Once upon a time in a peep-toe biker boot…

She laughed, dirty. Tacky lipstick smudged around her cupids bow. In the hazy light of the Reebok Lounge she is like a mannequin, sculptural, idealised by my curtain of Jack. Suddenly sleek, marble like an ancient Greek Aphrodite, through my eyes she is sexual, enticing.

I cannot stop looking at her, and oddly, I despise her. Disgusted by her backcombed bleached hair, her smooth dewy skin, her tight tube dress, fantastic sheer tights and sexually charged peep-toe biker boot heels, I laugh along falsely at the banter. The covetable boots cup her feet, elongating her legs, gripped tightly; the laces bound her velvet skin. Why can I not look so casually chic, so relaxed, so sexy and rough, bitter and sweet, perfect and hideous at the same time? She oozed confidence, cheek, balls. Real balls. I try to stand near her, cold in her sequined shadow.

Teasing, her smile signals a guy across the room to approach her. The crowds are a pick and mix of apparel and shapes; stars, studs, net headpieces, lame legs, shaved skulls, floral angles, diagonal zips, bleached denim, ripped hosiery, a cloud of raw fashion, superiority. The Super Super Magazine party revolves around Namalee and the release of Wonder woman themed Reebok trainers amidst photos by ‘Billa’ that shout from the walls. The music fills the room with unity and warmth; friendship-groups cling like cobwebs, glued with spirits. Magazines litter the floor like pebbles on a pirate-infiltrated beach. Her sketched eyebrows arched over her head, suggestive and destructive. I watch her close.

Her and the guy circle each other, I watch him cover her in his eyes. Her peep-toe leather boots twist coyly as their gazes meet. The gold buckles glimmer in the flashing lights, like skyscrapers, erect from the ground her stiletto heels raise, objectify her. A platform for her voyeurs, she is charged, fetishised. She draws the curious eye further, deeper. Tarnished by her mischief her heels are dull and worn. Perfect insanity. I hate her.

But, oh…to be in her shoes.

Once upon a time in a favourite jacket…

Surely, she thought, surely not.

The rain seeped through the clouds, spitting a sticky glaze over London town. She looked out of the window with heavy, irritated lids and dancing eyebrows. Despite being perfectly, wonderfully, impractically not waterproof, come rain, shine or nuclear warfare she remained loyal to her favourite soft leather jacket.

The running silk thread through the core of any outfit, a reason to skip rather than walk, with buttery soft leather, gilded surface and silky interior, her gold vintage leather jacket smelt of youth, girls and the start of her sparkle. The crumpled lapels enveloped her chest like a protective mother, justifying any outfit choices, cuddling grumpy moods and injecting belief into her stance. She felt sparkly inside it, like a truffle in a shiny foil wrap, warm when there was a breeze, cool when the sun smiled. Like a Byzantium casket, locked inside it is memories, a feeling, a desire to be a certain way, a longing to be a different shape from the others.

As her very fabulous and wise mother would say, it is not the clothes, but how you ‘work it’ inside them. Blessed with amiable sophistication, her mother carries herself with poise, elegance and most of all respect for her choice of outfit. Be it a baggy pair of boyfriend jeans, a sky-high pair of stilettos with a pencil skirt, or her favourite Miumiu biker boots and playful frock; she exudes class, control and covetable confidence. It was in her she found inspiration, herself. A childhood of decadent shoes, vintage brooches and shiny jackets.

The favourite gold jacket spoke about evenings in the river’s sweet cinnamon breeze, tip tap’s through Covent Garden armed with enthusiasm, and vintage pub lunches with old diamonds and homemade lasagne with curly fries.

She subsided to her wardrobe, cursing the rain for even allowing her to doubt it. A white and blue floral pattern, ankle socks and a topknot bun.

Surely.