No Time To Die

“...a frank, often moving and surprisingly funny memoir, deftly written with Aimee Lee Ball.”
— New York Times Book Review

“Ovarian cancer and the world of fashion are strange bedfellows...a curious combination, but one the author pulls off with intelligence and flair (and the assistance of a talented writer).”
— Kirkus Reviews

“No Time To Die and Liz Tilberis are inspiring.” 
— Library Journal

It was to be the most glamorous and celebratory night of my life, a fairy-tale culmination of slavish work and great good fortune. That evening in December 1993, I was at home in New York City, slipping into a floor-length gown of plum-colored panné velvet to greet 250 guests for the sort of soigné party I used to read about in urbane novels and the society pages. Out on the street, the arriving limousines created mini-gridlock and sparked a reverie. I thought of riding the No. 13 bus to my first job as an assistant at British Vogue more than twenty years before and the remarkable personal odyssey begun then: becoming the editor of that magazine and now, as a recent arrival to New York from London with my husband, Andrew, and our two sons, editor-in-chief of Harper’s Bazaar....

The Upper East Side brownstone that we’d rented as our first American home belonged to the director Mike Nichols. It had a triple-height atrium as the main living space and a vast wall of windows overlooking a garden with a koi pond. Everything but the fish was decorated for the holidays. Trailing garlands of pungent spruce hung from the balcony, and dozens of white poinsettias bloomed on every surface--except my grandfather’s baby grand piano: The jazz pianist hired for the evening didn’t want anything to impede his sound. Two fireplaces were crackling, and on the mantels Santa’s elves nestled among branches of flowering quince. White votives and tall tapers were clustered on tabletops laid with vintage linen cloths. I’d personally stood on a high, wobbling ladder to deck the sixteen-foot Douglas fir with tiny feathered robins and glass balls wrapped in bits of old Chinese newspaper and, at the top, a fat fairy made by my mother just after World War II--not the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, but an important family tradition. Our garden was as vernal as winter allowed, the shrubbery hung with flickering lights and cocooned by a tent suggesting the Arabian nights, carpeted with kilims and strew with Moroccan tapestry cushions. Waiters in long white aprons hovered with tempting bite-size spinach tarts and chutney chicken canapés on trays of sliver, wood, and slate....

That evening should have been a blissfully defining moment. Almost two years before, under relentless media scrutiny, I’d been charged with regenerating Harper’s Bazaar as a fashion icon, to rescue it from recent decline and reclaim its preeminence in publishing. Finally the effort was paying off. In April we’d won two Ellies--National Magazine Awards, the Oscars of our own little microcosm, named for the vaguely elephantine statuettes designed by Alexander Calder--and Bazaar was garnering kudos from the international fashion community. Hearst had recently taken out full-page congratulatory ads in The New York Times, and Christmas was the moment to savor our success, to relax and rejoice in the achievement. It was certainly the best of times.

Except that it was the worst of times. I had cancer. I had ovarian cancer, and I was scheduled for surgery the next day--a day that would mean the gift of life or a death sentence. And nobody at the party knew except Andrew and me.