The Truth Teller

The house was grandiose and intricate, and as I walked through the long corridors, I found myself looking particularly dull with my black pants and white knit against the Arabian Nights decor.

I had been invited to a fabulous party in Marrakech, and I was on my own.

I had arrived late (rare—I am usually the idiot who shows up right on time, and then I have to talk to the walls for half an hour) and there was only one seat left. I said hello to the gentleman to my right, a very polite man, a famous movie producer who looked straight through me (this is a thing that happens sometimes when you get older; some men’s eyesight fades and they can’t see women their own age anymore)—and asked a few questions which felt like they were falling as flat as the most recent evolution of my bottom.

Then I turned around and found a much better companion to my left.

“I don’t know what I am doing here,” I said (take it from me, this is the best way to introduce yourself at any dinner)(well, unless you’re th…