A Manhattan tale involving the lovely Natasha Richardson, her dashing husband Liam Neeson and a moon-eyed fan.
I’d like you to meet my husband
A remembrance of Natasha Richardson
By Jay Blotcher
December 1, 1995
Upper East Side
Here is a sweet-and-sour tale of Manhattan life. I share it in the wake of the tragic death of Natasha Richardson. It exemplifies her abundance of spirit and wicked playfulness. File this one under the “be careful what you wish for” category.
In August, 1995, I joined AmFAR (The American Foundation for AIDS Research) as their publicist. On my very first day of work, I was moving into my office. I was also decorating it. Like a besotted teen girl, I was festooning my cork bulletin board with photos scissored neatly out of magazines. Among them was a New York Times Magazine portrait of that tall drink of water Liam Neeson, brawny and bare-chested and staring down the camera.
My boss Sally Morrison — who had clearly attended finishing school with Cruella DeVille — entered my office and spotted the photo on my board. She purred in her tarted-up British tones, “Well, you know that Natasha and Liam are longtime supporters of AmFAR, so perhaps one day you will meet him.”
Fast forward to World AIDS Day - December 1, 1995 - at The United Nations. AmFAR was holding its annual luncheon to commemorate the day. The host for this luncheon was actress Natasha Richardson, who had lost her father, brilliantly audacious filmmaker Tony Richardson, to AIDS just four years prior. My task was to conduct the press conference before the ceremony for Natasha and Sharon Stone, who had come on board to reignite AIDS awareness. As Sally and I entered the green room, she sprinted ahead of me to greet Natasha, who had become a friend over the years.
Sally gestured towards me and said crisply, “‘Tash, this is Jay Blotcher. He’s our publicist -- and he happens to have a mad crush on your husband.” This was my boss’s signature sadism at its best.
I turned red. And then green. I smiled weakly at the gorgeous Mrs. Neeson. In response, Natasha shrugged, rolled her eyes good-naturedly and deadpanned, “Join the multitudes.”
After making pleasantries and preparing for the press conference, I pulled Sally aside and hissed, “It may take me awhile, but I will pay you back for this.” She looked at me with her own brand of wide-eyed innocence.
The UN luncheon went marvelously. Natasha was a flawless emcee, deftly and movingly making the personal political. Archbishop Desmond Tutu was honored for his work and Sharon Stone, introduced as our newest fundraiser, swanned about.
That evening, there was a reception at AmFAR cofounder Dr. Mathilde Krim’s elegant townhouse on the Upper East Side. I was chatting up reporters. About an hour into the event, I looked towards the ornate foyer and saw the Neesons arrive.
I gulped. My stomach began to hurt. That schoolgirl sensation was kicking in. I ordered myself to steer clear of the couple; it would be too distracting otherwise. A half-hour later, as I was talking with guests, Sally approached and announced, “It’s now or never, Jay.”
Before I had a chance to ask what in hell she was talking about, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I was spun around and found myself looking into the beautiful face of Natasha Richardson. She gave me a sly look, grabbed my hand and said, “Jay, I’d like you to meet my husband”
“No, no, no, no, please” I found myself whining. A giddy Natasha actually dragged me several feet across the polished marble floor to make introductions. We stopped in front of this handsome mountain of a man who looked at me quizzically. Natasha moved closer to her husband, stood on tiptoes and whispered something in his ear and then looked back at me. The blood drained from my face as I tried to imagine what she had said. Liam Neeson turned to me with an expansive crinkly-eyed smile and took my hand in his huge paw.
How flustered was I? I could only croak out the pedestrian “Thank you for coming; I really like your work.” I suddenly felt faint. An honest-to-goodness junior-high-school swoon! I immediately excused myself from the pair and went to the bathroom off the foyer to splash water on my face. I hid out for a couple of minutes before the vertigo subsided.
When I returned to the party, Sally came over, radiating synthetic concern. “I had nothing to do with that,” she insisted. When the Neesons arrived, Sally had greeted them. Natasha then asked, “So, where’s that guy who likes Liam?” Sally simply had pointed Mrs. Neeson my way.
From then on, I felt a little sheepish about having Liam Neeson looking down upon me from my office wall. But I am forever grateful to Natasha Richardson for being a good sport and letting a smitten fan have a moment with her husband.
Filed under: Blotcher Blog