![]() ![]() Miller is like any niche celebrity, in that if you’ve heard about her before now, you’re probably a fan. “I’d leave a man before I’d leave New York,” she says, ordering a pot of jasmine tea. 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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