Lily Pad: April 22, 2006 - Le Mystere bras, contraband skin creme and Page Six in Paris

"WHICH high-powered panty publicist just spent a week locked up in a communist gulag? Seems the loopy lingerie leader ticked off the Chinese government with a PR stunt that involved underwear models mocking Marxist policy during a fashion show in Shanghai."

Bruce Benderson, author of the must-read travel memoir The Romanian, is reading a Page Six item aloud from one of his high-tech wifi gadgets, as we sit at an outside table at Cafe de Flore in Paris.

"I can't believe they blind-itemed me!" I fume as I refill everyone's glasses with champagne. "They make it sound like I was holed-up in a bathroom stall, shoveling disco dust into Tara Reid's nose! I was merely doing my job as a publicist in China."

"Don't worry, dear," Lulu consoles me as she drains her glass and holds it out for another refill. "Tout le monde will know it's about you."

"Lily, darling, you still haven't told me about your ordeal. This is an incident of international import," Bruce tells me as he lights up a Gitane and begins puffing away elegantly. "I have friends in Miami who were locked up in Castro's jails in the 70s and I'm a bit surprised that this sort of thing is still going on."

"Oh Bruce, it was perfectly dreadful!" I reply histrionically of our internment at the Madame Lotus Bud Maoist Re-Education Camp and Relaxation Spa. "We weren't allowed to make any phone calls....and they wouldn't let us leave the compound for the entire week!"

"Cut the crap, Lily, Bruce is a friend, not a reporter," Lulu admonishes me. "Bruce, they don't send foreigners to real Maoist re-education camps in China -- that would be bad for foreign policy. We were in a spa, not a prison. We spent an entire week being massaged, steamed, pedicured and salt bathed."

"Really? How divoon!" Bruce coos.

"It's true," I concede. "But for the record, the Mud and Seaweed Wrap for Political Dissidents gave me a slight rash."

"Yeah, but I didn't hear you complain after the Chinese Water Torture and Total Body Exfoliation for Bourgeois Bandits," Lulu says, glaring at me. "The water was imported from the glaciers of Mont Blanc, and it was followed by three hours of reflexology."

"Yes, and when the masseuse read aloud from Lenin's The Development of Capitalism in Russia while she was rubbing my feet, I did find it rather soothing," I admit dreamily before reaching into my Hermes handbag. "Oh Bruce, I know how much you love high-end skin cremes. Try the one that they gave us at the spa--it's only available in China." I squirt some on his hands as I lower my voice to but a whisper. "Rumor has it that it's made from the skins of aborted female fetuses."

"How marvelous!" Bruce enthuses. "I support anything that will keep my skin soft and youthful. I'm a great fan of the French lamb fetus version."

"Yes, but I'm rather relieved to finally be out of China," I tell him as I flag down the waiter and order another bottle of champagne. "And after we polish off this bottle, Lulu and I need to throw ourselves back into the fashion fray....in a few hours we have an appointment with the people at Le Mystere on the rue Saint Honore du Faubourg."

When Lulu and I enter the Le Mystere lingerie showroom, we are greeted with glasses of champagne from gentlemen in pristine, vintage Saint Laurent suits. "Madame Lily Pad and Madame Lulu Guinness, may we present the Le Mystere lingerie collection." One of the men gestures toward a set of doors which suddenly burst open. Dozens of curvaceous models in Le Mystere bras and panties flood into the room and begin prancing and sashaying around us. A song by Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot booms from the showroom's sound system. Holographic images of a lingerie-clad Catherine Deneuve from Belle de Jour begin mingling with the flesh-and-blood models. The scent of Nuit de Noel hangs deliciously in the air. Another bottle of champagne is uncorked.

A few of the models lounge around on the floor of the showroom as one of the gentlemen makes adjustments to their ensembles. I pull out my digital camera and begin snapping photos of one of the models who is wearing a Le Mystere Dream Tisha Bra. "We should re-enact this for the Le Mystere event I'm doing in New York next month," I tell Lulu.

"This would never happen at a showroom in New York!" Lulu exclaims. "The most you can expect on Seventh Avenue is some over-caffeinated showroom girl who doesn't offer you a Pepsi, nevermind a bottomless glass of champagne. And the room will usually smell of Taco Bell, not Nuit de Noel."

"Yes, the French really have a way with things," I reply. "This is like Beyond the Valley of the Dolls if it had been directed by Francois Truffaut."