Further Under the Duvet Read Online Free Page B

Birdseye jackets. Beautiful clothes – but the models are doing the most ridiculous walks: lifting their knees high like dressage ponies or horses who are made to dance in circuses.
    The catwalk is so low and close that I could reach out and touch them – in fact, reach out and
trip them up
, and suddenly I’m terrified that, with one flick of my leg, I might just do that. (The same kind of irresistible impulse I sometimes get on high buildings to fling myself off.) Luckily I’m distractedby a girl clopping lopsidedly down the catwalk in one red stocking and one shoe – a style statement? It’s then I notice the single shoe at my feet, smiling up sheepishly at me. Clearly, it’s fallen off, but professional that she is, the model has carried on. A dilemma ensues – should I replace the shoe on the catwalk for her to reclaim on her return or am I running the risk of causing a dressage-pony-style pile-up? Leave well alone, I decide. And then, surprisingly quickly – only fifteen minutes – it’s over and I go for lunch with Marie and Liz,
Marie Claire
’s editor and fashion editor respectively.
1.45 p.m. British Fashion Council tent on the King’s Road: Betty Jackson
    We actually have to run – ‘Betty’ (see, no surname, I’m a natural at this fashion stuff) has the temerity to start just under half an hour late and by the time we get in, our seats have been given away and some poor
Marie Claire
underling is ousted to make room for me. Mind you, I can hardly be bothered – I associate ‘Betty’ with beige cowl-neck jumpers, boring as anything. But I’m in for a shock: once the girls start down the catwalk (still doing the same silly knee-lifts, like baby giraffes learning to walk; obviously not just a Paul Smith thing) I’m transfixed. I love these clothes. Like,
love
them. Grown-up boho in bright spring greens, faded grape and aubergine. Funky tweed suits appliquéd with flowers, soft jersey dresses and a fabulous green-leather coat that I almost leap from my seat and wrestle from the model’s back. Excuse me, what’s going on? But, ah! Here it is! Mr beige cowl-neck jumper, we’ve been expecting you. Oh and here’s another. And one more – admittedly brown, this time, but what is brown, if not beige, only worse?
3.25 p.m. Park Lane Hotel: Temperley
    A dash across town only to find they’re ‘running late’, so we go for a cup of tea. Or at least we try. We hover at the entrance to the gilt-ridden tearoom, entirely ignored, while other fashion people bank up behind us. Finally we’re led to a table, but when the waiter approaches a table of
Vogue
staff before us, Liz yells, ‘We were here first.’ Alas, he pays us no heed. (God, fashion is
so
bitchy.)
    Then to the crammed art deco ballroom where I’ve never seen such a concentration of fabulous handbags. On our seats, our first goody bag of the day – Diptych shower gel – has ‘disappeared’. A spare is found which Marie graciously offers to me. I accept. I have no shame.
    The music starts, it’s all very French – accordions and chanteuses – but right behind me is a man with a MASSIVE bunch of flowers and for the entire show all I can hear is the rustling of cellophane.
    And down the black marble catwalk they come, pretty party frock after pretty party frock after pretty party frock. Lots of black and pink satin, with circles of jet beading, creating a doily effect. Soft wrap-over tops and flared ballerina skirts in belle époque prints, then comes a fresh wave of doily-covered party frocks and I realize I’m a teeny bit bored. Jaded already? (I really
am
a natural.)
    Alice Temperley emerges to take her bow and for my rustling friend with the flowers, this is his moment. He surges towards the stage, but Alice skips away like a startled faun and the rustler falls back, looking foolish.
    By now I’m unsettled, confused even. I’d always thought Fashion was a big joke played on ordinary people, that whenAnna Wintour leads a standing