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dress.” Back then, high society fuelledthe nexus of media, politics and fashion.The tone was set by the White Houseof Ronnie and Nancy, who importeda new mix of Hollywood squares andPark Avenue hostesses with their“walkers” to join the Washington powerelite. Manhattan vibrated withthe animal spirits of Wall Street. WhatI first thought of as the sideshow ofNew York high life was actually theheart of the story.In May 1984, on a first lunch dateat Park Avenue’s favourite fashionablewatering hole, Le Cirque, I looked overand saw a classic 1980s vignette –former president Richard Nixon at acorner table with a group that includedan immaculate blonde in a Bill Blasssuit and a big white Ascot hat. “I hadn’trealised what full-blown musicaltheatre it is,” I wrote, “all the ladieswho lunch in red capes and big,gleaming earrings eating pink fish.” I``````loved the scene so much that I assignedan artist to reproduce it for Vanity Fair.Other lunches were spent at the FourSeasons Restaurant, the power spot onPark Avenue where all Condé Nasteditors had a running lunch tab fortheir $250 salads. In my first weekswith the company I received a dismayedphone call from Alex Liberman. “Mydear,” he told me, “I heard you were inSiberia today.” Sensing my bafflement,he explained I’d been sighted withAmerican Vogue editor Grace Mirabellain the gallery of the restaurant, whereonly out-of-towners were banished. Infuture he would see to it that I had myown booth on the main floor with thelikes of Henry Kissinger and TVanchor Barbara Walters.As player, spy, observer andparticipant in the world Vanity Faircovered, I felt the pressure to dress thepart. When I was resuscitating Tatlerin my mid-twenties, my major fashioninfluencer was the Princess of Wales inthe piecrust-frill-and-flats of her SloaneRanger era. After a year in New YorkI was more Dynasty Di, with frostedbearskin hair and power shoulders. ButI dreaded the hassle of the morningroutine. It was the sartorial equivalentof suiting up for the Battle of Agincourt.My hair was permed and blow-dried;my nails were painted scarlet; I wouldpour myself into Donna Karan sheerpantyhose before stepping into toweringManolos and a Reagan-red IsaacMizrahi suit, accessorised with a strand``````of fake Kenneth Jay Lane pearls andone fat pearl clamped on to each ear.When I gave birth to my son,Georgie, in 1986, I also crammed inmotherhood and losing the babyweight. “My eyes burn with the stressof a day that begins at six!” I wroteon Monday, September 15, 1986.“Crunches with the thunder-thighedtrainer, followed by an hour gurglingwith G, an hour getting dressed andcoiffed for the office... home by fiveto walk G in his stroller and play withhim (it’s so damn tough to make thepower-woman-to-mommy switch),then on to his bath time and dosh upfor one of the innumerable place-carddinners raining down.”Elegant dressing never camenaturally to me. If it worked it wasusually the handiwork of the magazine’sItalian style director, Marina Schiano,a Morticia-like former model who worecat’s-eye sunglasses and had an evillaugh. Left to my own devices, I would``````“After a yearin New YorkI was moreDynasty Di.But I dreadedthe hassle ofthe morningroutine. It wasthe sartorialequivalent ofsuiting up forthe Battle ofAgincourt”``````Editor-in-chief of Tatler,1979. Above right: withHelmut Newton, justover a decade laterMr and Mrs HaroldEvans, 1990``````At a 1988Vanity Fair partywith SI NewhouseJr, then CondéNast’s chairman``````Tina andAnna Wintourin 1991. Right:in a late-1980spower suitand pearlsBrown in themid-1980s withher son, George,and her husband,editor andjournalist HaroldEvans, right