When my second marriage fell apart, my dear friend Michael Roberts moved into my large brownstone in Fulham, London—the house my husband Willie Christie and I shared for many years before the breakup. Very soon, Michael had me out clubbing every night until the wee small hours, and when we got home we stayed awake till dawn, plotting, dissecting, and gossiping about who we’d found attractive. Inevitably, we’d both fancied the same guy. I gave Michael the spare room at the top of the house, and although it was only three short flights of stairs, he seldom climbed higher than the living room sofa on the ground floor.
Most mornings, I’d drive him to his office at The Sunday Times, then circle back to the parking garage under Vogue House, where my own daily circus awaited. I got to know him pretty well during that time. We only once had a real falling out, when he did a very unflattering drawing of me for his column. A rear view in a very, very tight Azzedine Alaïa with the caption “There are certain fashion editors who should know better….” It was unmistakably me: huge frizzy hair and a big bottom! My vanity was shaken, but I never gave up wearing that skirt.
He came for a week and stayed nine months, until my divorce papers arrived and we both had to move out. There were even rumors that he might be named as a corespondent in the divorce—unlikely, of course—but it gave us plenty to laugh about. Michael promised that if ever he was called to court, he’d give such a camp performance, it would be Oscar-worthy.
In my new apartment he painted the four seasons around the fireplace. Michael was endlessly creative: He made pottery, designed rugs that looked like the work of Miró or Picasso, wrote poetry, and made many beautiful books of his drawings and cutouts for both adults and children. He penned lyrics to the tune of “In an English Country Garden” for an animated film I once made. He helped reinvent Tatler under Tina Brown and served as fashion director for both Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. He brought elegance and irreverence in equal measure, and he did it all with paper, scissors, and a glint in his eye. And most remarkably, he ghostwrote Grace: A Memoir, completely inhabiting my character and capturing my voice. Though I adore the book, it was a challenging year, with many arguments and debates about the facts of my narrative and life.
Michael would often vanish for a month or two, then suddenly materialize in Brazil or Sicily. He also came to stay with me in my country house in the Hamptons while writing my memoir so that he could better interrogate me for hours on end, complain about my cooking, and generally drive me mad. Sometimes, I just had to get in my Mini Cooper, drive to the end of the road, and scream. He would stay up all night with every light in the house on and The Simpsons blasting on the TV. But somehow the book got finished.
