The Glitter Girls: Charity and Vanity: Chronicles of an Era of Excess

Sarah Robertson is associate editor of the Canadian Book Review Annual.

New York’s finest responded to their skewering in Truman Capote’s
deliciously cruel “La Cфte Basque” by banishing for life their
hitherto beloved court jester. Surely no such fate awaits former Globe
and Mail society columnist Rosemary Sexton for these circumspect
profiles of Toronto’s “glitter girl” set—a membership that
includes Catherine Nugent, Cathie Bratty, Liz Tory (in Sexton’s view,
more a “social powerhouse” than a socialite), Marilyn Lastman, and
the late Patricia Appleton, who once observed of her fellow socialites,
“As long as you know these people aren’t your true friends you can
enjoy their friendship without getting hurt.”

The glitter-girl version of the corporate ladder is the big-name
charitable fundraiser (notably the Brazilian, Mount Sinai, Opera, and
Mistletoe balls). Chairing one of these sumptuous events is the brass
ring, and success is measured not only by net profits but by the calibre
of one’s guest list. The 1991 royal gala featuring Charles and Diana
had starstruck socialites competing for proximity to the luminous
royals. Disappointment over the failure of the duo to take to the dance
floor together (Charles didn’t ask) was surely quelled by the
spectacle of the princess and NDP premier Bob Rae joyfully kicking up
their heels.

Despite the often tantalizing quotes that preface them (“Has anyone
seen the velvet barracuda lately?”), Sexton’s 15-odd profiles have
all the bite of a Barbara Walters interview—undoubtedly quid pro quo
for the author’s admittance into their homes, which, along with
wardrobes and accessories, receive at least as much ink as the subjects
themselves. (The chapter on Evelyn Huang is one of the more notable
candidates for Architectural Digest.) Given Sexton’s insider status,
it comes as no surprise that her book reports of its subjects nothing
more controversial than a penchant for backbiting and petty jealousies.
Except for a brief appearance by Barbara Amiel, and the questionable
business dealings of certain glitter-girl spouses, these pages are
resolutely scandal-free.

At one point, the author, a staunch defender of the socialite
lifestyle, engages in a war of words with Svend Robinson over Cathie
Bratty’s Russian tea, an extravaganza staged at the height of the 1991
recession. Curiously for someone who has chosen to write a book-length
treatment of the subject, Sexton elsewhere remarks that “being a
socialite is ... one of the most boring life-styles in the world. It is
all show.” Much like these toothless profiles.