I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was six years old, it was a Saturday night. I was crouching at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the banisters overlooking the entrance hall. It was my treat, to be allowed to stay up past my bedtime and watch the dinner party guests of my parents arrive. The men wore their suits and ties, a uniform of tailoring. The women, my mother’s friends, were visions in the richest colours I’d ever seen. Burgundies, emeralds, aubergines, midnight blues and jet blacks came through my front door one by one, each escorted by a suited arm, carrying a beaded evening bag over one wrist, a bouquet of flowers in the other arm. I used to sit and listen to the feminine giggles; the masculine laughs, to the pop of champagne corks, and wonder what they were talking about, when I would be old enough to join them.
I suppose it was my first glimpse into the world I’m still fascinated by, a six year olds impression of what a fashion show was. It was a parade of perfection, one woman after the other, each swathed in luxurious materials, in velvet and silk and embellishment. These women were to me, the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen.
However, this show was not the only reason I remained awake. It was the sound of my mother’s heeled shoes I listened for, tiptoeing up the stairs after she had served canapés, thinking I was fast asleep, stepping delicately into my bedroom so as not to wake me. She would lean over my bed, envelop me into her soft, velvet covered arms and whisper “good night, darling” into my ear and kiss my cheek. The sweet, sophisticated scent of Chanel No.5 filled the air around me, and lulled me even after she had gone back downstairs, because I knew I was safe with her nearby, and would be forever. It was only then that I could fall asleep.
Yesterday morning, my mother sprayed No.5 across her neck and wrists before she left for work. She kissed my cheek, and wished me a nice day.
I felt six years old, and safe, again.
