J.Cruel
Constant. Sartorial. Wonderment.Archive for April, 2009
The Jumpsuit Designer’s Daughter’s Friend
The invitation said “festive holiday casual-formal.” The holiday was Lord Monbatomby de Sassie’s birthday. She had not seen His Lordship since that regrettable evening aboard the Emperor’s zeppelin, when the Archduke of Bizzlebee (that old gas bag) was found playing with matches near the other, more flammable gas bag (although the Archduke’s views on the Falklands were quite incediary). At the time, she was passed out in the rear lavatory. (Too much Creme de Cassis.) When she awoke, they had landed in Svillandia, and His Lordship was gone, though she found his monocle lodged in a most unlikely place.
Nothing from him since then. Not a single cherry cordial, when once he had sent them by the hundred. (He liked to watch her eat them.) And now she was expected to spend his birthday weekend curtsying to a gelding and riding round his estate on his wife . . . or was it the other way around?
Finally. The perfect chance to return his monocle, and the perfect outfit to do so in.
Harem pants jumpsuit in black silk with peek-a-boo bodice. Hide your emotions. Hide them in your pants.
Which Shoe Tastes Best?
Spring is in full swing and summer’s in the air! That means it’s time to stop carving up your bootstrap leather and start thinking about sandal season. Any well trained depressionista knows that to find the best tasting shoes, it’s best to start early so you don’t have to shiv someone in the bread line.
Death on the Runway
Inspector Chameau was front row at the Balenciaga show when they told him he was needed in another tent. A model was dead. “Seal the doors,” he said. “Our murderer must not be allowed to escape.”
“There are no doors,” they said. “It’s a tent. It only has flaps.”
The good detective stroked his beard. “May God have mercy on our souls,” said he.
The murder weapon was an eyeliner brush, lodged in her jugular. With his magnifying lens, Chameau examined it closely. “I can tell you right now who committed this murder. She has left her calling card. Officers, bring me Estee Lauder.”
When everyone just stood there, he said, “What? Go on. I’m not getting any younger.”
“Listen, lady,” someone said. “Estee Lauder’s dead too.”
How convenient. Inspector Chameau twiddled his moustache and gazed around the tent. Then he saw her. She was propped against a rack of clothing, drinking champagne through a straw, wearing a gown the color of ashes. A vision from his past. La belle dame sans merci. She was gaunt, haggard, fabulous. He remembered how it felt to have her sticklike limbs bent around him, the jabbings of her elbows, the way he used to eat grapes from the hollows between her vertebrae.
She walks for Lanvin. She walks for Chanel. She walks the cold hill’s side.
The case went unsolved. Chameau was found a week later, horribly disfigured. An APB was issued for Bobbi Brown.
Calf-skin jacket. Bias-cut silk gown. Style is a debt we must all repay. Price upon request.
