My mother died in 2004. It was March. She died quickly, a matter of weeks between her being diagnosed with a bad chest cold and it turning out to be heart failure. In many ways it was the least dramatic thing she ever did.
A few weeks before she got sick I had been lunchtime shopping in Prada on Bond Street, perusing with a friend. I had tried on a black dress, sleeveless, calf-length, pleated silk with a pale taupe chiffon strip at the waist. It was beautiful. I didn’t need it, but I did want it. Three weeks later I wore it to my mother’s funeral. I still call it my funeral dress. A good buy, it turned out.
I was about 16 and being set up on a date with Brian Ferry
I first learned of the power of a black dress in the late ’70s when I was about 16 and being set up on a date with Bryan Ferry by the late designer Antony Price. Ferry had had his heart broken by Jerry Hall, who had left him for Mick Jagger. I had waist-length blonde hair, and I think Antony was trying to cheer up his Roxy Music friend with something – or rather someone – he might enjoy. I don’t really remember much about the date other than being totally tongue-tied, but I do remember Antony zipping me into his famous black spiral-zipped dress in ciré satin (yes, the same one worn by Amanda Lear in Nova magazine in 1971). The zip ran from the top of a high collar and circled around the body to the bottom. Essentially, one could be “unwrapped like a gift”. We’ll park that story there.
