I think it was Donna Rice or Donna Reed or maybe it was Diana Ross who said Andy Warhol's funeral was like being at Studio 54. In that vein, Jeff's funeral is the equivalent of being at Planet Hollywood. But it's all the same really: fast food, cocaine and disco music.
My plan is this: go to the funeral, make appearance, mourn, spend no more than seven minutes alone with my mother, leave, go to Greenwich with some people I find at the funeral, when in Greenwich, stay in mother's giant monument to herself, raise my liver count, suppress my red blood cell count, deafen some nerve endings and try to have a good time in the process. But I'm flex, except for the seven minutes part.
Miranda is young, rich and famous, frantically filling the void at the centre of her life with a high-voltage cocktail of designer people, designer labels and designer drugs. But Jeff's death makes Miranda think again. After all, this girl doesn't want to be an afterthought before she's twenty . . .
