A Gathering of Swans *

Carmen, Iman, Coco and me.

NOVEMBER 2019. I have invited Carmen Dell Orefice, Iman and Coco Rocha to dinner at Waverley Inn in Greenwich Village, in a snowstorm. Carmen is coming from Park Avenue (and Downtown is another country to her), Iman from a business meeting and Coco from her home in Westchester. With this in mind, I arrive at 7.30 for our 8.00 rendez-vous. By the time Iman materialises barely five minutes later (her meeting ended early) I have been bought a drink by someone who has overheard my surname and convinced themselves that I live in Downton Abbey, “I should never have lent them the house,” I say, loathe to disappoint.  

We go to our table, a discreet booth watched over by Ed Sorel’s witty and richly detailed portraits of legendary New Yorker’s past. I first met Iman 20 years ago and one of us at least has neglected to age. Coco arrives wearing the kind of Dolce Vita eyeliner that makes me happy I bought along a brush pen to draw with, followed by Carmen who has spent the afternoon at her Doctors, ”I am in the best shape he’s ever seen, for someone who is falling apart,” she jokes. Carmen is 88 (she doesn’t mind you knowing) and has been modelling since 1945. A unique record. Are we drinking? Why not. And ordering; Chicken pot pie for Coco and me, Steak for Carmen, Salmon for Iman.

Conversation is lively and takes in their children, who range in age from Coco’s 18 month-old son to Carmen’s 67 year old daughter, the catwalk (Mugler! Gaultier!) and photographers, then and now. Carmen has brought along an original 1980s transparency of Iman, taken by her great collaborator and friend, Norman Parkinson. Iman, who has never seen it before, is delighted. Politics simmers but mercifully is not met head on. You would need to be Edvard Munch to record that. No one mentions the weather underlining the fact we are not in London.

I start to draw, and let the evening take on it’s own rhythm. By the time we are ready to leave I reflect that fashion often gets - and sometimes deserves - a bad wrap. True, the industry has its share of egomaniacs and airheads (no names, no pack drill) but it has also brought me into the orbit of these women for whom integrity and humour, style and substance are second nature. That’s before you get to beauty. Out on the street, I feel a rush of envy. Of myself.

*With apologies to Truman Capote.

This article originally appeared in AIRMAIL