I have never been comfortable spending a lot on clothes. This is not
because I have no interest in the way I look, or because I have some
fundamental ideological opposition to designer labels; it’s just that I
don’t want to part with the asking price.
I used to live in Italy, where for every designer dress in a shop window there
is another, identical in styling and quality, to be found at a fraction of
the price – often produced by the same factory that made the original. For
years I had an “arrangement” with a warehouse where garments for some of the
top names were produced. I know what the cost price of a designer coat is
and, believe me, you pay a lot for that little slip of fabric bearing the
maestro’s name.
That is why I’m a fervent admirer of the current high street trend for copying
the catwalk, from Topshop to ASOS.com, where
the latest looks are knocked off at the double, cheap as chips, and
delivered to your door the next day. I can’t resist a bargain, and now that
the responsibilities of two children and a large mortgage (not to mention
the new puppy, Mars) preclude sneaky trips to Italy to stock up on the real
thing, cut-price imitations are my only hope.
It’s hard work, though. The cheaper end of the high street promises much but
delivers only sporadically, and you have to be a ruthless hunter. I have
learnt to guesstimate in seconds whether a garment will look a) OK; b) bad;
or c) terrible, as trying it on is out of the question (blaring music,
useless assistants, chaotic sale rails, tiny changing rooms). I have even
come to terms with the crazy sizing which means that I can be anything from
a 12 to an 18, a fact that used to send me into spirals of self-loathing.
I also find myself throwing away far more stuff than I used to. The
good-quality clothes left over from my younger days may not be quite the
latest fashion but they still look intrinsically classy: a much-loved
Whistles skirt; an Ungaro coat; a Moschino suit. The cheap stuff will
survive about ten washes before it’s fit only for the dog basket.
So, just as I have persuaded myself that expensive holidays are really rather
vulgar and that our London house is not (as it manifestly is) in a
thug-infested suburb but rather in an up-and-coming property hot spot, I
have convinced myself that this is what I enjoy – that shopping in elegant,
half-empty shops with helpful assistants, courteous loo attendants, large,
well-lit changing rooms and chic cafés is an unnecessary extravagance. And I
was making a fairly decent fist of it – until The Times decided to unleash
my inner Ivana Trump.
I am to swap wardrobes with the doyenne of stylish living, Lucia van der Post.
Not literally, of course, since Lucia is small and elegant and I am large
and lumbering; but she is to shop where I normally shop, while I am to have
the run of her regular stomping-ground: the second floor at Fenwick.
I would be lying if I said I had never before shopped at Fenwick – it was my
grandmother’s favourite place to meet for tea on day trips to London. But I
have never ventured seriously on to its second floor, where creations by the
likes of MaxMara, Joseph, Ishiko, Betty Jackson, Nicole Farhi, Kenzo, Issa,
Collette Dinnigan and DKNY dangle serenely from well-spaced hangers.
Browsing the rails, I feel the stirrings of a forgotten sense of excitement. I
have been given a hypothetical budget of £1,000 to secure myself an outfit,
coat included – and I soon realise that I could spend that sum five times
over. Here it is not a question of digging out the few viable garments in a
sea of junk; this is like walking into Aladdin’s cave.
I am being assisted by Mary, who directs me towards Ishiko and Joyce Ridings,
two collections that are both stylish and wearable. What strikes me is the
difference in quality from what I am used to: beautiful fabrics, interesting
textures and detailing, quirky flourishes. I try on an Ishiko coat, which
settles perfectly on my shoulders.
The psychological effects of trying on a garment that not only fits but is
comfortable and flattering are notable. I gain confidence. I pick out more
and more unusual and adventurous things. It occurs to me that the reason I
have lately become so addicted to black is that, when shopping on the cheap,
it is the safest option as it camouflages an imperfect cut and poor
workmanship. Here I can venture into patterns at least, and perhaps the
occasional splash of red. I pick out a long Ishiko skirt with appliqué red
roses and an almost Victorian line to it, and several other possibilities.
I try on my haul. The hit rate is about 85 per cent, compared with roughly 25
per cent on the high street. Eventually I choose the Ishiko skirt, a MaxMara
sweater and a Joyce Ridings coat – total cost, including a fabulous pair of
boots, over £1,000.
The clothes may fit me but will they fit my life? Flushed with success, I head
off to pick up the puppy and collect my daughter from school. The coat
receives an enthusiastic reception from Mars, who sinks his teeth into the
hem. I prise him off and proceed to the school gate, where one of the
mothers tells me how well I look.
At home it’s time to make tea. The coat, which was no doubt destined to nestle
on an oak hanger somewhere in the lower SWs, instead finds itself on an Ikea
hook. The puppy relieves himself, and my son has a small accident. Terrified
of ruining my MaxMara cashmere, I change into something less precious; the
skirt is not far behind.
The next day is Saturday and The Outfit, I’m afraid to say, remains draped
over my bedroom chair. It simply wouldn’t survive the day’s activities,
which include a trip to a bowling alley and a children’s birthday party. The
next morning, however, it’s off to church, so I go decked out in my Sunday
best. At the Sunday school crèche no fewer than three people ask me where I
got my coat. Others express surprise at how nice I look, which makes me
think that perhaps I haven’t been doing such a good job with my budget
clothes as I’d hoped.
As the week progresses, I become increasingly wedded to the Joyce Ridings
coat. It has that knack of making me look glamorous whatever else I’m
wearing, and by Friday I cannot imagine life without it. My only problem is
the lack of pockets – but I’d only fill them with puppy treats, anyway.
I have learnt two things from this experience. First, that not all designer
clothes are hype over substance – there is no substitute for quality and
cut. And secondly, that prolonged exposure to poorly made, disposable
fashion can seriously damage your sense of style. From now on I shall be
adopting the less-is-more approach to shopping. Now, who’s going to tell my
husband?
— SARAH VINE
‘The jacket didn’t fit’
I had never shopped in Primark before. I had ventured into its flagship
store once, when it opened, but one look at the crowds outside – chins set
square, elbows out, poised to ambush the sales racks – was enough to
convince me that, while Zara, Jigsaw and Marks & Spencer are well
acquainted with my credit cards, this shop was not for me.
Until now. The challenge I was set was this: could I find garments in Primark
that would see me through an entire day, including a smart working lunch and
an evening engagement? So it was off to Oxford Street again, this time with
firm intent.
Unless your heart lifts at the thought of rock-bottom prices, this is not a
joyful experience. It’s a long time since I last braved the new year sales
or was still shopping for gifts on Christmas Eve, but even those were
nothing compared with the scrum in Primark at 5pm on a Thursday.
All the same, one does find oneself strangely caught up in wonder at the
astonishing prices. Cropped black trousers, not too dissimilar from some
favourites by Issey Miyake, for £10. A blue/grey “woollen” (or, to be
precise, 27 per cent wool) coat for £35. Nice chunky knitwear for £8 and a
chic charcoal-grey sweater (cheekily called “Cashmere Touch”, even though
the cashmere content is just 4 per cent) for £8.
I chose an elegant skirt suit in dark grey, and a jacket with a nice collar,
three rows of double buttons and a high-waisted peplum. For £15 it seemed
incredible value. I then chose a flared matching skirt (£8) and very sassy
black high-heeled shoes with a metallic heel (£10), and finished off with a
big brown bowling bag (£6). If you exclude my underwear (I should have
indulged in some excellent shapewear, which holds in whichever lumpy bits
you least wish to show), my head-to-toe outfit cost a grand total of £39
(top right).
I happened to be having lunch in Regent Street with one of my most
fashion-alert friends, a former model who always looks divine, and felt
obliged to warn her that I would be wearing Primark just in case she didn’t
wish to be seen in such shabby company. She told me that when she first saw
me she assumed that I was going to be changing into my Primark clothes
later, so un-Primark did they look. However, on closer inspection we agreed
that while superficial impressions were great, the clothes didn’t bear too
much scrutiny.
The jacket looked as if it had come from a much more highfalutin store but
didn’t fit very well: it needed a sharper curve to the waist, and the
shoulder didn’t sit quite as it should. The skirt – an elegant shape and cut
with flares – was (this was my fault) too large, which made me realise that
Primark’s sizing is meant to flatter. It was a 14 and I was a Primark size
10. If it had fitted better and I’d had time to shorten the hem, the outfit
would have looked much better.
As for the bag – in brown and black tweed with a gold fleck and bronze
“leather” binding and straps – it was a good shape, very capacious and quite
chic. It had just one small zipped inner pocket and none of the solidity or
sensuous appeal of more expensive numbers – but with a £6 price-tag swinging
on the zip, how could it?
When I came to change into something dressier for the evening, the suit looked
and felt just as good as it had in the morning (as I recently overspent on a
Lanvin dress that creases terribly, I see that as something of an
achievement on Primark’s part).
I felt happier in the evening outfit: a slim, sleeveless silvery-gold-grey
“brocade” shift dress (£12), over which I put a cute cropped black jacket
that had a metallic stripe going through it (£15). Being simpler shapes,
they showed their cheaper origins less obviously. Unfortunately I didn’t
have an event that evening, but I would happily wear it to the opera, a
party, book launch or dinner, and I shall keep it on stand-by for such an
occasion. The shoes were gorgeous, as comfortable as any other high heels in
my wardrobe, and lasted the day with ease, though other styles in the store
looked plain tarty.
Overall, my impression was positive. It was the buying experience that would
prevent me from returning, which is probably in part down to age and stage
of life. I recall only too well the days when we were paying off a mortgage,
school fees and all the rest, and in that situation I’d probably brave the
Primark scrums. But a trip to a chic boutique, Harvey Nichols or Browns is
balm to the frenzied soul – they even smell delicious – and provides an
education in what fashion is all about. At Primark you face a bunfight. And
even if I could face it I would never wear head-to-toe Primark, just as I
would never wear any other label exactly as shown on the catwalk. I’d pick
out the gems, such as the shoes, and team them with costlier numbers. Do it
that way and you save money and have fun. And I’d bet that nobody would ever
know.
— LUCIA VAN DER POST
