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The after-party for L’Wren Scott on the Gramercy Park Hotel terrace on Thursday night began with an inebriated Englishman. “‘Ow’re you doin’, darlin’? I’m Keith Richards brother,” the man trilled in an exaggerated Cockney accent, looping a Burberry tartan scarf around his neck. He wasn’t, and he had the wrong Stone: The guest of honor’s rock star paramour is Mick Jagger. Joseph Altuzarra was among the small crowd circulating the terrace, sipping cutely named custom vodka-based cocktails and waiting for the main event.
“I’m so, so happy fashion week is over,” Altuzarra said, “I’m just looking forward to getting some sleep….We’re going to leave in about five minutes, tops. The DJ tonight is apparently amazing, someone from The Roots?” It was. DJ Questlove was at the far end of the party, trademark afro tucked into braids, a red heart emblazoning his blazer.
The midnight arrival of L’Wren & company, who, p.r. had informed guests, had been dining downstairs at the Rose Bar (complete with a very realistic-looking alligator purse-shaped cake), was heralded by a flurry of security guards. One room, bedecked with leather couches, candles and a roaring fireplace was cordoned off and all connecting doors whisked shut. The temperature began to rise. Guests still on the terrace began to press their faces against one of the rapidly fogging-up glass doors and gleefully pointed at those within, who included Scott, Jagger, Daphne Guinness, Rachel Feinstein, John Currin and Ellen Barkin. They stared back. Guinness looked slightly horrified.
“It makes one feel a little trapped, doesn’t it?” she said, touching her hand to her sternum, which was encased in a gold brace that looped under her arms and chest and across her back. Barkin sat stonily staring at the wall.
Photographers were asked to leave the room. “Right now, we just feel a bit like ‘everybody’ is staring at ‘everybody,’” a representative for Scott explained, employing air quotes. Hotel personnel said that all the doors couldn’t be closed at once, “fire hazard.” One was opened, and three guards posted. Jagger grabbed at Scott’s wrist. “I’m very happy to have this little party the last night of fashion week, a ‘finale’ of sorts. And I’m very happy with what we’ve done this season,” Scott said. “We all worked very hard.” Jagger nodded. What did he think of the collection? “Beautiful,” he said, squinting at Scott.
The music had changed to a more obscure Nineties pop song. “Is this Questlove?” Scott asked Jagger. “This doesn’t sound like Questlove.” He shrugged. Suddenly there was a surge of movement as the doors to the terrace were flung back open. Room on the terrace was made and Scott and Jagger headed for the DJ booth to investigate. Terry Richardson, Jared Leto, Olivier Zahm, Aaron Young and Laure Heriard Dubreuil piled off the elevator. Richardson and Leto made a bee-line for Jagger. “We were at the dinner,” Heriard-Dubreuil explained, surveying the crowd before following fiancé Young into the mélee. A girl in a creamsicle-colored sundress was explaining her stint as a contestant on “The Bachelor” to a confused security guard nearby.
Heriard Dubreuil laughed: “Aren’t you so glad fashion week is over?”