Strapless evening gown modelled on chrysanthemum petals for the bodice—or some other flower. Tone of parchment; faintest orange perhaps. (Early-mid season. It was not orange blossom: the tree in the backyard provided good reference.) Collins Street certainly the location for such a vision, even if down the hill a bit from the Paris end. (What used to be the Paris end.) Mid afternoon. Not unexpected really, despite the hole George’s had left in the street. Glory of a girl. Glorious to behold in the dress certainly. A young Prince’s heart was supposed to hold out against something like that? Not likely. (Fashion working a treat as nothing else. Design. The whole town runs on it. Our valuable mining.) An image to remain in the mind long into deepest night. TAFTS - The Pen People, on the Arcade corner. Mont Blanc and related stationery. For elite pen-pushers—cheques, contracts, deeds of arrangement. Would be something to draw the girl from behind the counter somehow, on the pretext of seeing the gleaming nibs in the display cabinets. See her swan the bottom half of the fabric across the floor tiles. Worth a try next time with a dinner jacket and hankie in the lapel pocket, breezing in the door. Was her hair up?... Daughter of the pen and quill baron formerly of some luscious estate back in the old dart. A coup and a half that’d be... Check her out sometime. One fine day she’s bound to reappear.
NB. The Age today carried the story and accompanying photograph of the dress Kate Middleton wore that turned young Will’s mind from platonic to supersonic.
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