I n the spring of 1992, Liz Tilberis came to visit in the Hamptons, in Wainscott, New York, where I had a place. It was Easter weekend, and that Sunday we went to a lawn party at Jann Wenner’s house. It was to be relaxed, but with an elaborate egg hunt for the children, and Jann’s guest list included a range of people from the media, show business, and publishing. Turning into the long driveway, Liz joked that she was nervous, that this was going to be her first important party since moving to America from London and she wouldn’t know anyone.
I told her she didn’t look nervous.
“Of course not,” she said. “Can’t let it show, can we?”
I said most of the guests already knew about her,…