The only thing I wanted was a simple salad of mixed greens with a little shaved parmesan, and maybe a bit of fennel. That and a tumbler of gin and tonic would constitute my lunch. While all around me people were tucking into such hearty dishes with whorls of steam rising; cuts and joints all requiring attendant sauces and condiments and freshly ground cracked pepper. Back and forth trooped the army of waiters and water boys and bread girls, for this is a restaurant run with military precision and at Pastis lunch is the daily battle. Sometimes there are casualties.

We sat right on the front line at a prime booth I’ve recently learned is known by the staff as number 62. From this highly-coveted perch my friend and I were afforded a view of all who entered, and perhaps this is more important, all who entered were given the opportunity to see us. But today we shrank from the spotlight and would have much preferred some quiet little table in the back. We sat like yesterday's flowers, discarded and bereft, with only vague traces of glamour hanging about our tired limp limbs. Too many late nights- our constant complaint, yet with no viable solution to the problem we go on to fight another day, bowed and bloody, armed only with the protective shield of our sunglasses. I was already on my second glass and beginning to feel that I just might make it through the day when I caught the arrival of one of the chic-est women in New York. We waved at each other briefly in the polite manner of villagers who although they’ve never met, see each other daily. She was given a table a few feet away and my companion and I, now fully roused from our torpor, were instantly made aware of two things: a. she was either ignorant our uncaring of the anti-smoking law; and b. she was wearing fur. Our searching eyes picked out the incongruous though striking combination of cargo trousers worn with strappy Manolo Blahnik stilettos. We lavished whole minutes debating the true colour of her somewhat sheeny blouse- aubergine was the consensus, and then we marveled at what at first appeared to be a simple jean jacket sort of thing made from rose-coloured corduroy, an odd choice for our girl. It was when we removed our sunglasses that dawn set in. The little jacket thrown innocently and neglectedly over the back of her chair was in fact made of mink. Never the half-measure girl, she carried an oversized handbag made of crocodile. It lay at her extravagantly shod feet (loops of python round toes and ankle), rather like an exotic and much-pampered pet. She lunched alone quickly and simply, pausing every now and then to kiss in the general area of the many table hoppers who circled like vultures. And then as quickly as she had come she had disappeared, no doubt off to shoot and skin tomorrow’s ensemble.

Later on when the manageress walked us to the door we exchanged our usual pleasantries and I made my daily plea, ‘You always let Anne smoke, why can’t we?”

Note: Anne McNally often takes her lunch at Pastis and as the former sister-in-law of the owner has every right to do just as she pleases there. She truly is the chic
-est woman in town and I, for one would forgive her any misdemeanor.

In any crowd I can pick him out. He's the one standing slightly aloof, fiddling with his lighter obviously dying for a smoke, yet looking as if he could wait there forever. Nothing about the man is hurried, and still he is never late. And here's me arriving twenty minutes after the appointed hour. Naturally I have no excuse other than the habitual indicision over shoes and shirts and whatnot. He never seems to mind, though. Oh look, he sees me and wouldn't you know he's coming out of the restaurant to meet my taxi...

His look is intimidating. We are the same age and height and build yet one look at him and you'd definitely think twice about trifling with him. Brown eyes framed heavily with lash that take in all that goes on. Many have never had the privelege, the rare delight of seeing his stony expression split into a wide smile. As I do now.

I pay the driver and exit the taxi and hear his greeting, a brief one like all his speeches, 'Hel-Low.' Surprisingly gentle and intensely Greek.

In and out and off and on, their relationship, if it could have borne the weight of that description, had been a casual one, strung together across several time zones and an ocean to remind them bitterly of all the other obstacles that barred their path. On those rare occasions when the stars and scheduling found harmony and the two were able to steal a few days in some borrowed Tuscan hideaway or the inevitable convenient Paris hotel, they were in a word, perfect. And it was always with leaden steps and a saddened heart that the one would return to his hectic life in New York as the other headed off toward his native land of whitewashed hillside villas and incredibly blue water. Privately the New Yorker knew with the certainty that the sun would bring another day that this couldn't last forever. And while full of fun, adventure and romance, it could quite possibly prove more damaging in the long run. On his side, the Greek harboured no such negative thoughts. Today he will say that he had always intended to settle (at least part time) in New York and to pursue in the exclusive company of his very good-looking friend, that quaint American custom of dating.

Their long-awaited reunion was held just last night in a quiet and softly-lit Soho trattoria, where the staff were pleased to see the handsome couple, so long it had been since their last visit. A gift in the shape of a chilled bottle of Prosecco arrived at the table, courtesy of the manager who placed high on his list of talents a faultless memory of all his guests preferences. Over many courses and rounds the reunited couple reminisced tenderly, and dared to plan for the coming days and nights. It had grown late by the time our sated diners rose from the table and bade their farewells to the giddy staff, all of them wreathed in smiles. Once on the street, the two handsome men found themselves flowing on the current of the neighbourhood passegiata. Other couples were out strolling lanquidly on this warm still night and gazing at the winking stars above them as rapidly melting ice cream dripped from tiny cups toward their shoes.

The tall good-looking man sat sprawled in his favourite leather chair, savouring his momentary solitude. It hadn't been easy to carve out this bit of time to himself; the week's diary had made constant demands on him and it took a bit of doing to be able to just sit like this. He lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled deeply. He swirled the wedge of lime that floated benignly in his glass tumbler. He then took a rather longish sip of the colourless liquid and seemed to find it, like all about him, good. Peace and quiet reigned. The only sounds that could be heard, apart from the tune he hummed to himself, softly and only half-heartedly, came from the birds that had gathered beyond the windows, no doubt to chirp complaints of their own hectic day. He sat for some time in this pleasant manner and when he eventually rose he was surprised to find that dusk had settled.

And not a bit dismayed to discover that he'd neither dressed nor spoken to a soul the entire day.

Section of lights collapse at Diane von Furstenberg's runway show, injuring editors and causing chaos

Von Furstenberg was not reachable for comment.
JIM SHI

Naturally, this was all we talked about at lunch today.

Deitch Gallery Annual Art Parade, New York City

Monday. Finally decided to think about Autumn and what the hell I intend to wear. Completely uninspired by the collections. Imagined myself dressed up in Edwardian gear (at my age!) and became horrified. But that does seem to be the general mandate, however. Lunch at Pastis was particularly awful and although I keep on saying it, I really must find a new restaurant. Dinner party way uptown, although much too hot to wear anything great. Decided to innaugurate my new velvet loafers, which were quite a hit.

Tuesday. Came very close to throwing out everything in my closet and starting fresh with something completely different. Wondered vaguely if I could be a Paul Smith man- all colourful and stripy. Realised it would drive me mad and threw on my usual Costume National shades-of-grey. Lunch at Pastis was beyond horrible. Was made to sit in the 'socialite's corner' and the amount of perfume that wafted through the room seemed to coat every bite of my steak tartare, which I should never have ordered anyway. Drinks with Mr. J who's leaving me on Saturday and since my feelings for him change every five minutes, decided to wear something low-key and subdued. Blue-grey cargo trousers and a matching shirt with navy suede sandals, all from Prada.

Wednesday. Slept very late and woke to the arrival of one or two things I had ordered from Costume National. All absolutely beautiful but too hot to wear now. So preoccupied I missed lunch and had to call my friends to apologise. Long telephone conversation with Mr. J who still insists on moving to Hong Kong. I wish he'd leave already. Went out to a drinks party and ran into Mr. H, an ex of sorts, in town from Amsterdam, and passed a very pleasant evening with him in the East Village. Was glad I wore jeans.

Thursday. Busy day with all sorts of errands. In a mad burst of romanticism bought a ticket to LA to meet Mr. J as he's stopping there for a few days before going on to Hong Kong. Not sure if I should keep this as a surprise or tell him beforehand. Ran into a dancer friend at lunch and have come up with a whole new look for Autumn- inspired by the things principal dancers tend to wear at their opening night post-performance galas- which is to say quirky, individual and slightly mad creations, of no use in everyday life. Dinner with Monsieur Ex and old friends of ours visiting from Paris. Naturally I debuted my new look- it defies description, but was met with general approval and delight.

Friday. Met Mr. J for breakfast (a silly idea as I can only ever manage coffee at that hour) and ended up spending the entire day with him. Told him I was thinking of joining him in LA in a 'why not' sort of way. He was overjoyed and I was back to being in love. Keeping up my new look, I was dressed in an old Jean Colonna sweatsuit which is really so much more, my wraparound sunglasses, and flip-flops.

Saturday. Mr. J has gone. Fortunately, Monsieur Ex and his boyfriend invited me to spend a couple of days with them at their Long Island summer house. The Parisians were there and in honour of them I took along a few tins of tapenade and aioli that I had brought back from St. Tropez. As this weekend marks the official end of summer, I packed only white clothes in my case.

Sunday. I shall leave my friends tomorrow and race back to the city to make my flight to LA. I'm in such a muddle. I'm so confused about how I feel about Mr. J, and, worse, I have no idea what I'll wear.