Yesterday's Page Six report that superannuated producer/full-time garish neckwear model Robert Evans was off to Mexico to consecrate his seventh marriage struck a nerve with the mature ladies of the NY Post's other gossip columns, as both Cindy Adams and Liz Smith spend some of today's inches discussing the nuptials. (Word on the street is that Prevention magazine is offering six figures for photos of the ceremony. Did Leno do this one yet?) Adams explores how the soon-to-be Mrs. Evans obtained her money and Lady title (hint: she wasn't born into royalty in the Valley), while Liz Smith backtracks to find out how Victoria drilled through six layers of turtleneck to touch Bob's heart:
Lady V. was smitten and determined right off the bat. She did all the usual stuff: running into him accidentally on purpose, taking tennis lessons on the court at his home, etc. But finally she fell back on a cliché that really does work sometimes: "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." So she baked him a pie. A pal chuckles, "Before the first slice was served, they were engaged!"
Of course, it didn't hurt that she served the pie to Evans on the stomach of a 22-year-old hooker; a savvy manhunter knows to use her quarry's weaknesses against him. After the jump, Smith also (finally!) codifies "The Bob Evans Eight Rules of Love":
Lady V. hasn't asked for any advice on how to hold her man, but those close to him suggest "The Bob Evans Eight Rules of Love."
1. Don't decide to become an actress. 2. Never be jealous — give Bob a long leash.
3. Don't redecorate his house.
4. Own your own car.
5. Don't try to persuade him to give up that silver lariat he wears around his neck. It's a lucky charm from a belly dancer.
6. Be up before noon, even if he's still in bed.
7. Don't ever be late. Especially for dinner with Sumner Redstone.
8. Smoke anything you like, but Bob detests a lush, so don't drink to excess.
Number 4 is really crucial. When the relationship ends, it's much more dignified to drive your own vehicle away from the Evans compound than it is to have trusty manservant English drop you and your steamer trunks off at the nearest bus stop in the Bentley.