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Boyish hips, valentine lips, fine-boned cheeks and jaw, easy smile--a pleasant beauty, more pretty-mom-next-door than jaw-drop virtuoso, a porcelain doll awaiting paint, an idle daydream. They've started calling themselves Team Diane, if you can believe it. She is a sprite of a woman, all nerves and birdlike energy, barely five feet six. Sometimes there's a million moment hanging on a bobby pin, and everybody's looking for a bobby pin, and you've got a tear dangling in the corner of your eye, and then there's a helicopter passing overhead and they can't get the shot. It's a contrivance, but you're attempting to reach people's hearts in the dark, and there are so many factors that are out of your control. From across the back fence, from the casting director's house, it might appear as if a therapist is paying a house call. It's like a good date: You have to know when to leave.""No problem! This is this time, it's this week--you're going through a lot. I sit on a plastic lawn chair by her head, a notepad in my hand.
Because in homeownership, you have people with leaf blowers--God forbid they should get together and agree to do it all at the same time." Cig dangling from her lips, Diane keys the lock in the front door. And one day, they kind of attacked me in the bazaar. Diane had been asked by a French television program to re-create a Cotton Club dance scene with Lambert. "It wasn't love and it wasn't lust, but it was sure something," Diane says. As is her way, she has returned to her deck, to the suspect lounge chair with the palm-eating ratchet, this time to better effect. They really worship at the altar of their careers, you know? It's sort of like setting a table and waiting for someone to come along and whoosh--push all the plates onto the floor. It's all I know."he sun has dipped below the neighbors' roofline, leaving Diane's little patch of lawn in deep shadow. You do." She pauses a moment, rummaging in her purse for a cigarette.
You try not to laugh at the absurdity of the moment. Her shoulder-length hair, approximating natural warm browns with streaks of honey, is pinned carelessly atop her head. Purse and phone and keys crowding the basket of her hands. I went in there the other day and there was an ancient diary sitting right out.