They would have some Chinese food and make love. "Oh, boy!" she thought. "Will I make love to him!"
This is just part of Monique van Vooren's novel, "Night Sanctuary," that had a bunch of ambassadors and a lot of Washington social types, i.e., the usual crowd, crowding into the home of Alejandro and Helga Orfila (he being secretary general of the Organization of American States) last night.
Monique van Vooren, as you'd know if you'd read the press kit that accompanies the novel, is "not any run-of-the-mill blonde bombshell."
She is 48, she has eyes so wildly tilted that they look like they belong to somebody else, and she has an ironic streak. To wit, as she floats through the crowd in her crimson caftan: "It is very hard to sell sex and riches and depravity to Americans." She tosses that one off and drifts on, drinking straight vodka and answering "Yes" to all the men who seem to be able to ask her nothing but "Are you from Belgium?"
The novel is the lowdown on high society, the requisite orgy or two, a Rudolf Nureyev describe-alike, and references to possibly hundreds of big names from Jesus Christ to Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Says the press kit: "People who know Monique's reputation based on her looks are amazed and impressed when they discover her intelligence."
She says, "I'm not sexual at all. I never have been. Oh, maybe when I was younger I was interested, but I had to force it."
And she has never been to an orgy, she says. "That's why I can write so well about it. I met these people who go to orgies, they showed me these tools, I didn't use half of them -- in the novel, of course."
She hands out matchbooks with the name of the novel, "Night Sanctuary," on them. She hands out bottles of "Night Sanctuary" perfume, from Monique van Vooren Inc. Having sung at the Rainbow Room and the Plaza when she wasn't appearing in plays or movies, most notably "Andy Warhol's Frankenstein," she could even break into a chorus of "Night Sanctuary," especially written for the occasion of the novel by Sammy Cahn. But she doesn't.
"Everybody gets old," she says. "But I'm going to get old and rich."
"Denise. May I call you Denise?" asked the dictator as he took her hand.
"Why, yes -- that's my name," she said, crossing her legs at the knees . . .
She got a $325,000 advance from Summit Books for the novel. Yesterday she sold the French, Dutch and German rights.
"That gives me the courage to go on," she says.
Secretary General Orfila is asked why this reception for her is being held in his house.
"Ask my wife!" he says. "I have nothing to do with it!"
Says his wife, Helga: "It's because she's a friend of mine."
And say all the others when asked why they've come -- ambassadors, bankers, an ex-senator and the sort of people who are described as being "horseman" or "ex-wife of . . . " -- "We're friends of the Orfilas."
Andy Warhol was supposed to come. Monique van Vooren is angry with him. She says: "He has a party for someone far more important than me, for this very rich lady from Europe who is more important to him socially."
He died of black lung disease when she was only 11, and she came to think of him as a failure with dirty fingernails somewhere up in heaven, who had forgotten her.
Then again, she got Norman Mailer to give her a dust-jacket blurb. He wrote: "It's safe to predict that no best seller this year will be written by anyone more beautiful than Monique van Vooren."
Reviews have made much of her jet-set connections.
"Let them all say what they want, it's selling like crazy," she says.
And then it is 8:30 and the ambassadors head for their next party, and an old gent is being more original than the others by asking her not if she is Belgian, but if she is Norwegian.
"No," she says. "Belgian."
Or, as the novel ends: Over -- before Denise had ever come to the realization of the enormity of what she had done.