I am about to fulfil the ambition of a lifetime. I never dreamt this would become a reality. I am about to walk, as a model, on the catwalk of a fashion show*.
Who would have thought, at my age, I would be considered worthy of such an honour. When I was a child, a woman in her 60s was seen as someone with grey hair and false teeth, who doubtless walked with a stick, had taken up knitting and had lowered herself gingerly into proper old age.
I have always been in awe of models, ever since I spied Twiggy on the cover of my mum’s knitting pattern. In the late 70s, I fell in love with Janice Dickinson. She had dark hair and eyes and a rosebud mouth. I loved her and her sister, Debbie. I would see a photo of them in Vogue eating watermelon, and immediately buy a difficult fruit.
A little later, I gazed at fashion spreads starring Sloane Condren, usually shot by Bruce Weber. She wore no make-up, was dressed entirely in white petticoats and tied white rags in her tawny hair. I emulated the rags-in-hair look, though I received odd looks on the tube. The model who truly changed my life was Yasmin Le Bon, on the cover of the very first British Elle. If only I could be her, my life would be perfect, happy, married to a pop star. It was that cover photo, and a feature, ‘Why French women are having breast reductions to look fashionable’, that prompted me to have my breasts sliced off. Which goes to show how powerful fashion and beauty photographs are, how dangerous an admonishment that we should make ourselves better than we already are.
Next, I fell in love with Stella Tennant, the aristocratic granddaughter of a Mitford sister, the late Duchess of Devonshire. What I admired most was that Stella wore her beauty so lightly – she would always ‘Yoo-hoo’ me from the Dior couture catwalk. When I went to her house near Berwick-upon-Tweed to interview her about her new role as the face of Burberry, I was shocked she picked me up from the station in a beaten-up estate car, dry cleaning slung on the back seat, clad in jeans and old plimsolls. Wow. She could afford to dress head to toe in Burberry (despite her background, she told me she was entirely self-made and financially secure for life), but she hadn’t been brainwashed into believing she needed fancy pants to be happy. It was a huge lesson.
But being worshipped for your beauty does not guarantee happiness. Janice has had a chequered love life and felt the need for cosmetic surgery when in my eyes she was perfect. I became friends with Marie Helvin, muse to David Bailey and Vogue cover girl. A photo of her in YSL couture would send me into raptures. But she told me she walked away from her marriage to Bailey with barely a bean. She rents a flat in London, fearing for her cat’s safety each time she has to move. Stella Tennant later tragically succumbed to suicide.
But knowing the stories behind these beautiful faces doesn’t dampen my excitement at being able to practise my catwalk strut, my stern pout, my turn at the end of the runway while making the shape of a teapot. At fashion shows around the world, I’ve only been snapped for a street style photo once and even then, the photographer (the late, great Bill Cunningham) chose only to take a close-up of my feet. In the front row, I’ve mostly been yelled at by the gaggle of photographers at the end of the runway: ‘Uncross your legs! Move your bloody bag!’
This time, I will no longer be fashion roadkill. I will have my moment. And I am going to milk it, work it. That is, unless I fall, Dick Emery and Naomi Campbell fashion, off my vertiginous heels…
- Elsewhere, thank you to Max and Rayna, who read I’ve been having trouble with Teddy – who is reactive to other dogs and so big he is hard to control. They advised a Dogmatic Headcollar: ‘I can hold my Gordon Setter with a light touch, and I have an arthritic knee.’ Now Teddy can pant, drink, sniff and accept treats, but I have no fear he will escape. I love my readers!
*The show is in aid of Dress for Success, the wonderful charity that donates clothes to women looking to re-enter the workplace
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Nic keeps referring to my bespoke Carrara marble kitchen prep table as a ‘breakfast bar’.
- Men who wink.
- People who wear a rucksack on planes and trains. They seem to have no spatial awareness as you are, yet again, knocked for six.
