I'd call her "Issy" - as she was known to her friends. As any diva would, she'd arrive late, dressed in a crazy, flamboyant, fantastic couture dress - an outrageous Alexander McQueen, of course, accessorized with a super impractical hat by Philip Treacy (having access to their most current collections), which she wouldn't take off as we sat down to eat.
In her haughty English accent, she'd tell the most amazing and fabulous stories about her life as a British fashion editor - all about the London; Milan; Paris collections; and photo shoots with the most famous photographers, like Steven Meisel, and the models whose careers she launched, like Stella Tennant and Sophie Dahl.
We'd all have a rip roaring good time and everyone would be laughing along as she related her bawdy
stories. She'd be laughing like a drain as she told them, swearing like a sailor and drinking like one too. I imagine towards the end the evening, there'd be dancing on the table and her baring her boobs, as girls in the upper classes are want to do. But all the other guests would totally adore her and forgive her eccentric behavior - even if she did spill soup in their laps or knock over the red wine, or poke their eyes out with her hat.
Issy would be the last to leave the party - maybe even stay for a hearty English breakfast of bacon and eggs and a side of black pudding. And after she'd gone I would find ostrich feathers and pearl buttons that had fallen off her dress, strewn on the carpet; and bright red lipstick stains all over the glassware; and burns in the tablecloth from her stubbed out her cigarettes.
Who's your #1 fantasy dinner guest?
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