‘Yeah, weird isn’t it?’ said Nelly. ‘But it’s what he always wanted to do. His mother and grandmother are both dressmakers and the construction of clothes always fascinated him – how they made something with shape and volume out of flat material. That’s why his cut is so amazing. Plus, he really loves women and wants to make them look and feel good.’
She finished her drink in one. ‘The funny thing is, though, he says if it wasn’t for the war and losing his hand, he never would have got to be a designer. After the torture – his dad copped it pretty badly too – he and his whole family were granted asylum in Britain and he got a scholarship to Saint Martins. Men don’t generally get to be fashion designers in Bosnia.’
While we were sitting there, with me feeling mildly in shock, taking it all in, my phone beeped, indicating a text. I’d had it on the table next to me the whole time, like a complete idiot. It was just a habit in noisy bars and I hadn’t given it a second thought. But the minute it beeped, I knew it was Miles and I froze, staring at my phone like I’d never seen one before. It beeped again.
‘Aren’t you going to look?’ said Nelly.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, picking it up. Sure enough, it was Miles.
‘319 at 12?’ was all it said. I deleted it without answering.
‘Well, who was it?’ said Nelly.
I thought quickly. ‘Oh, it was just Ollie saying he’s gone to bed and not to call. Early start tomorrow.’
‘On Saturday? He is keen. Shame, I thought it might be Frannie-frangipani, I’d like to see her. Let’s call Ig and see whether he’s tired of vintage Helena Christensen, yet. He loves Helena, my Igster, he’s got great taste in women.’ She laughed heartily. ‘That’s why he loves me.’
I didn’t reply to Miles’s text until the next morning, the last day of the shows.
‘Sorry,’ I keyed in ‘bad moment last nite. 2 nite 4 sure?’
I didn’t get a reply until after lunch and I was surprised by how jumpy it made me. Every time my phone beeped or rang, I grabbed it, hoping it was him. Eventually it was – live. I ran out of the café where I was sitting with Frannie, Alice, Bee and Luigi, mouthing ‘Ollie’ and spoke to Miles on the street corner. God, I was an easy liar.
‘Hey, Em,’ he said. ‘Can you talk? Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, more email nightmares. God, those things can stuff you up. But listen, don’t worry about last night, that’s totally cool, but I would love to see you tonight. I’m going back to Sydney tomorrow.’
‘Are you doing Saint Laurent?’ I asked, hoping he would get the joke. He did.
‘Yeah, I’m doing Hermès and Louis Vuitton and Lanvin and Balmain and Saint Laurent… and then I’m doing you, with any luck. The question is, are you and your fashionable friends doing dinner?’
‘I honestly don’t know, but I would like to say goodbye to Nelly, so I don’t know when I’ll be back at the hotel. What about you?’
‘Well, I do normally have a few drinks with the boys on the last night, but I want to see you more…’
‘OK – why don’t you do what you do with the boys and I’ll do my thing and we’ll both just go back to the hotel when we’re ready? You’ve got your key, so if I’m not back when you get there, just make yourself comfortable. You can start by taking all your clothes off…’
‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ he said, laughing. ‘Three-one-nine baby.’
And then, just to cover my tracks, I rang Ollie who, for once, answered his phone. I was getting scarily good at this.
10
The last afternoon of the shows was crazy with five big shows back-to-back, including the mighty Louis Vuitton which was always held way out in a giant glasshouse somewhere called Parc André Citroën. It was one of the most crucial shows of the season for new trends – and for advertising – and we nearly missed it, because this one time, Luigi followed the wrong car. It was Frannie who realized.
‘Er, Bee,’ she said. ‘Can you actually see the people in that car we’re following?’
‘Why?’ said Bee.
‘Well, are you sure they’re fashion people – because we’ve just passed L’Etoile back there and that’s nowhere near where we’re going. In fact I think we’re heading for La Défense and that’s definitely on the wrong side of the river.’
‘Shit!’ said Bee. ‘You’re right. I can see the woman in the back seat and she’s wearing a red jacket. Luigi! Stop! Basta! We’re following the wrong car, what a nightmare.’
I had been happily sitting there – in the middle seat – thinking about what I might do to Miles later and oblivious to everything else, so I hadn’t even noticed where we were going. Now I feared we were in for a Bee explosion of the atomic kind. All three of us backseat girls sat up straight and waited for the impact. Even Alice turned and widened her eyes at me and I felt Frannie’s little hand come over to find mine. I squeezed it back. Bee could be terrifying when she really lost it.
But she didn’t lose it. She looked over at Luigi and started laughing.
‘This is hilarious,’ she said, punching his arm. ‘We’ve probably followed some banker and his mistress on the way out to their love shack. Maybe we should carry on, eh, girls, and see where they end up?’ She tapped her perfect nails on the dashboard. ‘Now, let’s think, this is quite serious really – what shall we do?’
She put her forefingers to her temples and closed her eyes for a moment. Seconds later, she opened them again and snapped her fingers. ‘Got it!’ she said. ‘Frannie, you speak the best French, so hop out and get a taxi and tell him where we want to go and we’ll follow you. Simple. And tell the cab driver we’re following him so he doesn’t dash off and lose us. Promise him a big tip, OK? Light me up a ciggie would you, Luigi?’
It was brilliant in its simplicity, if slightly eccentric. I asked permission to go with Frannie – just for larks – and the two of us found a cab fairly quickly, which was a miracle itself in Paris. Bee’s plan worked like a dream and we arrived at the venue a mere thirty-five minutes after the invitation time. After that nutty episode we were all in a slightly hysterical mood, compounded by the de-mob fever which always gripped us on the last day of the shows – which, in Paris, is the last day of the entire season.
The sense of excitement geared up even more when we found Nelly already installed in our little Brit-pack area inside the Vuitton venue. When we told her the story about Bee getting Luigi over from Milan and how we had been following other fashion limos all over Paris for the entire week, she couldn’t believe it, she thought it was so funny.
‘Oh, that is hysterical,’ she said, her filthy laugh booming around the glasshouse. ‘That Bee is a classic. A Milanese driver – in Paris. She’s nuts.’
‘But don’t tell Beaver,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell anyone – it’s just between us. Bee is being so nice at the moment, we don’t want to piss her off.’
‘Don’t worry, babes, I would never give Eager Beaver a reason to feel better about herself, even though she has just given me a very tasty pay rise.’
We didn’t have any more limo dramas for the rest of the day, cruising from show to show in our unofficial convoy of fashion limos, until Luigi finally delivered us to the last venue of the season – the Rodin Museum, for Yves Saint Laurent.
I’d been to Tom Ford’s YSL shows there before, but it still made my hair stand up on my neck, it was so thrilling. You entered via a tiny door in forbidding grey gates and once you were through security, you stepped on to a black carpet – like a red carpet, but black, so chic – that led you up to the fabulous old grey stone mansion that housed the museum.
Adding to the sense of drama, the path was floodlit purple and it was lined with an honour guard of unbelievably handsome young men in black dinner jackets. All of them had jet black hair slicked down like matinée idols.
Nelly arrived at the same time as us – riding in the limo with the girls from the Japanese edition of pure, because she was avoiding too much close contact with Beaver.
Letting Bee and Alice go ahead, I linked Nelly with one arm and Frannie with the other and walked up that black carpet like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
‘Check them out,’ said Nelly when we reached the bottom of the steps up to the entrance of the mansion. The YSL footmen on either side of the door were twins. Incredibly beautiful Eurasian twins. ‘So fucking cool,’ said Nelly. ‘Evening, boys.’ She winked at them both as we went past. One winked back.
Still on the black carpet we walked into the museum to find ourselves surrounded by some of the most famous sculptures in the world, like it was the most natural thing to do on a Saturday night. There was ‘The Thinker’, ‘The Lovers’ and the famously controversial statue of Balzac, looking like he was wearing an old dressing gown. I wanted to stop and look – I was an artist’s daughter after all – but Nelly pulled me on.
‘Come on, Em,’ she said. ‘Stop gawping. Let’s get to the drinks tent. We’ve got time for at least three.’
We came out of the other side of the mansion and down the steps, still on the black carpet, heading for a long sleek white marquee, also awash with the purple light. The golden dome of Les Invalides was visible to the right, through the bare branches of the trees. Napoleon’s tomb, in floodlit splendour – talk about drama.
Adding to the general scene were the other arriving guests. Isabella Blow, the fashion director of Tatler, was picking her way down the steps in front of us in an Alexander McQueen dress so tight, she could hardly walk in it. She could hardly see either, through the Philip Treacy creation circling her head, like a cylinder of thick black mesh going right across her eyes. Just normal everyday attire for Ms Blow, who passionately championed the designers she believed in.
Just in front of her was another of fashion’s famous eccentrics, from an earlier generation. Holding tight to a young man’s arm, Anna Piaggi was wearing a bright blue hussar’s coat over tie-dyed purple panne velvet leggings. Her Eton crop, with its signature turquoise kiss-curl, was topped with a miniature top hat, in gold and silver stripes. She was wearing a starched ruff like a Toulouse-Lautrec circus dog and carried a cane topped with a silver turtle. On her forefingers she wore rings with gaudy stones the size of gobstoppers.
It was the full fashion circus. All that was missing were the fire-eaters and jugglers. We entered the marquee, pausing to collect drinks from a handsome waiter at the door.
‘Ooh, I dunno,’ said Nelly, hesitating between two glasses. ‘Shall I be shampoo, or shall I be voddie? It’s make-your-mind-up time, isn’t it, at this stage of an evening?’
‘We’re in Paris,’ said Frannie, picking up two flutes and handing one to Nelly. ‘It’s got to be ’poo.’
We clinked glasses and wandered around the space together looking at all the people – quite a few of whom were looking at Nelly, who was cutting a striking figure in Iggy’s electric-blue parachute silk dress and the famous armoured bag. We had just taken up a position by a pillar topped with an enormous display of orchids, when Louise Kretzner came over.
‘Well, hello, Nelly Stelios,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘Don’t you look great in your boyfriend’s frock? Did he have it let out for you?’
‘Thanks,’ said Nelly, ignoring the hand and turning away to grab a waiter who was walking past with a full bottle of champagne.
I saw one of the fearsome hack’s eyebrows twitch. She hadn’t missed the snub.
‘So, Nelly,’ she continued, her voice hardening. ‘I hear that you and your boyfriend have been house-hunting in Paris.’
‘Did you?’ said Nelly. ‘I imagine you hear a lot of things in your job, Miss Kretzner, must be fascinating. That’s a very beautiful bag you are carrying, if you don’t mind me saying so. Very cute, that, having a little Mickey Mouse to carry around with you.’
I felt a just perceptible nudge to my ribs.
‘Oh, do you like it?’ said the woman I had heard called Louise Crapster, by piqued designers. She had come over all coy and girly. ‘I adore these minaudières,’ she said. ‘It’s Judith Lieber, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Nelly.
‘I collect them, you know,’ said Crapster, smiling indulgently at us.
‘Oh, that must be interesting,’ said Nelly and I felt another little nudge, this time from Frannie.
I could feel laughter beginning to rise inside me like foaming champagne. It was agony. I couldn’t let Nelly down by losing it, she was handling the situation so brilliantly. I bit down hard on my lip and held my breath.
‘Well, Nelly,’ said Louise. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in months to come, in Milan – or maybe here in Paris.’
‘Absolutely, Miss Kretzner,’ said Nelly. ‘We must have dinner one night.’
‘Oh, that would be charming,’ she said, smiling at Nelly, like a crocodile eyeing up a swimmer, then she put one of her wrinkled claws on her arm. ‘And do call me Louise, everybody does.’
She smiled again – it was almost painful to look at – and sloped off towards her next victim.
‘If only she knew what people did call her,’ said Nelly.
‘Oh, Nelly,’ I said. ‘You were brilliant. You are really cut out for this new role of yours. I would have told her to get stuffed.’
‘All part of the service,’ said Nelly.
Twenty minutes later we walked out of the show feeling even more giddy than we had when we’d gone in. It had been one of Tom Ford’s great moments, wonderfully romantic and sexy at the same time, and we came out into the cold night air through a side exit feeling excited to be alive and fashionistas.
We were walking back towards the mansion when we ran right into Bee and Alice. They both greeted Nelly warmly, which was interesting, because they used to ignore her, except for a short period when Bee was trying to persuade her to jump ship and join Chic. After she declined, she was on Bee’s death list for quite a while, so this was a major reverse.
‘Well, girls,’ said Bee. ‘I don’t know about you, but I think we should celebrate that wonderful end to a wonderful season with a nice cold bottle of champagne in the bar at the Meurice. What do you say?’
Nelly was clearly included in the invitation and I nudged her when I looked over and saw Beaver was coming out of the tent.
‘Shit,’ said Nelly and hopped behind me, crouching down.
Frannie moved over to cover the gap, because that bright blue dress was hard to miss. Bee took in the situation with one of her instant radar sweeps and I saw her eyes crinkle with pleasure. She made small talk about the show for a few moments, until Beaver was safely out of sight.
‘You can come out now, Nelly,’ she said. ‘She’s gone. And if you don’t mind squashing into the back of the car, you would be very welcome to join us for a drink.’
‘Excellent,’ said Nelly. ‘The more free piss the better.’
The journey back to the Meurice was hilarious. Nelly’s dress took up so much room we were squashed into the car like fashion students at the back of a show, and without another limo to follow – we couldn’t rely on where the other cars would be going after the last show and didn’t want to find ourselves out at the airport – we had to navigate our own way back to the hotel.
We did manage it eventually, by a roundabout route, which turned out to be rather a wonderful sightseeing tour of Paris. We sang and laughed all the way – even Alice joined in occasionally – and when we finally got there, we all clapped Luigi and Bee asked him if he would care to join us in the bar. We found a nice corner table and Bee ordered three bottles of Bollie.
‘Saves time in the long run,’ she said.
‘Bloody ’ell, do you know how lucky you are with her?’ Nelly hissed in my ear, taking a big suck on one of Bee’s cigarettes. ‘She’s not like an editor – she’s just a great girl. Wish I’d known, I would have had your job.’
Then she got on the phone to Iggy, who came along to join us, and I sent a text to Paul and he came by, bringing his mates Mark and Karl, two really funny
stylists from New York and London, and it just turned into another of those hilarious nights you could never plan.
And I have to say Luigi fitted right into the hysterical mix. I’d always enjoyed having him drive us around in Milan, and Bee’s mad idea to bring him over to Paris had actually worked brilliantly, but it wasn’t until I’d seen him in this off-duty mode, that I realized just how charming he was.
And any straight man who could hold his own – and in a second language – with Paul, Mark, Karl and Nelly on full beam, had my full respect. Paul was clearly impressed too.
‘I’m loving Parker,’ he whispered to me. ‘He’s a doll. Cute as.’
I didn’t get it at first.
‘Parker?’
Paul rolled his eyes.
‘Lady Penelope’s driver? Duh?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean, very funny. Yes, he is really lovely. It was a brilliant idea to get him over here. He really cheers us up.’
‘Well, he can cheer me up anytime, although he’s clearly not my team. Mind you, that’s never stopped me before…’ He got a dangerous glint in his eye. ‘Hey, Luigi,’ he said, grasping his knee. ‘Can you drive a stick shift?’
We were just starting on the fifth bottle, with only nuts and olives to soak it all up, when Nelly came back from a trip to the loo – or the ‘carsie’, as she called it – looking puzzled.
‘That was weird,’ she said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Did you see your new best friend Louise Kretzner in the loo? She stays here, you know.’
‘No, but I saw that mate of Seamus’s – you know, that Aussie guy, whatsisname? Surfer, really built, great arse – oh, you know.’
She smacked me on the knee. I did know all too well and I also knew exactly what he was doing in the Meurice.
‘I think I know who you mean,’ I said weakly, wondering if I could turn my phone off without her noticing, in case he rang to see where I was.
‘Miles,’ said Frannie, loud and clear in her I-know-the-answer-Miss voice. ‘He’s called Miles. He’s really nice. He’s the one who walked along the catwalk at Dior – I didn’t see it because I was backstage, but I heard about it. You remember, Em, he was with us all that night at the Ferrucci party. You danced with him. So did I.’
Handbags and Gladrags Page 16
