WEEKEND COLUMNISTS I was at the hairdresser’s when my neighbour’s conversation caught my attention. Her tone was dramatic, as was her appearance, for her locks had been arranged into little silver foil-covered snails that lent her a space-princess air. Her mobile telephone was glued to her ear.
“I don’t know how he is because I’ve not seen him. I know ... I know ... I know ... but there’s only so many times you can ... And as I said to him, ‘It’s too little, too late’ ... I know ... He’s got some nerve ... He said to me: ‘You’ll never find anyone who’ll love you like I do’ ... It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him, ‘From where I’m standing, that’s no bad thing,’ but I didn’t want to ... you know. So anyway, it’s very funny, this being single lark ... On and off four years now ... It is a long time ... Oh, well yes, but ... Right ... I mean you could ... Do you really? ... I suppose ... He didn’t, did he? D’you know what? Do you mind not saying that about him? I know you’re right, but if you tell me now what a waster he is – it’s just that if we do get back together, which we won’t, it might be a bit ... Remember last time? You told me about when we went out for dinner with Emma and he picked some lettuce off his plate and as he put it in his mouth he said the word ‘salad’ out loud and you thought, ‘That man’s not good enough for her’? Well, it’s hard to forget something like that...”
I mouthed the word “salad” myself, agreeing it wasn’t a terribly winning remark. I had been pondering break-ups lately, not because of any untoward domestic scenarios this end but because I had just read that the creative director of Chloé had been replaced. These things happen, you may say. People come, people go.
Yet this reshuffle had occurred during the very year in which I had acquired three Chloé pieces myself, for the very first time: one bought on sale, one given, and one nabbed from a pal.
Had my taste somehow failed a mysterious clothes test? Had a miscarriage of sartorial justice been carried out? Was my own personal endorsement – horrors! – the fashion air-kiss of death? Shopkeepers of the world beware!
I’m terrible at liking the things that other people love. Suntans, Wordsworth and the expression “moving forward” just don’t thrill me at all. But I’m not quite sure I want my likes going disliked.
So, once home, my hair so expertly streaked and curled it rather outshone my face, I examined my collarless, pale grey tweed Chloé coat very firmly.
It’s a strict garment but has a lot of flair. The sleeves are very long and narrow but the body of the coat is cut generously and there’s a jaunty inverted pleat at the back and some high buttons at the breast. It’s librarian-de-luxe meets district nurse. It’s in no way sturdy but would look very good on a cyclist. If Little Red Riding Hood was feeling shy and demure, she might choose it. No one can wear crimson capes every day.
Next I looked at the black silk blouse with the wild pattern of dots, stripes, swirls and folded neckline that a friend had given me. This had also been a sales purchase, she confessed when I asked; Harvey Nichols had taken 75 per cent off. I wear it regularly. It is the quintessential restaurant top. You could put it over some quite shameful lower half and look interesting, strong and, in the best possible way, rather emotional as you twirled pasta thoughtfully round a fork or speared some sea urchin with a chopstick. Like the coat, it is roomy but has some good narrow areas for contrast.
A pale pinky-fawn coloured top, part-silk, part- cotton jersey, half- T-shirt, half-blouse, was exhibit C. It reminds me a little of old-fashioned tennis outfits. Whenever I wear it, I think how becoming the colour is and remember ruefully a shop assistant who once told me with a sneer: “Hardly anyone suits flesh.” I look at these orphaned garments tenderly. They don’t have the naivety or the fragility of previous Chloé collections, but they are intelligent, well- made, beautiful garments that quietly surprise. I will treasure them.
More columns at www.ft.com/boyt
