Liz Jones: 'In which I meet my book publisher' - YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones Liz Jones ‘ In which I meet my book publisher’ By Liz Jones - August 28, 2022 The Rock Star has asked if I will accompany him to a funeral. Not a family member or close friend, but a roadie he worked with years ago. It will mean a lot to the dead man’s family. ‘Don’t write about it,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’ Tom Peake at Meiklejohn In the past, I always borrowed garments for big occasions. A couture coat dress by Suzannah London for my sister-in-law’s funeral. A Suzannah pink cocktail dress and matching frock coat for my niece’s wedding. My Wardrobe HQ’s Victoria Beckham slip dress for a boyfriend’s birthday. I was barred from my sister Clare’s funeral so had no need of an outfit. I had written about her alcoholism. The fact I had sent her to a Swiss rehab clinic and acted as guarantor on two of her rented houses counted for nothing. I rummage through my wardrobe. Jil Sander duster coat bought in a panic from Barneys for an Oscars after-party as I hated my arms. Dries Van Noten gown that shows my breast surgery scars. (‘Wear a vest!’ my dear dead mum would say. I wore my own Victoria Beckham for that funeral, aghast a relative rocked up in jeans and a nose ring; why do people think every event is about them?) Kookaï sequined trousers. A Ralph Lauren safari jacket: Gracie the collie has chewed the belt. The only suitable outfit is a black pencil skirt and matching nipped-in jacket by Prada. I bought it (with my editor’s discount) in 1999 in Milan. My black Prada bag is missing a strap as my newest collie Teddy has started to chew absent-mindedly (he’s so laidback he eats and drinks lying down). Everything now has tiny teeth marks: a lip gloss, my The Row sunglasses case (bought post facelift). One of my chess knights no longer has a head. I have one pair of black heels, having Ebayed the rest. I can’t walk in them, so will have to cling to passing strangers. I must remember not to stand too close to the edge of the grave. I’ve only borrowed shoes once. So that they can still be sold, you have to put parcel tape on the sole to prevent scuffs. It can all become sticky in heat. I borrowed Louboutins for an awards ceremony, became rooted at the lectern, and had to be escorted off by Stephen Mangan. I had my meeting with the book publisher. She didn’t mention the novel I had already given her, which wasn’t a good sign. I pitched a new idea, which she seemed to love. It is very ITV 9pm on a Sunday. And so I have to start all over again: the blank page looms. Our meeting took place in London’s Charlotte Street Hotel, which was packed on a weekday afternoon. I wondered how all these people manage to be so carefree and happy. Why aren’t they at work? What are they doing right that I’m not? I went to see another house on Saturday. It’s beautiful, with original wide floorboards, old doors with brass knobs, working fireplaces with marble surrounds. It’s stunning, but too far from the horses for me to be able to care for them six, seven times a day. The woman who showed me round, having to sell up as she is going blind, appeared far happier than I am: serene, smiling. ‘Why are you panting?’ she asked as we reached the bedroom with its dual aspect overlooking an abbey. ‘Do you want to sit down?’ ‘I always pant. I’m always anxious,’ I told her. ‘You’re anxious looking round a lovely house?’ ‘Yes. Always. I had to reverse my car just now and nearly had a heart attack. I had to stop when I was driving here over the North Pennines, as I was convinced I would swerve over the edge. Or hit a sheep. Every car overtook me. I’m like Mrs Magoo.’ ‘Do you have any friends up here?’ ‘No, no one.’ ‘Starting again, are we?’ ‘Yes. At least, I’m hoping to.’ Jones Moans… What Liz Loathes This Week Butternut squash. They put it in everything! Sweet potatoes. Ditto. You are on a train to King’s Cross and the ticket inspector does not ask to see evidence of your senior rail card. People who don’t answer my emails. My printer. 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