Monday, February 05, 2007, 8:30 A.M. and the thermometer dips down near zero, giving no sign of global warming, Empty cabs stream down Park Avenue. Hailing one, I head for a quick blow dry at Fekkai. Fearlessly, I wear fur and thigh-high boots, risking the wrath of animal activists. Being pelted with an egg beats freezing!

By 10 A.M. I’ve survived a bracing walk down Fifth Avenue and arrived at the Bryant Park Fashion Week tents. Taking my seat at Carolina Herrera’s elegant, well-edited show, I think of Sunday night’s Tuleh and Naeem Khan Collections, refined and glamorous, glittering and lady-like. All three raise the bar. What will Oscar do? I can hardly wait.

Rushing back at 1 P.M., I stop and chat with Bill Cunningham on the steps.

“This isn’t so cold for a girl from Chicago?” he teases.

Women wrapped in fur, hidden under hats, swathed in scarves, dash past. Some peek through parkas and no one lingers. Through the glass doors hordes of frenzied paparazzi flash bright lights.  Could it be Gwyneth, Sienna or Uma? No, it’s our very own Tinsley, dressed in Oscar’s red polka-dotted spring cocktail dress, looking good, bare-armed in sleeveless tulle, oblivious to the cold.

Inside, Oscar turns out the troops! Young followers Jane and Aerin Lauder, Fernanda Niven, Amanda Brooks, Renee Rockefeller, Jill Kargman and Eleanor Ylvisaker wait expectantly, facing formidable fans like Annette del la Renta, Catie Marron, Liz Rohatyn, Barbara Walters, Kenny Lane,  and my good friends from Paris, Jackie and Jean-Charles de Ravenel, whose daughter Rebecca is one of the new stars of Oscar’s design firmament. Excitement mounts as the last seats fill in. Boaz Mazor firmly boots seat stealers from the front rows, tactful but tough, his eagle eye catching those perennial pushers.

The plastic is rolled back, the TV interviewers and their microphones are silenced, the ladies advised to keep legs uncrossed, out of the photographer’s way and then the fun begins.

Upbeat music sets the mood. Healthy-looking models, hair pulled back in tight buns then twisted in flirtatious knots, strut past. Chanel-like tweeds with metallic threads, fur-fringed hems, and patent leather bombers paired with simple sheaths, high-waisted silhouettes, shimmering embroideries on Persian lamb, Chinchilla over tweed, fluffy mink vests paired with slinky black leggings. It’s chic and sexy, understated but attention grabbing. A long, charcoal grey cardigan with a bold, jewel encrusted trim captures my fancy, along with a  gold and black Ikat-print velvet dress.

Flat black suede boots, metallic leather ballerinas, patent sling-backs paired with dark rich Wolford tights look modern, just right for walks to The Waverley and to Swifty’s. As night falls, the temperature rises with patterns of purple and green flowered taffeta, tiny shoulder-warming boleros of silver chinchilla, sable and ermine cover slinky columns of chiffon, fuchsia brocade, navy velvet and black satin.

A taupe satin and shearling jacket, piped in wolverine over a silk-jersey gown whispers siren songs; an anthracite embroidered tulle gown delicately takes one’s breath away, a black silk-tulle ballroom skirt topped by ruffled black chiffon begs to go dancing, but please don’t trod on its white satin sandals! An evening gown of midnight-blue velvet, a halter-necked hot pink with an A-line skirt, a sliver of anthracite embroidered organza has the audience panting for more. Nothing shrieks, screams, or shouts, but wear these understated, sophisticated clothes, so subtle, slinky, and seductive and you’ll never go unnoticed.

The crowd reflects and writes things down. Instead of bolting, they wait. Oscar emerges, cool, calm and collected, healthy and strong. His ladies line up to clasp his hand. This collection hit a new high note.