IN British whodunits they always say, “The butler did it.” Well, one Ameri can drama’s underway in which they might say, “The caretaker did it.” In this case the “it” won’t mean murder . . . although whisperers whisper “it” could have been what killed off a marriage.
“Seinfeld” creator Larry David and Laurie, his wife of a lifetime, are asundering. Supposedly, the split is friendly, amicable, etc. That’s all both parties are saying. However, around Martha’s Vineyard they’re saying the Davids had a summer house there. That the summer house had a caretaker. That the caretaker was a man with a wife. That at exactly this same time as Laurie and Larry are divorcing, so is the caretaker and Mrs. Caretaker. Is what they’re saying. Is all I’m saying.
I’VE lost three friends recently. I knew superwonderful Beverly Sills had been ill but, until I came out of Cuba, I didn’t know she’d gone. And I never had a chance to tell her “I love you.” Where I was, what I was doing, I don’t know, but for some reason I lost the opportunity to say goodbye to that dynamo and great gal and good friend Claudia Cohen. I deeply regret that. And changing planes after Havana in Miami, I finally saw a newspaper and realized author Lois Wyse, a special lady whom I knew especially well, passed on.
EUROPE this holiday week. First, let us pray to our-caterer-which-art-in- heaven that the Eva Longoria–Tony Parker union lasts at least until the bills are paid. Such happily marrieds as Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson, Denise Richards, Pamela Anderson, Victoria Principal and a crateload of sports stars wish them well.
With the wedding party parked at the Park Hyatt Vendome in Paris, non-invitees were startled to get into an elevator filled with everyone who’s 6-foot-9. Tony’s teammates.
Paris was rainy; Rome, sweaty. Being also Valentino‘s 45th anniversary, every hotel room was booked at a charge of more than 1,000 euros a night. Valentino’s two-day thing became the biggest event in Rome since the birth of Romulus and Remus. An Adonis commanding a fleet of vans met guests such as Anne Hathaway, Jennifer Hudson, Eva Mendes on the tarmac. Uma Thurman came two days early to vida loca with a mystery man who whisked her off by private jet then back in time to whisk into the front row of Valentino’s show with designers Armani, Lagerfeld, Donatella, Carolina, Manolo, von Furstenberg, who for some reason he kissed at the finale. Also there: Claire Danes, Sarah Jessica Parker, Matthew Broderick, Joan Collins, Tom Ford, Cornelia Guest. It was hot as hell, so on every chair lay a fan.
The runway makeup was blood-red nails, deep smoky eyes. The shoes were killers. Five-inch stilettos. One model flopped. The audience cheered when she got back up. Another nearly fell then took off those shoes and carried them. She got big-time applause.
Fellow guest, designer Zac Posen shopped at Fendi’s block-long palazzo with amber glass walls. Their craftsman sits out in the open 40 hours handmaking each Fendi bag. Cheapo machine jobs take a lousy 30 minutes, which is why they’re three G’s cheaper.
At the ball afterward, Texas socialite Lynn Wyatt wore a 25-year-old Valentino, and Annie Lennox announced it’s her first time wearing one. Lance Armstrong, who was with ladyfriend Tory Burch, chatted with Mick Jagger, who was with ladyfriend L’Wren Scott but not so busy he couldn’t simultaneously text someone – maybe an ex-wife – on his cell.
Paris. The Chanel Show. Outdoors. Nice except it rained like in the days of Noah. The wind was ferocious and the tent had no walls. All those fancy females who buy Chanel drowned.
Regis Philbin and the missus, Joy, crossed the pond for Elton John‘s big hoo-hah. They arrived in London. Her bags didn’t. Not yet clear where they went. It’s a cross between Utah and Poland. The Philbins are back home. Still no luggage.
I mean, such tragedies!
SPEAKING of European tragedies, a clutch of Manhattanites holidayed on the Amalfi coast – their own plane, their own yacht – and bitched about their trials. Like: A Citation 10 ahead of them developed a hiccup on the runway that delayed them (in the private airfield’s air-conditioned VIP lounge with food, phones, friends, TV and staff) 90 minutes. And some kerfuffle lost them docking space, so they had to sit out on the clear blue water until some rubberized dinghy schlepped them to shore. Huffed a blue-haired socialite: “We had to anchor out and tender in! Then, arriving home, we dented our Rolls and had to make do with a Bentley loaner.”
Only from the mouth of a New Yorker, kids, only from the mouth of a New Yorker.