Frock history

AH! the cocktail dress, that unassuming frock that has a way of making the woman wearing it feel feminine, powerful and beautiful. It seems to have been with us forever. It’s like a relative we’ve always known, but in actuality know little about. Indeed, what’s its history? How has it evolved since its creation in the 1920s. Who has designed some of the most memorable? Style.com senior features editor Laird Borrelli-Persson explores these and other questions in a petite, new picture book fittingly titled “The Cocktail Dress.” The book's cover art is a publicity photo from "Breakfast at Tiffany's" featuring Carrie Bradshaw's spiritual girlfriend, the irrepressible Holly Golightly and Cat. “It was an interesting challenge to say something further about something so simple,” said Laird-Borrelli, who is deftly handling well-wishers and media types at Tuesday night's (9 June) book publication party at Club Monaco’s Prince Street store. “The cocktail dress is a short, simple dress but it encompasses so much.” ... Meanwhile, it was not the Prosecco or poor eyesight or bad lighting in Club Monaco. Put it down to the fact that all handsome men bear a striking resemblance. Why else would I confuse Style.com editor Dirk Standen with A-Rod (above)? Thanks to the Style.com shutterbug, I did not approach the slugger for a quote ...


CE QUI SE PASSE ICI?
Pst! Pst! Guess who's having a do right around the corner from Club Monaco on Greene Street under the cover of darkness and the threat of rain? It is nearly 10 o'clock and it looks like this party is just jumpin’ off from my (disad)vantage point at the bottom of the stairs where I can see several impossibly handsome, black-clad servers standing erect like sentries – as they do at all of these affairs – holding trays of drinks. Rather late for this sort of soiree in this quartier. None other than Louis Vuitton. The very cordial p.r. mave’s story: it’s a “very private” shopping event for special customers. Umm hmm. No media allowed she informs Yours Truly as an earnest look of sorrow scrolls across her beautiful, lineless face. She didn’t yield one inch, not even after I shared my witty, little anecdote about how at a certain time of day one can always count on that long line of Japanese tourists waiting outside the Paris store at the corner of the Champs Elysees and George V to drop beaucoup euros on anything bearing those famous initials. No media, not even my former employer, Who Won’t Be Named. It all seems rather fishy – likely some Franco scheme to takeover the fashion world and bar belly-bearing garments. Still, I don’t make a fuss. By now the Prosecco is imposing itself. And my feet, propped up on 4.253-inch heels – need I say more? I’ll live another day, I reason, to challenge LV the Great.