Unfashionably late
as an experiment designed to test the limits of human endurance — or human amiability, at least — asking a person to take notes at a press conference when they’re feeling a bit hot and bothered hardly qualifies. It’s nothing compared to trying to eat spaghetti while spinning in a tumble dryer, or being made to play football while wearing binoculars: two of the fiendish punishments devised for contestants on those Japanese game shows that Clive James used to make fun of on TV, when I was a boy.
Still, I was struggling. It was 10am on a steamy Thursday morning in Ginza, Tokyo. My flight had landed three hours earlier. I hadn’t slept, or showered. Bleary-eyed, lank-haired, I caught sight of myself in a mirror and was surprised to see that, rather than a pork dumpling drowning in a bowl of warm broth, which is what I felt I looked like, what I actually resembled was something far less interesting: a jet-lagged media executive in a crumpled suit, huffing and, for good measure, puffing as well.
So, while the man I had crossed continents to interview, all 85 years of him, stood straight as a chopstick and chilled as a can of cold green tea in a stifling conference room above his flagship Japanese boutique, talking extempore to serried ranks of well-drilled journalists, immaculate in their personal grooming, this reporter slowly slid down the wall he’d been leaning against, balanced momentarily on the corner of a trestle table, and ultimately pooled in a corner, a small puddle of melted magazine editor.
It might have not been such a bad look, it might have gone unnoticed, had I not been so late, in the first place, for this, the first appointment on my two-day assignment shadowing Giorgio Armani as he prepared to stage a fashion show in Tokyo’s National Museum.
In my defence, the timing of Mr Armani’s press conference had changed while I was in the air. A note, passed to me as I attempted to check into my hotel, informed me that I was expected promptly, across town. Pausing to admire, even through my rising panic, the beautiful calligraphy of the hotel’s message-taker, I deposited my bags with the concierge, jumped into a taxi (much overenunciating of the words “Ginzah!” and “Towah!” and feverish pointing at Google Maps) and, when I jumped out at the other end, into the soupy morning, I discovered that there is more than one Ginza Tower in Ginza, and the building I was standing outside, in what was now approaching despair, was not the one I was looking for. I hailed another cab (more overenunciating of the words “Ginzah!” and “Towah!”, this time with added “Arrrmarrrnee!” and more feverish pointing at Google Maps) to the correct Ginza Tower, which I stood outside, making frantic phone calls to people who were inside, trying to get them to come out and let me in.
For the editor of a men’s style magazine to be late for one meeting with Giorgio Armani may be regarded as a misfortune; to be late for a second meeting looks like carelessness. To be dishevelled, and perspiring, and hyperventilating on both occasions… let’s just say the optics aren’t great.
My first full week in this job was the first week of January 2011. Rather than heading home on the Friday evening, perhaps stopping off at the pub for a pint or 17 to decompress, I took a taxi to Heathrow and boarded a flight to Milan, for my first exposure to that city’s men’s fashion week. At that time, the person with the contract for selling advertising space in Esquire to the Italian fashion houses was a prototypical Milanese smoothie in a camel cashmere overcoat, all salt and pepper hair and wolfish grin: Luciano Bernardini, a high priest of the fashion conclave.
Luciano had been on the phone to me already, on my first day in fact, to introduce himself and to pass on some good news: he had arranged a welcoming drink for me, to celebrate my elevation to my new post, to be hosted by no less a figure than the Godfather of Italian fashion, Giorgio Armani. This Champagne anointment would occur at 7pm on Friday, at Mr Armani’s own home in the city.
I made appreciative noises and signed off with what I felt was a confident, even ballsy, “Ciao, grazie!” But there was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The 7pm thing bothered me. Actually, all of it bothered me. I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t know what to wear. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know where to stand. I worried I would not be able to force my face into the correct expression. (What is the correct expression?) I had hoped to have some time to get my bearings, find my feet, before I was presented to the key players in the fashion industry. All of that bothered me, but it was the 7pm thing that bothered me most. My flight landed at 5.30pm. How could there possibly be time to get through arrivals, find my driver, and make it through the Friday evening traffic to the Armani residence?
The flight was delayed. Of course it was. There was fog over Linate Airport. (There is, I have subsequently learned, always fog over Linate Airport.) I called Luciano from Heathrow. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s always fog over Linate,” he said. “It will be OK,” he said. “Mr Armani is looking forward to meeting you,” he lied. After three or four weeks sitting on the tarmac, we took off. I spent the flight in a panic, looking at my watch. By the time we’d disembarked, decanted into minibuses for the drive (200 or 300 miles?) to the queue for passport control, I was already 20 minutes late for my drink with Mr A. I called Luciano. Don’t worry, he said. The car is waiting, he said. You’ll make it, he said.
It was closer to 8pm than 7 when I spotted the driver holding a board with my name on it. He had obviously been apprised of the situation because he took my bag from me and began to run, at some speed, through the arrivals hall and out into the car park, me chugging along behind, breathless, checking my phone for updates from Luciano.
Senior operatives were scrambled from across Milan to run interference for me, as they say in America. The most senior of the senior operatives — the then editor-in-chief of American Esquire, David Granger — was, in fact, American himself, so running interference came naturally to him. It fell to David to make small talk with Mr Armani and his consiglieres while everyone pretended my lateness was not embarrassing, or unprofessional, or plain rude.
The drive from the airport lasted the lifetimes of several ancient civilisations. The door of the car was opened by a strikingly handsome young man in a sober black suit, beautifully tailored to accentuate his already classical proportions. He looked at me pityingly, as well he might. I was led through a spotless courtyard into a modernist interior, where other men in dark suits, each more gorgeous than the last, nodded at me seriously as I loped past, redfaced, tucking in my shirt and sweating for Britain, for Italy, for Europe and the world.
Finally, I came into a large reception room. There I was confronted by a group of dapper middle-aged men, all in a row, each exuding taste, elegance, success. Only their tight smiles gave them away. At the end of this row of stylish gentlemen stood the most instantly recognisable fashion designer in the world, the then septuagenarian billionaire Giorgio Armani. He was holding a Champagne flute, which he handed to me. For a second it seemed like he might always have been there, forever holding that glass, waiting for me. Possibly it felt to him that he had. Luciano Bernardini, leonine in his self-possession, padded forward to make the introductions.
I offered an unctuous sort of half-bow to my host. And nodded and said, “Thank you.” And Mr Armani nodded back and made a gracious gesture with his arm, taking in the room and the people in it, as if to say, “Welcome to our world.” David Granger made the toast, wishing me luck in my new job, and remarking, somewhat mischievously, on the good start I’d already made. Everyone raised his glass. And then it was over. Back at the hotel, Granger bought me a Negroni and clapped me on the back (quite hard) as if to say, not to worry, kid, it’s all gravy from here.
Since then I have had a number of occasions to meet Mr Armani, but always briefly, and always in busy rooms surrounded by other people. In Japan, having recovered myself after that first press conference, I got to meet him properly, and to talk to him about his life and career.
I put in my first request for an interview with Mr A shortly after that bungled Champagne baptism. He made me wait for it. Quite right, too. ○