Ten minutes after arriving in Weston, a photographer covering the party for an online publication asked Dara and me to pose. Hesitantly, we agreed to the photograph. When she asked for our names, we explained that we did not have any. We were there for our dear friend’s birthday. Fame was not on that night’s agenda. Nameless, we thanked the photographer and went inside.
Getting there was another story. It required an hour in the car, a stop at the Prada outlet and some internal negotiations worthy of an international summit. I had not been to a proper party in a very long time. These days, most of my plans never make it beyond the calendar. But this was Michelle. I was not missing her birthday simply because I was too lazy to go out. Bye-bye, bed. Hello, Weston.
To avoid any fashion-related angst, I jumped into my daily uniform: oversized light-wash Levi’s and a white T-shirt. To elevate the look, I threw on my green Irish Twin tweed jacket, slipped into my Alaïa escarpins and took out the vintage Miu Miu bag I had spent nineteen years hunting down. Jeans and a white T-shirt had never betrayed me, and they were not about to start on my return to society. The bag made it clear that I cared. Vintage treasures do not leave my closet for just anyone
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As dinner begins, I scan the room. There is no dress code, thank God. I dread them like the plague. But looking at the guests, you would never know we are all attending the same birthday. Had I missed a theme or something? Some even appear to have arrived from another decade. God knows what invitations they received. They have all led us to the same place: a Lebanese restaurant in a Weston strip mall
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My side of the table is a world of its own. Directly across from me sits a fabulous Frenchman in his sixties who has something to do with the CFDA. What exactly, I do not really know, but it seems fab. To my left is a woman in a kaftan fit for a night in Oman. We are at a Lebanese restaurant, so why not? As she sits down, she immediately announces that her blonde wig might be flammable. Amazon couture. There are no candles on the table. We might make it out alive. And then there is Francesca Filler. The cherry on the cake. Well, she deserves a paragraph of her own.
Francesca arrives in Weston straight from 1987, wearing a gold sequined mini dress, high heels and Schiaparelli accessories. Her makeup is completely d’ époque: strong eyeliner, sculpted brows and a red lip. No concessions have been made to the present. Her hair is an homage to hairspray. Big, high and sculptural, it could withstand a Category 5 hurricane.
Leaving the 305 is apparently all the risk Francesca is prepared to take for the night. She has brought her own bottle of wine, or three. “I only drink the good stuff,” she says while filling my glass from across the table. I can barely hear a word she is saying, but she laughs at everything I say. Well, I am funny.
The rest of the room is just as interesting as my little corner. I spot one woman wearing a long dress and heels. Is she heading to prom straight after her falafel? Another, in denim shorts and a bright pink top, might have stopped by for dinner on her way back from summer camp. And then appears this majestic creature of the night, covered in piercings and dressed head to toe in Rick Owens. He butterflies around as though he has been teleported from a downtown New York runway. Am I hallucinating? Or is Francesca’s wine taking effect?
Then Michelle gives a speech, and suddenly we are at The Michelle Show. The room becomes her stage. She laughs and throws the occasional “Ya tú sabes” at us. Side note: Michelle is not Spanish, nor does she have any Spanish origins. For a moment, all fifty-four guests forget the drive to Weston. In other words, very Michelle.
For someone who obsesses over fashion as much as I do, the copy-and-paste effect has ruined half the fun of actually going out. On the rare occasion that I do, I spend an embarrassing amount of time looking at what people are wearing. This is Miami, so quite often, what they are not wearing. Michelle’s party is refreshing. Somewhere between Oman, summer camp, a downtown runway and the eighties, we have all met in Weston, and I am here, lucky to witness it all. Fabulous.
After the birthday cake, a phone call from my daughter reminds me that Miami is still an hour away. The party is still going, but my grand retour to nightlife has reached its end. I say goodnight and begin the journey back to my world.
A couple of days later, Michelle sent us the photograph from the online publication. Apparently, neither Dara nor I had remembered to smile. We were nameless, so who cared? There we were: the Witches of Weston.
Bisous,
I want to see the picture 👀