She was late, of course she was late. But then she’s always been late. When she was working for me at Condé Nast ten years ago, when she interviewed the likes of Hugo Chavez, Vladimir Putin, Piers Morgan and Skepta for GQ, she was always coming to my office in Vogue House, and she was never on time. But that was Naomi. She would then sprawl on my sofa, instruct one of my assistants to fetch her a Big Mac, and pour the charm on. Nothing changes. A few weeks ago, she was 90 minutes late for me at the Dorchester, and even though I gave her a hard time when she eventually turned up, I soon gave up. She has this disarming habit of batting her eyes at you, and it works. Of course, it works. She’s Naomi.
In my experience, she has two speeds: flirtatious and angry. But she didn’t seem too angry when we met. In fact, she told me she was beyond anger. “There’s a few people I regret having a go at,” she said, as she sat down. “But ignoring people is stronger than having a go at them, because no one likes to be ignored.”
