AMANDA ELIASCH FASHION EDITOR

Ihave been smiling all day because of the ‘kindness of strangers.’ One lovely person sent me a photograph of my grandmother, Valda Foreman, whom I had never met. By the age of 23, she had three children, ran away from home, and never saw them again. In the 1930s, this was shocking, though Valda clearly had post-natal depression. Sadly, she was persona non grata at our home. In this photo, she looked like a fashionable, radiant bride with a Gatsby look.

Last week, I returned to London after a whirlwind red-carpet tour of rain-soaked Los Angeles. At the Oscars, the best dressed were Cara Delevigne and Florence Pugh. I attended boarding school with Cara’s mother, Pandora, who saved me from being bullied. Pandora may not remember, but I do—like it was yesterday. Cara was stunning in Ellie Saab and, of course, as a top model, has the unfair advantage of height and beauty over all others—she killed it. Florence Pugh, dressed in black shorts under a Valentino opera coat by Valentino, was modern and glamorous. These were the only ones who stood out—the rest looked like they should be on a beach. Far too much tummy and legs for my taste. Call me old-fashioned; I like a body covered up.

I bounced from place to place this time. I spent a few nights in the Portuguese Palace of my friend Mara Granderson, a few at the Prospect (gorgeously decorated by Martyn Lawrence Bullard), and my last night at The Chateau.

I visited designer Sue Wong’s house in Los Feliz, which she turned into a Moroccan Palace. Tamie Adaya had a welcoming party for me at her Hotel Shangri-La in Santa Monica, and Nigel Daly and Wes Carrol hosted a very generous dinner for me at Soho House. I was a very lucky girl.

Next year, God, please give us good weather so that LA will shine again. G

The Ritz London