Little Black Book
GSTAAD—I’m not usually nonplussed, but this is very strange: The memoirs of Barbara Black, the wife of my good friend Lord Black, simply do not make sense where certain people she writes about are concerned, persons whom I happen to know well. The list is not long, and I’ll start with David Graham, her third and extremely rich husband, who was the biggest bore I have ever met, and believe you me, I’ve met a few in my long life. With kindness in mind, she fails to mention what a terrific bore he was, and also the cheapest man I’ve ever come across. (He’d be dead before the credits in a cowboy film, being so slow on the draw.) He was such a rube that one time in Saint-Tropez I finally told him, “Never, but never speak to me again, I beg you. Please fuck off.” He looked askance but was too much of a bore to at least insult me back.
Okay, next: Barbara Walters. Lady Black writes how TV Babs snubbed her after the fall, but what did she expect from someone lik
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