by Kelly Doust
Dedication
For Olive, my shiny girl
Contents
Dedication
Starry, Starry Night
Long Island Love Story
NOOOOOOO!!!
Spare a Pound, Guv?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Great Houses of the United Kingdom
Who’s Who
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Conversation with Gram Parsons (Formerly of the Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers) on groupies
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
From an English Newspaper Clipping, Dated 1916
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
For Sale
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Letter From Barty Telford to Lady Clarissa Hardcastle, 1929, Reproduced in Barty Telford’s Biography, One Extraordinary Life
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Postcard, Dated 1929
Chapter 28
Diary Entry: Victoria Rose Dearlove
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Dearlove and Down
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
North London Orphanage: Archived Records
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
TV Guide, Subscription Channels
Somerset Times
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
Top Internet search results for Sylvie Dearlove
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
Dearlove’s Stellar Debut Collection Dazzles Us All
February 2005 – Vogue online
Former Fashion Award winner Sylvie Dearlove blew us all away with her debut collection, The Sun, Moon and Stars, which launched yesterday during London Fashion Week at Somerset House.
It’s said the precocious 23-year-old is working her magic in an abandoned warehouse on the banks of the River Lea. The ramshackle factory was once the epicentre of the East End rag trade. Similarly, Dearlove’s 6 a.m. journey into the heart of London for her first showing seemed a fitting analogy for the birth of a fresh new fashion era, which the designer undertook yesterday via pushbike. ‘I prefer travelling by bike,’ Dearlove says. ‘The Tube makes me claustrophobic, and the Thames at dawn is magical.’
But there’s nothing anxious about Dearlove’s sense of style. Following on from the mind-bendingly beautiful scarves and dresses embellished with iconic tribal emblems, which sold out in less than an hour after her Central St Martins show, Dearlove’s first collection proper is inspired by the constellations in the night sky above her Somerset home. You get the sense that this is a galaxy Sylvie wants us to inhabit forever, and to this we say simply, yes. Her passion shines through – even brighter than the thousands of shimmering Swarovski crystals which adorned her inaugural collection (Swarovski sponsored the Fashion Award for Emerging Talent this year, won by Ms Dearlove).
Featuring an outstanding boiled wool capelet in the palest grey fuzz, with silvery bead and sequin detailing around the yoke, ribbed tights with tiny stars studded over hand-stitched knee pads and a pewter leather skirt Barbarella herself would have been proud of, Dearlove seemed to be taking us on a trip through the Milky Way, via silent film stars, fifties glamour and Ziggy Stardust . . . references which all, somehow, work.
‘I grew up near Stonehenge, and was influenced by my grandmother Gigi being enthralled by the idea of ley lines and druids and ancient rites . . . I do love the symbology of all that.’ She’s referring to Gigi Dearlove, of course, or Gigi Love as she was formerly known, that perennial favourite of the fashion pack and inspiration in her own right. Sylvie says her ideas come from many sources, paying homage to old-school glamour, boho styling and modern streetwear . . . [continues]
But there’s a dystopian edge to all the prettiness. Think of the grubby, fingerless gloves of a Cormac McCarthy character, or the urchin charm of a Victorian orphan, set to the eerily futuristic synth beats of singer-songwriter Alison Goldfrapp.
As directional as this all sounds, Dearlove’s clothes are tactile, wearable and timeless, ensuring Sylvie Dearlove will have a commercially successful future ahead of her as well – not bad for a first collection.
‘She’s one to watch – remember the name. Sylvie Dearlove has the right attitude to go far in this business. I’m her biggest fan.’
So sayeth Rhonda Marks, of whom the young Dearlove has become a willing acolyte. And we all know Marks is the woman responsible for putting innumerable British fashion designers on the map with her incisive reporting for Vogue and Style.com, and behind-the-scenes manoeuvring in the fashion world. No less than a living legend, she’s certainly backed up the general consensus that the only way is up for Dearlove.
So there you have it – a star is born. We have every single item on order, and can’t imagine a future now – nay, even a second – without Sylvie Dearlove’s sumptuous designs adorning it. Order *here.
[*there appears to be a problem with this link]
LONG ISLAND LOVE STORY
Gisele Matthews & Dominic Rogers
April 2010 – New York Times – Weddings
. . . Miss Sylvie Dearlove, maid of honour, wore a midnight blue lace gown to the reception with barely-there slip beneath, pewter sandals and her dark hair left curling loosely about her shoulders. She was accompanied by Mr Ben Holmes, also part of the bridal party, who served as usher in the pretty weatherboard church. With a simple slick of deep mulberry lipstick and her pale English complexion, Miss Dearlove’s presence caused a stir. Recently it was announced that she would be taking over as head designer at uber-chic fashion house, Garçon.
Miss Gisele Matthews greeted Dearlove warmly as she took her place before the altar. The two have been firm friends since they met at Parsons School of Design several years ago, where Miss Matthews teaches Business and, until recently, Sylvie Dearlove held the role of ‘Designer in Residence’ in the Fashion Studies Department . . .
NOOOOOOO!!!
Stacey Wears fashion blog, by Stacey L. Price
December 2011
I was devastated to hear the news today that Dearlove – beautiful brainchild of English aristo Sylvie Dearlove – is shutting down!!! After several years in the biz and being poached from her own label to serve as head designer at New York fashion house Garçon, a press release was issued today saying that Dearlove ‘hasn’t secured the necessary investment to carry out another collection’, and her Spring–Summer release (which hits stores soon) will be her last.
Word on the street is that Dearlove’s high-profile flop at the Brooklyn-based fashion label is to blame. With barely four collections under her belt, the brand’s sales have plummeted dramatically. Fashion insiders say she simply ran out of ideas, but how could that be possible? Who can forget the impact she made when Rhonda Marks took her under her wing and introduced her to the fashion elite at the tender age of 23?
Either way, this fashionista for one will be sad to see Dearlove go. Sylvie’s pieces always seemed to echo some truth beating strongly in my own heart. She created clothes I didn’t even know I wanted until I s
aw them, in all their heavenly, must-have glory. Each and every time I thought, ‘There, that’s the piece I’ve been searching for.’
In today’s world of fast fashion, Dearlove’s clothes were made to last. Elegant and womanly, they were amazingly wearable, just like the clothes of your dreams. Yet I still felt able to put them on every day, travelling from day to night with ease.
If you’re reading this, Sylvie Dearlove: YOU WILL BE MISSED!!!!!
SPARE A POUND, GUV?
6 March 2012 – Dailystar.co.uk gossip site
What former ‘one to watch’ was seen slinking back into England last week with her tail between her legs, confusing a beggar with an ATM at Heathrow’s Terminal 2? Hint: she’s the granddaughter of famed sixties groupie Gigi Dearlove, and daughter of one of the original British enfant terrible artists, Robin Dearlove. Sylvie Dearlove certainly seems to have come down a peg or two since we last reported on her exploits here.
It’s not news that the Dearloves have fallen upon tough times, with the family seat a shadow of its former glory, but the tiny brunette was looking worse for wear in what appeared to be pyjamas and stripped of makeup, clutching an oversized weekender. She allegedly stole coins belonging to a homeless person.
Sylvie Dearlove, 30, looked suitably mortified when she escaped into a cab.
This latest escapade represents quite a fall for the Garçon designer, whose eponymous label recently folded. You might recall we reported here on the Facebook gaffe of the darling of the London and New York fashion sets, when she was pictured with the supermodel Bella Amoud under the tagline #stoned again, so signalling the loss of a major retail campaign for Amoud and another nail in the coffin for Dearlove’s doomed career. You might ask, What were they thinking? We haven’t the foggiest.
It’s said Netflix UK is working on a dramatised series for television about the extraordinary family and its storied past, but the famously private Dearloves remain unavailable for comment.
Miss Dearlove’s backers across the pond might be amused to hear that she was caught red-handed stealing from the homeless, although possibly not surprised.
For more stories of wealthy toffs who have found themselves in hot water, click here.
1
Sylvie had a headache. Not just a headache – a filthy, throbbing hangover. It pumped around her skull and made her cringe to think of the countless miniature bottles she’d consumed on the flight over, bottles meant for mixing but which she’d glugged down undiluted, because it just seemed easier that way. Like she had for the last year, Sylvie felt strangely disconnected from her body. As though life were an elaborate, lucid nightmare she was yet to wake up from.
Nursing her head against her trembling hand, she looked out the window of the cab from behind a huge set of dark shades (Linda Farrow for The Row) and thought of Gisele, back in New York. Ever since they’d met, Gisele had always been the first person Sylvie turned to – even before Ben. They’d shared everything from day one – the high times, the low times and everything in between. But Gisele seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet since Dearlove had gone belly up. Sylvie had been so distracted during those awful final weeks that she hadn’t really noticed until recently that Gisele hadn’t returned any of her calls. Staring out at the passing traffic, Sylvie felt the familiar hot flush of shame. She supposed it made sense – nobody liked to back a loser, and New York was a ruthless city. But it still hurt like hell.
Trying to distract herself, she turned on her phone and opened her Facebook feed. Scrolling through what seemed like endless snaps of friends having fun without her, she ignored a niggling voice inside her head which told her to stop tormenting herself and log out. There was one of Gisele, she saw, pictured beside Ben and his best friend Josh at some hot new club opening. She was filled with a fresh wave of shame.
Stopping upon a recent post from her old friend Tabs, she was surprised to recognise the picture: A lifetime ago at the Dearlove family pile with Penny, Jon, Sylv and Nick Henshaw. Anyone heard if Sylvie’s back, lovelies? I’ve been trying to contact her but to no avail . . . Sylvie, call me on the old number if you see this, bad girl! What do you say, kids – reunion? #ThrowbackThursday
Sylvie clicked on the black and white shot to take a closer look – it had been taken by one of Tabs’s friends, she remembered now – and saw all her old college mates laughing by the pier near the duck pond back at Bledesford. She’d invited them all down to the house that weekend. Her parents had been away – gone to some auction up North, Sylvie remembered, in an attempt to raise funds from some family heirlooms – and Nick, her childhood friend, had been co-opted into the celebrations.
There they all were, wrapped up in a huge Turkish kilim, pilfered from one of the closed-off rooms in the east wing. Sylvie had dragged it out in a fit of giggles, pulling it across the grass and collecting dew and mud along the way.
The rug hadn’t been cleaned in decades and the dust had made them all sneeze. Good times, she thought now, overwhelmed by a dispiriting wave of nostalgia. How young and naive she’d been then, with everything still ahead of her.
Tabs was looking adorable, a tarnished silver tiara that Sylvie had found in the attic sitting crookedly on her head. They were reclining against an old dinghy, beached upon the dock. They’d made a fearsome mess in the kitchen that evening, cooking up one of Tabs’s fiery curries, had played cards, danced, argued and laughed all evening, and just as the sun was coming up they’d gone down to the lake because Penny insisted they should feed the ducks with the leftover naan bread. Penny, her long blonde hair bedraggled, was necking champers straight from the bottle, fending off Jon, who was laughing and trying to swipe it from her grip.
Sylvie saw herself, leaning against Nick’s shoulder, her eyes dreamy. She’d been pining for Thomas, a moody Dane she was seeing at the time, but they’d broken up not long after she’d returned to London when he’d decided to go home to Copenhagen for good. Sylvie smiled, remembering the psychedelic sixties-era dress that barely skimmed the top of her thighs and the snakeskin go-go boots she’d worn that evening. She’d found them in one of the large trunks in the attic earlier that day, and could tell from the scent of patchouli that had risen from the dress as she shook it out that it must have been one of Gigi’s.
Sylvie hadn’t seen that photograph in years – she’d almost forgotten it existed. We all look so young, she thought. Full of booze and bonhomie, like nothing would ever change. Sylvie gulped down the sudden lump in her throat, thinking of her vile meeting with the creditors last month, setting to work on a payment plan for a debt she could never hope to settle. And how, when she’d called Gisele for advice, it had gone straight through to voicemail. Again. That’s when she’d realised what was going on. She’d thought Gisele had been acting funny, the last few times she’d seen her. Cool and distant somehow, like Sylvie’s failure could infect her if she got too close.
Sylvie let out a small moan, and the cabbie eyed her in the mirror. Sniffing, she looked down, discreetly swiping at the dampness at the corner of her shades.
How far she’d come from her idea of herself, and how low she felt.
How on earth could she face anyone ever again, after all that had happened? Sylvie leaned her head against the window and wished she could just simply disappear.
2
‘Where to, love?’
Sylvie jerked her attention back to the present. ‘I, ah . . .’
She’d vaguely thought on the plane that she’d get to London and catch a train home, but she just couldn’t stomach the thought of heading down to Somerset immediately. She needed time, she needed a breather, and by God she needed a cigarette. She leaned forward and told the driver before she could change her mind: ‘Clapham, please!’
Before that, they’d been heading in the general direction of London. Sylvie hadn’t been able to settle upon a specific destination after that awful scene at the airport. She hadn’t been stealing the poor man’s coins – not at all.
/> Sylvie had spotted him shaking a cup of spare change just as she was thinking about joining the queue for a cab. She was thirsty as hell, thanks to the booze, so she’d leant down, dropped a fiver in his cup and had just been taking a couple of coins from the old man to buy a bottle of water – the machine near the exit only accepted coins – but she’d been stopped in her tracks by a shrill voice she didn’t recognise.
‘Well, well – look who it is. Don’t think I don’t know who you are, Sylvie Dearlove! My goodness, in all my years of retail I’ve never dealt with such appalling behaviour – you should be ashamed of yourself. I ordered far more than was sensible of your latest collection – your rep certainly saw to that – but I was assured we were offered it on a sale or return basis. It wasn’t my idea to take the quantity we did, but now I hear you’ve folded and I’ve nowhere to send my leftover stock. We tried a sale, but it turns out your last collection is less appealing than week-old fish. On top of that, your rep’s not answering my calls . . . Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Sylvie saw the heavily Botoxed face and tight chignon and panicked. It was like being back in New York, all of those horrible encounters with creditors and investors, people she’d known well, some of whom she had even called friends.
Hands trembling, she jumped into the first black cab she could see, pushing ahead of a businessman in a suit. As the cab pulled away, Sylvie realised that the woman had her phone up and was taking pictures. Sylvie slumped down in the seat, horrified, and gasped to the driver the first thing that had come into her head: ‘Just drive, please!’
It was surreal; like being an extra in a bad Hollywood film. Was this what her life had become?
With only a few hundred pounds left to her name – rapidly diminishing as the cab ticked its way closer to her destination – Sylvie admonished herself for not taking the Heathrow Express. But it was too late now: the taxi was pulling up outside a shabby pale blue terrace. It was a far cry from the swishy West Village brownstone that her friend Gisele called home – the one she’d moved into after marrying Dominic, a banker with Goldman Sachs and Bear Stearns who had somehow survived the crash. Some people had all the luck, Sylvie reflected bitterly.
