Sunday 12th July 2009

Drama just before Lord Arrowby’s party last night. Rufus Pitman, the outstanding novelist, critic and columnist texted me: ‘Come at once. Lord A in a state.  Brighton down with Swine flu; Lord A threatening to wear a Hawaiian shirt.’

So I dashed down to the Arrowby apartment at Vauxhall but Rufus had already prevented the Hawaiian shirt. A stunning melange of guests on the vast terrace overlooking the seats of power on the other side of the river where Lord A is such a kingpin. The Brighton element not conspicuous by its absence. A beautiful tall young man, possibly Iranian, in make-up, stands solitary in the midst. I encounter a different young man, compact, muscular, no-nonsense, and immediately get on the wrong side of: ‘Those boots,’ I say (he had the most stunning boots, fitted over the foot in one continuous piece as worn by youths in Renaissance Florentine paintings), ‘…are they Prada? Did you go to the sale?’ ‘I don’t do sales,’ he snaps. Later he revisits me to repeat the point. Then we bond. We’ve got frockage in common.

How many of these guests have the slightest idea who Lord Arrowby is?

Rufus Pitman is brilliant as always. He is explaining the irresistible attraction to women of a young widower, in whose kitchen will inevitably stack up tray upon tray of cling-filmed lasagne. Another hot hunk (apparently an associate of Lord A’s but with an anti-establishment hair cut – longer quills in unexpected  places) is demonstrating to some straight women the innovative approach of gays to domestic arrangements. He separated from his partner of five years but now they are reunited – at opposite ends of a large flat. He hopes not to encounter the ex’s new sources of entertainment in the sitting room (or perhaps there is only one source of entertainment. I’m not quite sure).  

In all cases that I know, including my own, the relationships of gays are never quite what they seem.

But, oh, I am forgetting the glorious Lord Arrowby himself, athletic, wasp-waisted, growing more and more blue-eyed and enthusiastic as his champagne bottles become more and more explosive (they developed a fault). He hugs all the guests. I dare to put my arm around him. I can’t believe it when he puts his round me.