I bought for myself in my forties）。 But I also think I was rebelling: During my half century on the planet, I’d never done anything particularly scandalous. Now here I was, being judged on a grand scale at every turn. I think Brooks was my way of challenging the increasingly oppressive idea of who I was supposed to be and how I was supposed to act.
On at least one occasion, I took the rebellion too far, like the time we went to a disco near Grand Central and started doing shots of ouzo—not really something I do. People were excited to see me, and I was lapping up the attention. I decided to show how young and down I was by performing this stupid party trick called a flaming Statue of Liberty, where you suck on your index finger, dip it into a shot of high-proof alcohol, light it on fire, raise it in the air, down the shot, and extinguish the flame in your mouth. （What could go wrong?）