Georgette Mosbacher's Fifth Avenue apartment is directly across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and from the huge windows of her living room—where there is a life-size drawing of herself hanging above the baby grand piano, and fur throws on two settees across the room, and trinkets (decorative knives, feathers, paperweights, commemorative seals) arranged on a console, and photographs and chandeliers and Oriental rugs and velvet and mirrors—one can watch the small figures milling about on the steps of the museum. The elevator opens directly into her apartment, and last evening, in addition to the uniformed attendant, it was packed with people on their way to a party celebrating the publication of 54-year-old Christopher Buckley's new book, Boomsday, which is about a late twentysomething female blogger who proposes that people be given incentives to commit suicide when they reach 75.

Riding up the elevator with this late twentysomething female blogger was Tina Brown, who was discussing her new book about Princess Diana with another party guest; upon arrival in Mrs. Mosbacher's apartment, one was quickly offered champagne in a cut crystal flute, as well as a dainty linen napkin, by a handsome young man in a tuxedo.

"Are you friends of Christo?" a woman said, in Italian, to a small group of guests who had set themselves up in the library. They were picking at the chocolate bonbons and cocktail nuts. On Mrs. Mosbacher's desk, whose surface is covered in green leather, is a book entitled "Adam's Favorite Trip to France." Each page is a photograph of Adam in various places around the country, with an accompanying sentence, like "Adam enjoys eating in his favorite restaurant very much." Adam is Mrs. Mosbacher's dog.


A waiter came around, offering pigs in a blanket. On a large round table in the dining room were other snacks: Spring rolls, several varieties of caramel and chocolate-flavored popcorn, a massive crystal chalice filled with shrimp cocktail, and in the center, an untouched chocolate cake with the image of Mr. Buckley's book created in frosting.

Soon, the guests were instructed to gather in the living room, where Mrs. Mosbacher—who goes by the last name of her third husband, Robert, a businessman who was the Secretary of Commerce under George Bush the First, and to whom she is no longer married—was going to give a speech in honor of Mr. Buckley. Mrs. Mosbacher was wearing a flowy shirt over leggings and open-toed mules, and a large gold crucifix on a gold chain around her neck. Her hair is copper-red. She is the CEO of the cosmetics company Borghese, and she seems to use their products prodigiously. She is also co-chair of the finance committee of the Republican National Committee.

In her speech, Mrs. Mosbacher said how so thrilled she was to have this party in honor of Mr. Buckley and his wonderful new book, and mentioned his girlfriend, the very tall, very 28-year-old Jolie Hunt, who is the Global Director of Corporate & Business Affairs at IBM. Then Mr. Buckley had the floor. He asked how this night was different from all other nights, which elicited a chuckle from the crowd. Despite the quirk of the party's being scheduled on the first night of Passover, Mr. Buckley said that in fact, his Jewish editor and publicist were there. His Jewish editor is Jonathan Karp of Twelve Books, an imprint of the Hachette Book Group, whose mission is "to publish the singular book, by authors who have a unique perspective and compelling authority." Mr. Buckley praised his girlfriend for helping him write the book, especially getting the whole late-twenties thing right. After the speeches the Jews in the room mostly rushed for the elevator. There was still time before sunset to get to a seder.

And so, the WASPs left in the room—and Joan Collins, who was wearing a leopard-print raincoat and a leopard-print shirt, and posed for pictures—continued sipping champagne and white wine. Taki Theodoracopulos kissed Ms. Collins. A blonde woman of a certain age was complimented on her jacket, which she said was vintage. She had purchased it at a shop on South Beach where she buys all her vintage clothing. A woman proclaimed that she had been Spy magazine's first receptionist, and freelance journalist Lloyd Grove said he and Mr. Buckley were friends from way back. A young reporter from Vanity Fair was holding two copies of the book, one of which he needed autographed for "his boss." Introductions were offered to Mr. Buckley, and he expressed surprise that a woman who exactly fit his narrator's demographic profile not only existed, but was standing right there in front of him.