This week, I had occasion to recall the immortal lines spoken by Dame Julie Andrews in The Princess Diaries (which is about as far as my film references go): “A queen is never late. Everyone else is simply early.” And so it went on Tuesday night with Cazzie David, who—accompanied by her “momager,” Laurie—pulled up to her own book party at AIR MAIL’s Hudson Street newsstand 20 minutes past six. In a deadpan that must be a family trait, she told the intern manning the door, “I’m pretty sure my name is on the list.”
Though, now that I think of it, the 31-year-old, charmingly neurotic writer would probably cringe at being called a “queen” (!)—unless it were delivered by a fabulous gay man, which, regrettably, I’m not. Still, the sentiment holds. On her way to hold court, Cazzie stepped inside the warmly lit, Flamingo-Estate-tomato-candle-scented shop and found copies of her new essay collection, Delusions, stacked ceremoniously on the shelves and a room full of people who had braved the drizzly weather, ready to celebrate its publication.
