She had the kind of accent, so perfectly pitched, it signaled a lifetime of entitlement. That is what caught my attention and after that I couldn’t stop staring once the petulant mewing of her outrage broke through my headphone reverie. And then there was the way she was dressed , in a short black taffeta skirt and a beige camisole top under which she wore a tissue thin cashmere cardigan in greige.
She was stomping her feet in annoyance as she stood caught in the limbo between Business/Club and First Class. She was stomping her feet and her taffeta rustled and her bob swung and we all gathered that what had transpired was “absolutely unacceptable” . She stomped for emphasis and that is when the eyes zoomed to her brown suede Azzedine Alaia platform boots. They held her tiny frame up on a high perch. She was rich. She had to be. She wasn’t kept but actually reeked of :”Eau de Entitlement”. It coiled off her invisibly and yet indelibly.
Her blonde bob dipped so low, I couldn’t see her face. It was like a sheath, a sheet, shielding her face from my fascinated gaze. She was so lithe and delicately composed, I thought for a second that she was Japanese. But even when the bob swung , just for that split second to yield a glimpse of her ultra-high cheekbones, the flicker of that was insufficient to make a real judgement.
“I KNOW the difference between Business and First,” she mewed, outraged that her seat had been reassigned . She stomped those Alaia booties to demonstrate how well she knew her difference in classes. She was now summoning all her great powers of entitlement and the stewardess started to glean just how formidable, just how haute a petite young girl in Alaia could be. Who was she? So posh, so discombobulated at her downgrade? Famous in England? An Hieress? Or just part of the secret rich that seeks no magazine inches in their name?
Whoever she was, she was soon whisked away to First, to the class she knew that she belonged, the one that she had bought her ticket for, countless times on British Airway. I then concluded that the Girl In The Alaia Boots had to be a spectre . She was Fashion Made Flesh, more vibrant than any page, any street blog snap. She was that myth. She was of that species of Girls Who Really Wear Those Clothes.