It's all in the details.

 

[Yes, I mean Countess, not Princess, and no, not Daisy Fellowes although she did marry another Prince de Broglie; this Daisy married an Earl and her portrait was done by Sargent, not Ingres.  I warned you this would be complicated.]

Well, living one's life in a public forum has it's pitfalls, what with the temptation to reveal one's indsicretions along with everyone else's, then sharing everything in real time, the anticipation, the giddy expectation... will it be brunch at the Bel Air Hotel?  A tiny table squeezed between the famous and drug-addled infamous at the Ivy?  Perhaps an afternoon letting down one's guard over a good Merlot, behind some stately hedge and gate off Sunset, or in one of the canyons...

What was I thinking?  Was I even thinking?

"I told EVERYONE we were meeting," I confessed, trying not to sound bitter.
"You did?  How awkward."  Wincing in a humiliatingly pained and pitying way.
"I mean, not in so many words," I scrambled to lie.  "Although I did sort of imply --"
"Fine," she interrupted, waving away the rest of my sad attempt to save face.  "Just make something up."
"What?" I asked and then promptly realized what she meant.  "I couldn't do that," I replied indignantly.
"Why not?"
"It wouldn't be true," I explained.
"Truth's rather dull," she observed.  "And don't look at me like that."
"I wish I'd realized what I was getting into," I said, thinking I meant it, crestfallen as I was.
"No you don't," she replied with rather convincing authority.  "No one ever does.  If we did, nobody'd do anything anyway.  Certainly no one would ever have children.  Too ghastly."  She lit a cigarette and exhaled.  "Trust me," she added.
"I've made a fool of myself," I blurted out.
"Please," she said, "what did I just say?  Make something up.  I'm not a WMD.  I'm not Bin Laden.  It doesn't matter if I even exist so long as you don't say anything that can be traced back to anyone or wind up on Page Six."
"I've referred to you as the 'Countess.'"
"Oh, don't worry about that.  I refer to HIM as the Plaintiff.  And you can quote me too."
"Are you suggesting I report this conversation?  I will, you know."
"Suggest?  I insist.  I say go for the gold.  Make me out to be someone really awful."
"I would never do that."
"Why not?  You should.  Seriously.  Say I'm a ferocious drug addict.  Sexually insatiable.  Sleeping with rock stars."

I could see she was letting herself get completely carried away.  She actually seemed to be enjoying this inventing of a fictional persona, an alter-ego, a shadow-self.

"I've always wanted to, you know," she announced.
"What?"
"Sleep with a rock star.  Behave very badly.  Get a tattoo.  I don't suppose you could give me a cheap and tawdry affair with an important political -- no, best not.  They'll be monitoring your site as it is, no doubt."
"Do you think?  Oh god."
"It's what you wanted, isn't it."
"I wasn't sure how to answer.  "What about -- your daughter?" I asked to change the subject.
"She'll love it.  And you should call her Goneril or Regan too in this blog of yours, take your pick."
"I could never --" I pretended horror.
"Damian, then.  Actually I prefer that.  She really is like the Devil's spawn, isn't she.  Be honest.  I know she's been emailing."

We exhanged an understanding look.

"So there you are," she said as if to settle the matter, and checked her watch.  It was time to go. 

Once again Urbane, to comfort me, she smiled like a Quaker Librarian.  "Go post," she purrred.  "You have priceless things to say, have you not?  Pages and pages... and just wait 'til 'Damian' and her father come back from St. Tropez..."