Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the heiress of them all? Paris Hilton, of course.
Last week, after someone else cancelled, I got a hand-me-down invitation to have brunch with Paris Hilton and her parents at Brown Thomas, in Dublin, where she launched her new perfume, Heiress. Heirhead, more like, said somebody under their breath when I blurted out my news, but I reckon they were just jealous. I spent the morning saying, "Must go, I'm having brunch with Paris Hilton", mostly because it was a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself saying. When I shared my news, even people who are not normally impressed by celebrities got a bit excited and wondered what on earth I should ask her. Later, as I hovered in her orbit, contemplating how one pair of eyelashes could be that curly, I was still wondering myself.
Top notes open with a swirl of passion fruit and juicy orange burst. A splash of peach granita and Champagne mimosa allow this accord to sparkle.
Of course, it was never going to be just Paris, her mum and dad and me sitting around a table eating eggs Benedict and sipping mimosas. More than a dozen of the most fashionable journalists in Ireland, and their equally fashionable friends, had been summoned to the department store's boardroom. My invitation might have been hand-me-down, but I still wore my good spotty dress. I quickly downed two smoothies, wolfed a few smoked-salmon blini and resumed Waiting for Paris.
The heart of this fragrance unfolds to reveal an exotic and mysterious floral medley with notes of star jasmine, lush tiare flower, tropical ylang ylang and vibrant honeysuckle. Dewberry blossom and grenadine combine to add rich and fruity sophistication.
In the centre of the room, a table sparkled with fairy dust and bottles of the new perfume. I allowed myself a spritz of Heiress. Paris's third perfume suggested erasers, bubble gum and the contents of a pick-and-mix counter. Yum. While spritzing at the table, though, I got fairy dust on my hands, then I must have touched my face, and by the time Kathy and Rick arrived in - Mr and Mrs Hilton to you - I looked as if I'd dipped myself in a vat of Christmas glitter. Hey ho.
The dry down unfolds as the air is teased with an exotic and mysteriously warm sensuality from notes of violet leaf, sheer vetiver, Tahitian tonka and blonde woods.
Kathy seemed nice. She asked about antiques shops on Francis Street. Rick, son of Conrad, had a list of places to visit on his weekend in Ireland, including Malahide Castle and Howth. Kathy wanted to contact a Dublin nanny she'd had in LA when she was 11. (Marie Clifford, if you're reading, I have her number. Call me.)
I decided to pick Rick's brains about where I should go for New Year's Eve in New York. I told him I was staying at the Waldorf Astoria at a knockdown rate, and he said he'd lived there for eight years. The Hiltons, he added, generally go to Hawaii for Christmas and Las Vegas for New Year. "Do you stay in one of those themed hotels?" I asked. "Venice or Paris?" He laughed, saying he stays at the Wynn Las Vegas, owned by his friend Steve Wynn. "The theme there is just luxury."
Vivacious and vibrant. Intoxicating and captivating.
I imagine this is a bit like what it must have been like to meet Princess Di. We weren't exactly curtsying, but if someone had started I wouldn't have been surprised. Unfortunately, I'd just taken a bite of a tuna canape covered in blow-your-head-off horseradish sauce when it was my turn to meet her. Horseradishy of breath and sparkly of face, I stood in front of Paris Hilton, taking in the blue eyes, the perfect skin, the silky hair. It's all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I think I asked why she bothered working as, variously, a pop star, model, perfumer and, more controversially, video star when her family had all that money. I think she said she didn't want to leech off her parents, that she wanted to be financially independent and that this was important to her as a woman.
Nuances of elegance and sophistication fit for an heiress.
My friend and I collected our goody bags. I liked that Rick Hilton took one, too. "What do you think, watching all these people fawn over your daughter?" I asked. "She always had something; even as a little girl everyone always stopped when she walked into the room," he said. Afterwards my friend and I went for coffee, and as we sat outside a car pulled up on Duke Street to collect the Hiltons. They got in, and, inexplicably, we began waving madly at the car. As it sped off, a hand emerged, attached to a long and elegant arm, waving at everyone and no one all at the same time.