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When she first bought the place, she felt a bit vulnerable about the prospect of having an entrance on the street. "I used to joke with Christopher, 'I'm marrying you for all the things that I'm avoiding, not for what I'm getting.' I was mostly celibate when I was married because he was gone all the time. Because in homeownership, you have people with leaf blowers--God forbid they should get together and agree to do it all at the same time." Cig dangling from her lips, Diane keys the lock in the front door. And one day, they kind of attacked me in the bazaar. Diane had been asked by a French television program to re-create a Cotton Club dance scene with Lambert. "It wasn't love and it wasn't lust, but it was sure something," Diane says."And then the neighbors' baby woke me up, six feet from my head, and I'm like, Hello! She is wearing jeans and joggers and a clingy, spaghetti-strap top, a frumpy pink cardigan. I'm gonna go right down there and unpack, because there's really some embarrassing stuff lying around. " says Diane Lane, skipping blithely up the brick steps to her new house, trailing monologue behind her like smoke. That's what's important in the long run."You have to realize, making movies is the weirdest thing you could ever do. People are beginning to see the body of work as a whole. That's why I wanted to get this house--a little patch of grass that I own. You look at the way rocks are formed--the wind and the water hitting them, shaping them, making them what they are. "We sit in silence for a while, watching a squirrel play in the branches of a towering avocado tree. She refuses to give out her phone number; she was particularly nonplussed on one occasion when I returned her call, cell phone to cell phone--her number isn't supposed to come up on the digital display. The previous owners of her house had a microphone installed in the ceiling so the alarm company could listen in. I just wanted to belong to somebody and have somebody belong to me in the old-fashioned way. She is particularly conscious of security, though she says she's never had a bad experience. If she is spotted, she's sometimes mistaken for someone else. You can imagine the monologue on that."It's always been kinda nuts," she continues. I felt like the nun in heat waiting for the guy on the stallion to take me off and make a woman of me.
Her voice is deep and earthy, her patter manic, the switch thrown about twenty minutes earlier when she picked me up at my hotel in her little turquoise BMW convertible--a courtesy, she explained, designed to lend a sense of control, a fleeting commodity in her hectic life. " The house is set upon a little hill in a quiet Los Angeles neighborhood, a gray stucco split-level. And this letter to Christopher that was four typed pages long, trying to explain why our marriage wasn't working.
Boyish hips, valentine lips, fine-boned cheeks and jaw, easy smile--a pleasant beauty, more pretty-mom-next-door than jaw-drop virtuoso, a porcelain doll awaiting paint, an idle daydream. They've started calling themselves Team Diane, if you can believe it.
She is a sprite of a woman, all nerves and birdlike energy, barely five feet six.
As is her way, she has returned to her deck, to the suspect lounge chair with the palm-eating ratchet, this time to better effect.
They really worship at the altar of their careers, you know? It's sort of like setting a table and waiting for someone to come along and whoosh--push all the plates onto the floor. It's all I know."he sun has dipped below the neighbors' roofline, leaving Diane's little patch of lawn in deep shadow.