Here I stumble into a subject that I wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing up so soon: the nude-photo leak.
As she opens a bottle of rosé, her dog, Pippi, comes scampering into the room.Smallish and brown, she is adorably hard to pin down. “Oh, my God, I wish I could ask her.” When did you get her?It’s sweltering in Los Angeles, the kind of heat that melts the ice cubes in your caramel macchiato faster than you can say Kardashian. Forget meeting at the Italian restaurant on Laurel Canyon; just come to my house now.I am holed up in my hotel room on Sunset Boulevard watching tennis, drapes drawn against the remorseless sun, when suddenly: Ding! She sends her driver, Paul, a South African with a mellifluous voice, to pick me up, and before long, we are winding our way up, up into the Hills of Beverly, to the gated community where Lawrence lives in a house she bought last year for about million.
She just turned 25 a few weeks ago, with a party here; her friends persuaded Kris Jenner to come and present Jen with a cake in the shape of a pile of poop that read, “My knees buckled,” says Lawrence.“And then I got hammered and talked to her like I think I’m part of the family.” The house had been renovated just before she bought it, so all Lawrence had to do was fill it with furniture.