Forget soap-star cellulite and Jordan's latest perfume: the golden milieu described by Nicholas "Nicky" Haslam in his memoir contains genuine glamour in an age of celebrity nickel. Blessed with a winning mix of good breeding and good looks, the interior designer was hanging out with Tallulah Bankhead at 15, soon an intimate of  to pluck a few names out of the rarefied air  Cole Porter, Cecil Beaton, Jayne Mansfield and Andy Warhol. Whether pitched into postwar London bohemia or 1960s New York, it's hard not to read this book like an inveterate social climber, glancing at each anecdote while scanning for the next big name. One minute Mick Jagger is stilling snide criticism about his androgynous looks by unzipping his trousers; the next Greta Garbo is popping round for breakfast. His affair with Antony Armstrong-Jones grabbed the headlines, but what might read like a silly litany of famous names is tempered by Haslam's knack for evoking melancholy, his devastating portraits of ageing and loss showing how even the shiniest lives can tarnish.