Courting moguls and mobsters

I mentioned that my folks run our press clipping service. Only, we haven't got any, so they save stuff about other people for now, that may be of interest / inspiration.  One such article saved from the weekend's Sunday Times Property Section concerned Leon Max, the Russian-born American citizen billionaire clothing designer. He has just restored a grand old house in England in preparation for the expansion of his retail empire in the UK. I was a regular at his Max Studio stores when I lived in LA, they gave me a VIP card no less: they know how to make a lady feel special. The equivalent over here might be Karen Millen - where you go for a classy party look. So after the leaden news was delivered, and Mark pronounced he was off to get plastered, I made like a mini cab and dropped my parents off at their classy party at the House of Lords (a Diamond Wedding celebration) and went home to strategize. The article mentioned that Mr and Mrs Max are connoisseurs of architecture and that they used to have a fine modern house in Pasadena. Googling the company HQ gave me a Pasadena number - I figured I was on the right track (have recently been reading Raymond Chandler, another Dulwich kid, so if a sleuthy style seeps like a bloodstain on a plaid car rug, the one hurridly stuffed behind the spare wheel of the two-toned Buick Roadmaster, you'll know why). 
A young woman answered the phone and I pictured her at a desk in a tastefully grand reception area, temperature controlled to the perfect nuance in long sleeved fine knit over silky shirt to repel the chill of the air conditioning that was itself fighting the midday Californian heat. Despite that ongoing conflict, it was calm and quiet in the back ground. She gave me her full attention as I explained how I would appreciate so much (fluent as I still am in West Coast) if she could let me have an e-mail address for somebody who could convey correspondence onto Mr Max. She regretted that she could not give out his e-mail. I totally understood, but if there was a personal assistant perhaps, or some other executive even with whom I could communicate - essentially, anyone whom I might address personally, who was not an "info@", who would be kind enough to forward my message on, that would be simply marvellous. 
"I could be that person," she purred. 
Lawanda, she now revealed, was her name. And to me, at that moment, she was La very Wonder(ful).
I duly crafted my cold calling introduction to Mr Max and tried to explain in three paragraphs who we are and what we need and that if there was the slightest chance he might be interested to see some designs they could be sent for his appraisal prior to his hauling us out of the pooh with a golden winch.


The weekend hours went by, I sang at a wedding party, France played Romania, the temperature soared back up in London and the sky turned Pasadena blue. By Sunday night there was no reply but I had sent it at 4.55pm Pacific Coast Time on Friday evening. I stuck my head in Facebook. 

Now, back in January, Mark and I were in New York City to launch a collection he had worked on. Through the a propos connections made for us by our friend Brian we were invited to present ourselves at #4 Times Square, to wit, Condé Nast head quarters, yes, to Vogue magazine its very self. Stepping out of the Chelsea Hotel - where we had taken the Sid'n'Nancy suite (see photo above), scene of her violent demise - Mark dived into the deli next door for a pack of nervous smokes (don't let it be said that nothing good came of smoking). We got talking to a gentleman who was waiting on his tuna melt, we petted his little lap dog and he introduced himself as Chris Capone - scion of Scarface HIS VERY SELF. Dressed in a sheared mink jacket, he offered to take us for a shot of courage in the bar next door and would present us with a signed copy of his autobiography. Forward a few fashion months and Mark designed some drop crotch gangster striped strides with mogul-mobster fur collared jackets in honour of the meeting, part of the dandy criminal theme for Autumn-Winter 2011 - obsessive compulsive criminals are often fastidious in their attention to personal appearance after all (not wishing to suggest that Signor Capone or any of his line were obsessively involved in anything other than the benevolent redistribution of liquor). Criminally debonair or simply insanely stylish - so sue us for that. Chris is liking this article on how Prohibition gave Capone the publicity that made him a star:
http://www.salon.com/entertainment/tv/feature/2010/10/11/boardwalk_empire_al_capone
Incidentally, when my grandma spent a lot of time in Philadelphia during the Roaring Twenties, they had a hooch still in the basement of their house on Walnut Tree (or was it Peach Tree?) Avenue, just off Rittenhouse Square anyway, and the Chief of Police would call round with his flask to be refilled.
Sunday night I saw that Chris had posted an hilarious trailer for a show about his roots and I was suddenly reminded to show him a picture of the suit, hoping it would please him although it may not now get made. He wrote back with the same positive, life-enhancing energy he had exhibited when we met him. How wonderful, he said, that I should tell him all this just as he was considering Capone Clothing. How much money, he wondered, was required?