In his heyday as a successful company director, Papa’s wardrobe occupied double the space of my mother’s in a purpose-built dressing room. Never a follower of fashion, he adhered to the more conservative dictates of fine tailoring, and for decades his suits were always cut the same: single-breasted with a double vent at the back. No turn-ups on his trousers, ever. Only the width of his lapels and the slant of his pockets varied by marginal degrees. He also owned 122 Hermès ties. They were a lifelong extravagance and he cared for them so tenderly that he sent them back to the flagship store in Paris to be cleaned, believing no one in London was up to the task.
On school mornings, we had a regular ritual: my father would call me to his dressing room to pick out a tie and pocket handkerchief to complement his suit and shirt. I ran my fingers through the heavy silk twill tongues to make my selection from geometric patterns of animals, knots, flags, stirrups, keys, pennants and heraldic emblems on brilliant backgrounds of burnt orange, crimson, magenta and French navy. Selecting from the matching silk squares, I learned to contrast the kerchief with the tie for greater impact.
Sometimes, Papa would ask me to pick out cufflinks from a suede-lined box on one of the polished timber shelves where he also kept clothes brushes, fine-denier silk socks rolled into a fist and neat piles of cashmere fringed scarves. I’d insert the cufflinks in his starched double cuffs. His initials in gold were favourites, matching other elements of his monogram mania: to him the B logo on Bally shoes was really B for Baum, just as the H buckle on an Hermès leather belt was H for Harry. As if to confirm his identity, he had his initials embroidered on all his shirt pockets.
Although he drew the line at bespoke shoes, he made annual trips to Hong Kong to be measured up for a dozen suits. In the 1970s, he favoured a fabric called sharkskin, which had a greenish sheen when it caught the light, resembling a ripe bruise.
On all but the rarest occasions, Papa dressed formally. The most casual he ever got was wearing a cashmere V-neck sweater or a brushed-cotton checked shirt at weekends. He never owned a T-shirt and despised jeans. His shoes were always city shoes, smart leather loafers and slip-ons that he even wore to the beach and in the snow if he had to, or, when he came to Australia and ventured, under duress, into the bush.
Sometimes on Saturdays, if we had errands to do in the West End, we would divert to Jermyn Street and window-shop the smart menswear vitrines, occasionally venturing into those dark, timber-lined, clubby dens so he could try on a jacket. I loved fingering the bolts of wools and worsteds, the obsequious deference of the tailors with the tape measures around their necks as they took their brisk measurements while trying to wheedle my father into ordering something made to measure: ‘A new overcoat, Sir? A dinner jacket perhaps?’ As I got older, I enjoyed the ambiguity of my identity on these visits, leaving the salesman to speculate: was I the gentleman’s daughter or his much younger girlfriend?
Unusually, my father was as enthusiastic shopping for my mother as for himself, confident enough to do it even when she was not there. On his annual business trip to the US, he would spend half a day at New York’s best department stores, gathering up bulk purchases of nylon stockings, bathing suits, nightdresses, housecoats and blouses, with varying degrees of success. He had louder taste than hers, choosing gaudy patterns that were large and vibrant, when she preferred smaller, less showy prints. He also favoured a touch of the military in details, like epaulettes and frogging for her coats and jackets. Over time she coached him and gave him precise instructions which he grew more and more adept at following. Sometimes he tripped up on size, for which he came up with an ingenious solution: a blow-up doll available in several sizes that could be inflated in front of salesgirls? Happily, such an item was not for sale.
When my mother was present on these sprees, he liked to play the bountiful patriarch: ‘Darling (pronounced Dah-link), if you like it, have several …’ was a common refrain, as he encouraged her to buy three or four pairs of shoes, or several cashmere sweaters or silk blouses in different colours. As a result, my mother always looked immaculate because her clothes suffered little wear and tear.
His one regret when it came to showing off the ornament of his beautiful French wife was not being able to afford to buy her a truly opulent full-length mink coat such as the luscious one that belonged to my flamboyant Italian godmother Luciana. An enthusiastic pioneer of bling, she wore her chocolate-coloured fur dripping with diamonds, even to the little trattoria down the street from her apartment in Venice.
On holiday with Luciana and her laconic Yorkshire husband, I was allowed to play dress-ups with her slinky sequined clothes and jewelled accessories. Accompanying it all with a raucous, macaw laugh and cigarette-infused rasp Luciana taught me can-can high kicks and not to be afraid of a full-length mirror, encouraging me to twirl unselfconsciously, striking vamping poses to work out my best angles. She was the closest thing to pure uncomplicated fun I had ever met in an adult and I adored her. When my parents were with Luciana, her effervescence infected the atmosphere. She was built for laughter with a whisky chaser.
Together in adjoining lavish hotel suites, Luciana and I rehearsed showgirl routines to perform as after-dinner floor shows for the benefit of my parents; childless, she was as much a child as I, refreshingly uninhibited by age when it came to silliness. She told saucy jokes and sprinkled conversation with liberal, genuine ‘mamma mia’s.
I loved to stroke Luciana’s mink, pretending it was a living creature. My mother didn’t care that she did not own one, perfectly content with a shoulder-covering stole, which she wore less frequently as it fell out of fashion. As her sympathy for animal rights increased, she sometimes hissed at women wearing fur in the street or said ‘dégoutant’ (‘disgusting’) loudly within earshot. Though she felt deeply guilty about a pair of sealskin boots, she continued to wear them as an act of penance.
Inexplicably, given his background, my father was enthusiastic about my mother adopting the traditional dress of Austria, which suited her voluptuous, narrow-waisted figure. The Tyrolean dirndl with its fitted low-cut bodice accentuated her ample bosom, while its full skirts concealed her wide hips. He bought her two: a daytime version in black with a white blouse and hausfrau red apron; and a full-length evening version in shades of deep mauve, offset by a necklace of amethysts and turquoise, which she wore to the opera, drawing many an admiring gaze.
Why, when he loathed manifestations of Austrian nationalism so that the sight of a loden coat was enough to make him froth at the mouth with rage, did he encourage her to dress like a chic version of Maria in The Sound of Music? It’s not as if you’d catch him in lederhosen or a boiled wool jacket with contrasting piping, horn buttons and toggles. To this day, the question mystifies us both.
The dirndl was also inflicted on me, reinforcing the notion that I was a doll to be dressed in various costumes. I also owned a painted silk kimono, complete with tortuous Japanese socks with their separate big toe, and absurdly fiddly side fastenings and a stiff cinching obi girdle with a large bow at the back. My mother liked to photograph me in this get-up with my hair pulled into a geisha’s bun, standing near her latest ikebana arrangements, waving a pleated and gilded fan, while balancing on the lacquered wooden shoes that completed the look.
Maman’s dramatic bone structure made her especially suited to hats. She wore a mannish riding bowler, a blue felt trilby, a Cossack-style fur and an assortment of straw hats from Thailand and Mexico. I was less confident but was given little choice. Despite protestations and tears, my mother insisted that I wear a black velvet beret with pompom and grouse feather as a teen. With the beret tilted at a perilous angle and hooked under one ear, I felt that bloody feather was like an arrow telling the world to look at me when I least wanted attention. But later on I loved rummaging among Maman’s hat boxes, finding the petalled and feathered confection she wore for her wedding. In my twenties I appropriated a fluffy fox-fur toque that made my head look like a chocolate truffle.
My mother’s taste in clothes spanned classic suits and folkloric ethnic wear: heavily embroidered peasant blouses, full skirts, quilted Indian jackets. She loved colourful paisleys and geometric prints but also neat twinsets, fitted jackets and evening wear that showed off her voluptuous cleavage and slim waist. She was elegant and stylish, a bourgeoise soignée, rather than a sexy groovy mum (or what today would so inelegantly be called a MILF).
When younger mums embraced the latest Carnaby Street look, wearing tiny miniskirts with broad belts slung loosely over their hips, with newly Sassoon shagged hair and wet-look patent boots, my mother resisted the fickleness of fashion: her hemlines never rose above the knee. Like any Frenchwoman she knew what her assets were and maximised those while concealing the features she disliked.
Once a year, when we were in the south of France for the summer, my father would take my mother to have a couple of new suits and dresses made at Fernand Desgranges, a second-tier couture house that was more affordable than Chanel. There, he took an active interest in selecting cloth and approving finishes and trims. When it was time for the final fitting to fix my mother’s hems, Papa would appropriate the seamstress’s velvet pin cushion from her wrist and get down on the ground to mark his preferred length, as my mother turned slowly on a raised plinth. I found these sessions excruciatingly boring, but now they are vivid in my mind—the only time I ever saw my father comfortable on the ground (he was useless at picnics), his face tilted upwards in admiration of his chic wife.
When I was a toddler, he bought me extravagantly hand-smocked dresses, layered over stiff and voluminous eyelet-lace petticoats that stood out like ruffs beneath my skirts. While I was pre-adolescent, Ponds ran a hugely successful skincare campaign that played on the idea that mothers and daughters who used their cold cream looked more like youthful twin sisters. My father embraced the cuteness of dressing me to look like my mother, hunting out dresses to match the cut and colour of hers.
The most elegant came from an exclusive designer in Nice in a box that was taller than me, emerging from a cloud of tissue paper. A pale duck-egg blue shift made of exquisitely fine gabardine, with a slightly military look: six flat disc-like small gold buttons arranged across the chest in three rows of two, and a rolled two-stranded belt that tied at the back of the waist. It was like wearing a piece of the morning sky.
‘Pure Balmain,’ pronounced my father, who had seen a similar style from the great couturier in one of the French glossy magazines he occasionally bought and that we pored over, page by page, after dinner, criticising every garment. Courrèges and Cardin got the thumbs down for being futuristic and gimmicky. He was more of a Dior man.
Another outfit he bought was a candy-pink silk and linen shift dress with a matching coat that would have been perfect attire for the cocktail party circuit—only I was barely nine at the time. It was very Jackie Kennedy—all it needed was a pillbox hat to complete the look and a pair of slim long white gloves. I wore it with patent shoes and white ankle socks to the ballet and grown-up occasions, fully aware that I looked a picture in it, catching the envious glances of mothers.
Later on, Maman became adept at dressmaking. She expanded her sewing domain from the kitchen to take over the dining room, a stealthy way of announcing that there would be no more formal entertaining. She cut and fitted silks and tweeds on a tailor’s dummy like a professional. Borrowing the technique from Chanel, she weighted her suit jackets with gold chains; copying a trick of the royal dressmaker’s, she sewed pennies into the hems of her dresses to prevent them being blown up by the wind. She also made many of my clothes. Some I hated. Once she perfected the technique for knife pleats and made me a pale-blue kilt I detested so much I took a pair of scissors and cut a small but unmissable window into the front panel, leaving no doubt about my feelings. It was the first time I asserted my own taste and refused to be dressed like a doll. It seems unbelievable now, but until I was fifteen, she laid out my clothes for school and I wore them unquestioningly.
While friends were confidently shopping in Carnaby Street and at Biba, I was a late developer when it came to discovering my personal style. I wore goody-goody dresses with none of the sophistication I craved. Maman liked to see me in puffy sleeves, swirling skirts and fitted waistcoats like a member of an Estonian dance troupe. She made me blouses and summer dresses in Liberty floral prints that suited an English rose complexion but looked wrong against my olive skin, as if I were a gypsy who had raided the closet of a Cornish milkmaid. For my first ball she made me a dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves, and while its narrow fit emphasised my slim figure, it had none of the vampish appeal of the slinkier, more sparkling and flesh-exposing dresses my friends wore.
Being French, my school was very appearance-conscious. It was important to keep up with trends: the crazes for cheesecloth, wet-look patent leather, denim … Mortifyingly, anything for which I expressed a desire was subjected to a jury on family outings, with both parents present, sitting in judgement outside changing rooms. I had to model every item, my father insisting I twirl so they could consider me from every angle. His verdict was always that everything was too tight. Shop assistants looked on in amazement at how intensely every garment was scrutinised and deliberated over. Sometimes I caught an expression of pity on their faces. Small wonder that these days I prefer to shop alone.
But back in the day, when my father was flush and proud of his success, he expressed it through showy materialism. Like many survivors of wartime privation, he was also a great believer in buying in bulk, whether he was purchasing food, jewellery, perfume or clothes. So he stocked up on duty-free on every trip, buying dozens of giant cartons of Benson & Hedges for colleagues and litre bottles of gin and Dior and Chanel fragrance to give as corporate gifts. My head teachers were always delighted to receive their end-of-year thank-you bottle of Je Reviens, L’Air du Temps or my mother’s favourite, Calèche, a potent androgynous scent that smelled of hay and leather.
Our most memorable shopping binge was in Milan. Planned and executed like a smash-and-grab operation, our raid on the flagship stores of luxury brands on the Via Montenapoleone was targeted, efficient, lethal. Like professionals, we cased the street the night before, scanning the windows of the most exclusive boutiques for the booty we planned to secure. Then, like locusts chewing through a field of wheat, we moved with speed along the glass-fronted vitrines, pointing, nodding, choosing in a kind of retail euphoria similar to a sugar hit. At the end of it, we emerged laden with bags, leaving the shop assistants in a state of shock.
I now think that there was an unconscious second motive for this obscene spending spree. Just a few years earlier, my father’s business had been nearly wiped out by a fraudulent accountant called Hamlett Isaacs. The fact that his protégé bore the name of one of my father’s most cherished Shakespearean characters only made the wound deeper. When Hamlett stole a quarter of a million pounds to feed a gambling habit and a taste for expensive cars (which rang alarm bells for my mother but my father disregarded), he did more than take my father’s money. He broke his spirit.
Every employee who stuck by my father through the tough years that followed agreed that he was never the same again. Humiliated, he never trusted anyone the way he had trusted Hamlett, for whom he had developed an almost fatherly affection. His dreams of expansion were ruined, and although the business recovered, it never achieved my father’s grandiose vision. He referred to the episode thereafter as ‘The Titanic’.
I was never fully aware of the extent of the devastation as I was at university at the time. I remember my mother saying they were receiving anonymous threatening calls in the middle of the night and urging me to stay away from home until things calmed down. (When one caller woke my mother, saying he was going to cut off my father’s balls and hang him from a tree, she replied with admirably cool presence of mind, ‘Jolly good,’ which cannot have been the expected response.)
Wanted by Interpol, Hamlett was arrested at Heathrow airport attempting to flee to his native Pakistan; he served three years in jail before being deported. The bank, which had failed in its duty of care, paid compensation for its part in the affair. But Hamlett made a fool of my father, and Papa never forgot it. Occasionally over the ensuing decades, when he was in the doldrums and business was bad, he expressed a murderous fantasy to hire a contract killer to exact his own form of revenge. To me, that Italian shopping rampage was, unconsciously, my father demonstrating to the world that Hamlett had not won. But it would not be the last time that he would deliver himself into the hands of conmen.