![]() She is thrilled, she says, to be here the Carlyle is just one of the reasons she thinks this city is paradise. ![]() She has perfect skin and child-size hands - short-fingered and plump, with a ring so large it looks toylike. Then, Miller: a petite woman with glossy brown hair, red lips, and red nails, in a Crayola-blue dress. First, the smell: a cloud of Thierry Mugler’s Alien perfume. To her credit, she makes an entrance worth waiting for. There’s no cell-phone service, and Miller is 25 minutes late. A couple on the left is talking production budgets. A woman on the right, in a drapey cape, is bragging to a friend that she was the last person to see Christopher Hitchens alive. The hotel is a ten-minute walk from Miller’s 29th-floor Upper East Side apartment, and it is the ideal venue for an elite astrologer: With its dim light, tasseled upholstery, and sconces, the oval-shaped room looks like an upmarket fortune-teller’s lair. on a Monday, where she has suggested that we meet for tea. I await Susan Miller at the Carlyle at 4 p.m.
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