princess she was.
Megan drew herself up to full height, formidable in head to toe Dior, sighed and looked at Annie for back-up before explaining once again: ‘Taylor, you cannot wear black to your father’s wedding. Absolutely no! Look,’ she added bitchily, ‘I don’t think he should be marrying a twenty-two-year-old Romanian gymnast either, but we can’t go in mourning and that’s final.’
Annie had to turn her mind to very sad and lonely thoughts, to prevent herself from snorting with laughter at this.
The hour spent finding Megan’s perfect outfit for the social and emotional ordeal of attending her exhusband’s remarriage had passed satisfyingly well.
Megan had come in with a wonderfully clear idea: ‘I want a severely smart dress. Nothing soft, nothing flouncy, nothing flared. I want perfect tailoring, I want to look everything his . . .’ dramatic pause to deliver these words as witheringly as possible, ‘ cheap, little girlfriend is not: sophisticated, cultured, complicated, intelligent, elegant and grown-up.’
Annie, with a Parisian vision of chic in her mind, had installed Megan in a changing room then run from floor to floor bringing her everything that could possibly comply with this description.
It hadn’t taken long to find the dress: cream with an olive-coloured leaf print, narrow skirt, tight waist with a wide striped belt, close-cut bodice with a high ruffled neckline.
‘It’s not soft,’ she’d promised Megan, ‘it’s supremely elegant.’ It was also Missoni and comfortingly extortionate.
Wide, three-quarter-length balloon sleeves completed the dress, so Megan could display her most extravagant gold bracelet, diamond-studded watch and enormous emerald ring to full effect.
‘I want suede stiletto boots to go with this and, of course, a hat,’ she’d instructed.
These had taken longer to get exactly right, but finally, a vision of ex-wife perfection had been created.
‘Genius.’ Megan had allowed herself to smile in the mirror.
Annie had stepped back to admire her handiwork. The tiny hat with long, spiked pheasant feathers was breathtaking on top of Megan’s angular silhouette. How did Megan look? She looked just what she was: an extremely beautiful, bitter brunette who was far, far from over the biggest disappointment of her life. Her marriage to Mr Fabulously Wealthy Bigwig had ended and she was still devastated by her loss of status.
Although – Annie couldn’t help thinking – surely the jewels and the annual allowance, generous enough to make small African nations weep, must be of some comfort? She wondered if Megan had thought about finding a new husband yet . . . and did she dare to ask her where she was going to look?
‘The best thing about this outfit,’ Megan had noted with triumph, ‘is that, with jewellery, it will have cost him five times more than what the bride will be wearing. Poor little girl, she has no idea what she’s in for. Romanian gymnast!’ she’d snorted. ‘Let’s hope that Victor and his penis will be very happy.’
‘I think we need a little break,’ UN Annie suggested as Taylor flung another dress on the floor. ‘Why don’t we go down to the vintage boutique in the basement?’ she risked.
Taylor’s response to this looked reasonable, but Megan’s eyebrows were arched and twitching.
‘Don’t worry,’ Annie soothed, ‘it’s The Store’s version of vintage: exclusive one-offs and collector’s items worth more now than when they were bought.’
Down in the glamorous basement floor, a section had been made over as an antique clothes shop, complete with picturesque, worn wooden shelves crammed with dainty crocodile handbags, long leather gloves, feathered and furred hats. The rails were adorned with silks, lace, taffeta, chiffon. Dresses with history. Ghosts from parties that had been held all over the city since the 1920s and on into the fifties and sixties, even the eighties.
Annie had always liked secondhand.
Megan drew herself up to full height, formidable in head to toe Dior, sighed and looked at Annie for back-up before explaining once again: ‘Taylor, you cannot wear black to your father’s wedding. Absolutely no! Look,’ she added bitchily, ‘I don’t think he should be marrying a twenty-two-year-old Romanian gymnast either, but we can’t go in mourning and that’s final.’
Annie had to turn her mind to very sad and lonely thoughts, to prevent herself from snorting with laughter at this.
The hour spent finding Megan’s perfect outfit for the social and emotional ordeal of attending her exhusband’s remarriage had passed satisfyingly well.
Megan had come in with a wonderfully clear idea: ‘I want a severely smart dress. Nothing soft, nothing flouncy, nothing flared. I want perfect tailoring, I want to look everything his . . .’ dramatic pause to deliver these words as witheringly as possible, ‘ cheap, little girlfriend is not: sophisticated, cultured, complicated, intelligent, elegant and grown-up.’
Annie, with a Parisian vision of chic in her mind, had installed Megan in a changing room then run from floor to floor bringing her everything that could possibly comply with this description.
It hadn’t taken long to find the dress: cream with an olive-coloured leaf print, narrow skirt, tight waist with a wide striped belt, close-cut bodice with a high ruffled neckline.
‘It’s not soft,’ she’d promised Megan, ‘it’s supremely elegant.’ It was also Missoni and comfortingly extortionate.
Wide, three-quarter-length balloon sleeves completed the dress, so Megan could display her most extravagant gold bracelet, diamond-studded watch and enormous emerald ring to full effect.
‘I want suede stiletto boots to go with this and, of course, a hat,’ she’d instructed.
These had taken longer to get exactly right, but finally, a vision of ex-wife perfection had been created.
‘Genius.’ Megan had allowed herself to smile in the mirror.
Annie had stepped back to admire her handiwork. The tiny hat with long, spiked pheasant feathers was breathtaking on top of Megan’s angular silhouette. How did Megan look? She looked just what she was: an extremely beautiful, bitter brunette who was far, far from over the biggest disappointment of her life. Her marriage to Mr Fabulously Wealthy Bigwig had ended and she was still devastated by her loss of status.
Although – Annie couldn’t help thinking – surely the jewels and the annual allowance, generous enough to make small African nations weep, must be of some comfort? She wondered if Megan had thought about finding a new husband yet . . . and did she dare to ask her where she was going to look?
‘The best thing about this outfit,’ Megan had noted with triumph, ‘is that, with jewellery, it will have cost him five times more than what the bride will be wearing. Poor little girl, she has no idea what she’s in for. Romanian gymnast!’ she’d snorted. ‘Let’s hope that Victor and his penis will be very happy.’
‘I think we need a little break,’ UN Annie suggested as Taylor flung another dress on the floor. ‘Why don’t we go down to the vintage boutique in the basement?’ she risked.
Taylor’s response to this looked reasonable, but Megan’s eyebrows were arched and twitching.
‘Don’t worry,’ Annie soothed, ‘it’s The Store’s version of vintage: exclusive one-offs and collector’s items worth more now than when they were bought.’
Down in the glamorous basement floor, a section had been made over as an antique clothes shop, complete with picturesque, worn wooden shelves crammed with dainty crocodile handbags, long leather gloves, feathered and furred hats. The rails were adorned with silks, lace, taffeta, chiffon. Dresses with history. Ghosts from parties that had been held all over the city since the 1920s and on into the fifties and sixties, even the eighties.
Annie had always liked secondhand.
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