A Fitting End
I wait. The signals from the top floor are apparently positive. I check my clothes for the tenth time in the last hour. Am I too under-dressed? Did I spill balsamic vinegar down the front of my shirt? A woman appears. We are to move upwards. My minders are growing nervous. What seemed like a good idea six months ago is looking less good by the minute. In the realpolitik of fashion careers, introducing LDC to JPG is starting to look more like a snake than a ladder. We come to a halt outside a closed door where a small group is gathered like courtiers awaiting news of a royal birth. A burly attendant, more suited to throwing reluctant paratroopers out of the plane at 1500 feet, watches for a signal from the inner office, secretly delighted at the opportunity to bundle me through the door when the red light turns to green. The door opens, and I am in free fall.
Jean Paul is everything that you would want him to be. He is charming. He is irreverent. He is fun. He is the Wizard of Oz, the Pied Piper, Hans Christian Andersen, and Willy Wonka all rolled into one. He has an outfit in mind for me. I try it on. He turns me this way and that, chatting all the time. He likes. He doesn’t like. He likes. And what about accessories? A belt? Stockings? Shoes? How about the clown shoes, he asks? His helpers panic and run to find them. The clown shoes are found. I put them on. He roars with laughter. No, they are not for the show – they are just for a laugh.