CITY OF PRETTY Faking it at Fabergè
Every time I think I have come to one place, I reach another one – this is the relentless rollercoaster of London life – both geographically and emotionally. I have discovered some precarious facts about the agency I have been working with here, and since had to find a new one. This meant having to move out of the model apartment I was staying at for the first few months and onto the mercy of friends. The only surfing I get to do these days is on people’s couches. Since there have been no castings in the last few weeks due to the change-over, money is running low and I am now counting the coins. Needless to say, it’s working on my morale a touch – London is not a city to be broke in.
With impeccable timing, Flea extends an invitation – hers are always guaranteed mood lifters. The event of the evening, perhaps even the month, is Faberge’s launch of their iPad application. An English/South African acquaintance of ours, Claire, is the artistic director for the revival of the Russian luxury brand. Flea has arranged for me to come in under another woman’s name. On arrival I give my fake name. I watch the porter’s approach to me change drastically as she reads on the guest list that I am an important editor for an online magazine and not just a model taking a chance. Elegantly faked.
I am personally ushered up the grand marble staircase of the Royal Academy. A flute of champagne is encouraged into my hand as my coat sweeps off my shoulders. Then I am released into a room full of exquisitely dressed women and men. The event consists of three ballrooms filled to the brim with the most exquisite paintings, performance art and music, dance and video installations. Claire has left nothing unattended. The scent of white Lilies and rare perfume is in the air. Faberge eggs in glass terrines sparkle in the candlelight, as diamond chandelier earrings dangle dancingly off regal necks.
I lose myself in who these people are – a thousand worlds removed from the bubbly I was drinking from my pocket in Shoreditch two weeks ago, yet I am as comfortable here as I was in that pub. A to-die-for chic woman with silver hair and a velvet throw pulls a penguin-suit waiter with white gloves to the side and demands a tour of the kitchen as ‘I always judge events on the catering standards’. I imagine she owns so many precious things that she now seeks cheaper thrills to amuse herself. Most guests look every inch the part with understated glamour, whilst a few stick out as plus ones, nervously fumbling their half empty flutes and grabbing mouthfuls off canapé trays. I wonder where I fit in?
After the launch Flea and I have a nightcap at a member’s club off Bond Street. Sketch is an impressive three-story destination establishment for food, art and entertainment. The place is like a labyrinth, hiding away exquisite bodies draped around clean-cut men in Saville Row suits in every nook. Flea and I complete our glamorous night with a toast from a bottle of champers sent to us anonymously. I’m getting kicks from drinking free champagne whilst knowing that I’ll be sleeping on a couch tonight.
In this city of pretty it’s all about faking it until making it, and I have some catching up to do.