Nervous as I am of organising parties, I could hardly have launched a book about friendship without throwing one. And so it was that last Tuesday night, I found myself in the Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, north London, surrounded by those pals of mine who were good enough to trog through the rush hour rain to celebrate with me.
The Virago Book of Friendship is the result of a year’s work and a lifetime’s reading – and as an anthology, it’s a bit like a party itself, Virginia Woolf cosying up to Sarah Waters in one corner, and Shirley Conran chatting to Charlotte Brontë in another. Nora Ephron, whose laugh may be heard over the crowd, is moving around the room with a tray of canapés, Edith Wharton is wondering why the champagne isn’t premier cru, and Colette’s about to go outside for a cigarette.
