I first met Phillips over the phone a few years ago when I interviewed her for a column about the secrets of French design. She’s an exquisite designer, a wonderful writer, and she possesses extraordinary style. With one caveat: If you can’t be objective, state your bias. As reporters, we must maintain objectivity. Times editors are famously calloused, they have pounded this journalistic edict into me: When interviewing someone famous, don’t be worshipful.Įditors hate fawning. Because Los Angeles is celebrity central, and L.A. Besides writing this column, I write - some will find this hard to believe - serious, even credible, journalism for the Los Angeles Times.
Now, before I get carried away, a disclaimer. The invitation was like having Celine Dion sing for you or David Hockney invite you on a museum tour or Stacy London take you shopping. When Phillips, a renowned interior designer and best-selling author, learned I would be in Dallas promoting my new book, she asked me to lunch - at her home, the manse she and her husband, John, just built and decorated down to the last detail, including monogrammed bedding for Jackson, the couple’s Norwich terrier, who pretty much runs the place. Shamu the whale, and the day I met my husband in a car wreck.
To put my lunch last week with Betty Lou Phillips in perspective, it ranked up there with the two luckiest days of my life: the day I got picked from the audience to get kissed by
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