It was 1,000 degrees exactly outside and I was a sweaty mess in high heels by the time I arrived at the private club on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where Duran Duran was doing interviews. I had wanted to talk to the band since I started my professional career, but dripping sweat and swelling out of my shoes was not exactly how I had envisioned my first interaction with them. (Pretty sure I had pictured something involving riding in on a white tiger.) But when it came to standing in the same room as John Taylor, Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, and sure why not, even Roger Taylor, I would take what I could get.
I was greeted by the publicist and ushered into a room to wait, which is just part of the glamorous life of journalists on a press day. The room, a study technically, was stunning, lined with dark wood bookcases teeming with books, there was a plush rug under matching leather ottomans, enormous bouquets of fresh flowers, and even a few trophies of indeterminate origin. The phrase “well appointed” popped into my head.
I sat primly in one of the leather armchairs and attempted to dab the sweat off myself daintily while I waited for my appointment with the men whose interviews I had studied in Tiger Beat magazine in the aisles of the convenience store near my childhood home. (Including one interview where John Taylor inexplicably “bit into a tomato like it was an apple,” an act so revolting, it almost dampened my years-long crush on him.) I was ardently willing myself into a state of physical and emotional coolness when a gentleman in a white linen suit stepped into the room like he had just stepped off the prow of a boat sailing through the waters of Rio while bikini clad models rolled around the ship like cargo. It was Simon Le Bon, of course.
Now of a certain age, he is still trim and tanned with perfectly tousled blonde hair and an air of OMGTHAT’S SIMON LE BON about him. He neatly pulled up the legs of his trousers before he took a seat on the couch to make sure his pants didn’t wrinkle. He said hello and carefully appraised the room while I pretended I was too cool to gawk by gawking sideways instead. “This reminds me of the Fifth Avenue apartment in The Goldfinch,” said Simon Le Bon, to me. “Have you read it?”
Why yes I had. Specifically, I had read it in miniscule type on my iPhone while waiting for the subway, sweating at the gym, standing in line at the Duane Reade, sitting at my desk while I was supposed to be working, lying in bed when I was supposed to be sleeping. I read all 7000 approximate pages of The Goldfinch in the hopes that someday Simon Le Bon would ask me if I had read it and I would be able to say: YES, I have read that book. Yes, yes, yes, let’s talk about The Goldfinch, Simon Le Bon.
“Oh, I see what you mean, Simon Le Bon,” I said trying to play it cool, like my book club was filled with attractive, well read ‘80s rock stars and not overworked lawyers who insisted on pretending to have read the book even though we all knew the truth. “I really did picture the apartment like this,” said Simon Le Bon, gazing around the room with a critical eye. “Perhaps a bit larger, though.” I nodded my head in agreement in a gesture that I hoped looked something akin to “sagely”.
“Did you enjoy the book?” I asked (suavely, I assume, if the illusion can continue). “I did,” said Simon Le Bon. “It was such a long book that I was daunted at first, but just sailed through it. She really knows how to tell a story.”
I agreed, taking a deep breathe before adding what I hoped was a coherent assessment of how unfair I thought the criticism of her writing style was. Simon Le Bon hadn’t read the Vanity Fair article that critiqued her writing, but was equally aghast at its conclusion. “If she can tell a good, compelling story, I don’t care if she uses simple language or expected phrases,” I said. Simon Le Bon agreed that a good story was a good story, end of story. Then he looked at me conspiratorially, adding, “Although I enjoyed The Secret History a little more.” Since I will happily take part in any of Simon Le Bon’s conspiracy theories (even if it turns out he’s a Berenstain Bears truther, I’m in. Bring it, Le Bon), I nodded eagerly to my new favorite literary critic. “Of course,” I agreed, adding, “And it was definitely better than The Little Friend.”
“Certainly,” said Simon Le Bon. “That was one of her weaker efforts. Although it was still a good read. I look forward to reading whatever she does next.”
With that casual dismissal, he stood up, smoothed his white linen suit, and looked around the room one more time, still seemingly awestruck at having walked into the set of The Goldfinch. He shook my hand and excused himself to get ready for his next on-camera interview.
As he walked off down the long gilded hallway, I had one thought: I am never joining another book club.
Duran Duran’s Paper Gods is out now on Warner Bros, but Simon Le Bon’s book of literary criticism is still TBD.
*As I was too ridiculously gobsmacked during this entire series of events to remember to turn on my recorder, the exact wording of Simon Le Bon’s opinions on Donna Tartt’s body of work is lost to the winds of time, but the gist of it remains permanently embedded on my body and I am never showering again.
*
Illustrator: J. Longo is a freelance Illustrator & Storyboard Artist in Brooklyn, NY. His work can be seen at JLongoArt.com and Instagram.
Man does the goldfinch ever get better because I gave up when my soul was literally sucked out after I experienced how boring donna tartt made a fatal museum explosion seem
nah.
Agreed on nah. Donna Tartt does whiny privileged men really REALLY well, but if whiny privileged (self-sabotaging to the max!) men are not your cup of whatever, skip it. That said, I enjoyed The Little Friend, and I wonder if so many people hate it because THEY HATE WOMEN.
I mean, just kidding. Or am I????
I thought it did get better for a while, the middle section was fairly interesting. However the narrator’s navel-gazing at the end, which went on for a seeming eternity, kinda ruined it again for me.
What, you don’t think the entire last chapter of a book should be a book report on the book?
Daaaaamn, Donna Tartt is gonna be checking into a (sick) Burn Unit any minute now. Respect.
John Banville does that navel-gazing narrator thing a lot better than Donna Tartt.
I am never showering again
I do not blame you, no, not one bit.
You, madam, are living the dream.
This is truly my new favorite absurd anecdote. What a great meeting!! What would have happened if you hadn’t read it? Or pretended to have?
My mom and I spotted Simon Le Bon at Heathrow, but he was in a hurry so we didn’t manage to stop him. I wasn’t too mad because at LAX, which was where we flew from, I saw and met 3/4 of the members of Franz Ferdinand.
Current Me is congratulating you on having such an interesting and well-informed exchange with Mr. Le Bon.
15-Year-Old Me is squeeing loudly and wondering why you didn’t get his autograph.
I still haven’t showered!
BUT DID HE UNDERSTAND, AS SO MANY INEXPLICABLY DON’T, THAT THEO AND BORIS ARE IN LOVE?
Wait, do people really not think that??! Because that was one of my favorite things about the book. I loved all of it and that is what tied all the different pieces together.
Also this entire piece is a gift to the world, thank you so much for sharing (VERY well written)!
Every single thing about this is amazing.
Also, I wasn’t even the right age for swoony crushes during the Tiger Beat years, but I would read a million panels of a comic about Simon Le Bon flying around on a giant goldfinch having adventures and bookish chats.
A couple of weeks ago, I met Kurt Vile and we talked about the Warren Zevon oral biography and “I’m With The Band.” Rock stars (although Vile is in a different galaxy of that sort than LeBon, I’m sure all would agree) reading books you have read and having opinions on them is the best thing, who knew.
This is a major category in my fantasy life – accidental meetings with famous people who want to talk to me about books. Now that you’ve shown me it can ACTUALLY HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE, my daydreams are going to be out of control.
I’m pretty impressed you could get any words out, to be frank – I’d be a gabbling mess as soon as I opened my mouth.
BRB, going to read All. The. Books. on the offchance I ever manage to get caught in a lift with my No. 1 crush object from the past 30 years…