My grandfather once worked as a fabric cutter down on Savile Row. He was fourteen years old when he left school to take up his apprenticeship. The year was nineteen sixty-three, and my old Granddad Norman was out there working in the cellars of Anderson & Sheppard, slicing and dicing the sharkskin, gabardine, herringbone and tweed the great and the good and the filthy, stinking bleeding rich demanded for their bespoke formalwear — finely tailored to flatter their frames no matter how grotesquely Reubenesque the lap of luxury had left their decadent selves — just as the Sixties were beginning to gain their swing. A teenage boy from lowly Maryland Point, deep in the dark, dishevelled, desolate depths of the post-war East End, thrust into the epicentre of an imminent cultural earthquake that would soon enough conquer the entire bloody world: the West End of London, where Judy Garland died, John, Paul, George and Ringo thrived, where the Who? became The Who, The Stones went rock and rolling and The Kinks found Paradise. Where the Mods rode glistening pearly white Lambrettas into war with leather-armoured Rockers charging astride throaty, thunderous, triumphant black steeds of British steel and burning rubber; where the Skinheads moon-stomped fascists to the dirt with the syncopated rhythm of a Trojan Records tune; and Mary Quant’s miniskirt became the icon of a Girls’ Own Revolution. Where the jet-set were the in-thing, Fame and Fortune carried on the wing of a Pan-Am plane from LA to Monte Carlo, and the International Playboy was king…

 The Americans loved Savile Row. Loved his Anderson & Sheppard in particular. An awful lot of tailors around about that corner of Mayfair were awfully strict and stuffy about who they would make suits for. No hoi polloi, no riff raff, no revolting nouveau-riche commoners with more money than taste and no sense of style whatsoever, was the adage of many of the oldest heads on the Row; they would never dare permit a gentleman inside, no matter his status or wealth, unless he had specifically been invited by the manager or the master tailor to have a suit made for them; appointments were necessary, and they were granted by, not requested or bought with sheer financial clout from, tailors whose appearances and exclusivity they had fought so hard to secure over the years. Anderson & Sheppard, on the other hand, were nowhere near as picky over who bought a suit from them so long as they had the cold, hard cash to pay for it; therefore its clientele tended to sway towards the globetrotting Hollywood celebrity – the Cary Grants, the Fred Astaires, the Frank Sinatras of the world – by that point in time, a little old hat, but complete baby-money upstarts compared to the dukes and lords and viscounts certain other establishments on the Row served. Yes, the transatlantic greenback adored my grandfather’s A&S above all other tailors in London; but sadly, all this money the shining stars of American radio and silver screen spent upstairs, in its opulent, mahogany panelled showroom, brought with it a considerably irritating cost.

You see, in the early Sixties, while wartime bomb-holes still abounded across the cities of Great Britain, and the country was still struggling to recover from the War, the United States at large was in the midst of the biggest economic boom in history. The country was responsible for more than half the world’s output, wealth and consumption; and as such, the average American had become very rich indeed, to say the least. Rich enough that a middling family could now afford to join the jet set and jaunt across the Atlantic for a long weekend in London. Rich enough that the Macmillan government were bending over backwards to accommodate them in fancy new hotels, slapped up anywhere they could find to plonk them, no matter even if they loomed above the gardens of Buckingham Palace and compromised the security of the Royals, just so they could come over here and collectively dump whole wheelbarrows of dollars all across the West End, and shore up the Treasury’s coffers. These very average middle-class Americans were certainly wealthier than their British counterparts – overpaid, overfed, oversexed and over here, even more so than the GIs that flooded the country during the War – but though they were rich enough that they could make it over here to London and bathe in the radiant lavishness of Mayfair, walk those gorgeous gold-paved streets and squares that millionaires made their stomping ground, dreaming they were decked out in that shining silver necklace from Asprey’s, that shimmering space-age dress from Paco Rabanne, that fur coat from Dior, those bejewelled high heels from Vivier all the while they sauntered up and down the length of Bond Street, certainly, they were nowhere near so that they could actually afford to purchase or partake in any of the luxuries that Mayfair permitted the lady or gentleman of true wealth.

Not that that stopped them from pretending they were gentlemen of true wealth. Making out that they were proper international playboys, just stopping by in the Old Smoke en route to Cannes or Saint-Tropez, dinner in The Ivy, cigar from Davidoff and drinks at the Ritz before picking up the Aston for their Riviera tour. Did anyone ever buy their shtick? My grandfather certainly didn’t. Nor did anyone else on the Row.

Peering up from the cellar windows, glancing in from the back room, he could spot the Great American poseurs coming from a mile off. They would swagger quite unnaturally as they walked, grabbing at their belt and hoisting their trousers about ungainly guts grown fat upon mountains of processed food and TV dinners, and puffing on cheap tobacco between blazing white teeth as broad as tombstones – a smile intended to convince a man of his brazen, rugged confidence, but which confirmed him merely a new-clothed Emperor for whichever tailor would be graced with his presence to delight in declaring his nudity. A middle-management man from the Midwest making out he was some Texan oil baron. How sorry. How sad. 

And when they did come in, they’d paw at everything. They’d want to see every fabric, every worsted, every pattern and print they had in the showroom, and run their flabby, oily fingers all over them like they were stroking the fur of some mangy old mongrel. They’d see a photograph of Winston Churchill, or Clark Gable, or some such luminary hanging from the wall besides a set of measurements and sketches – perhaps an old blazer – and they’d demand to engage whatever poor sod commanded the showroom that afternoon in lengthy, asinine conversation about it, at the end of which they’d always crack a terrible joke to avoid having to admit they knew nothing about the gentleman they’d drawn our assistant into discussing at their behest. ‘Ah, I see you’ve designed a suit for Pablo Picasso before,’ they’d say. ‘Feller shoulda tried to pick up a new pair of fancy glasses while he was in town. Maybe then all his paintings wouldn’ta looked like he’d been studying his models through smashed-up lenses, ain’t that right, ain’t that just right.’ 

And once they’d delivered their punchline – if you could call them punchlines – they’d always crack up in this ridiculously exaggerated laugh – Ha, ha, ha, ha, hah! – and thump the assistant square in the back with a pudgy open palm so hard he’d wind them proper. Then they’d go back to fingering the whole showroom, whipping whole sheets of plaid and pinstripe out of their draws with such clumsy ferocity they would almost shred them clean in two, humming and hawing about what kind of suit I should ask that nice young gentleman to cook up for me loud enough it was as though he wanted the whole of London to know he was genuinely, genuinely interested in purchasing an outfit from this establishment and he definitely had all the money in the world at his disposal to do so. He’d lay five or six different swatches out on the brass-edged table in the middle of the room, plonk his hands deliberately down on his hips, and repeat to himself ‘Hmmm, which to chose, which to choose – oh, Boy, what a difficult decision this is’ as though he were starring in some theatrical farce, merely awaiting his pratfall; one for which he would not have to wait long. The showroom’s assistant, long-suffering chaperone of many a Midwestern underling around these dignified gentlemen’s chambers - pantomime actors, one and all, hamming it up as robber-baron royalty from the Upper East Side - would stand aside a moment. He would pause himself with a deep, deep breath for dramatic effect - anticipating sweet revenge for his trials - and then he would bound forward in a single, long, authoritative step to deliver the poseur’s shaky façade its final, killer blow.

‘Sir,’ the assistant would say, firmly, but with a proper smirk on his face, anticipating the Yank’s inevitable red-faced reaction, ‘are you actually looking to buy something today, or are you just taking the piss?’

The American poseur would glance up from the table. Suddenly all nervous, sweaty, shaky, constrained in his clothes, trying his hardest not to let this big-shot, Mister Moneybags persona of his falter (and, of course, failing miserably in his efforts), he’d start to stutter out the phrase with which he’d excuse himself. Make out he was going to buy something, really, really mister, but he just had things to see, people to go, places to fuck before he made his commitment to splash the fictitious cash. You would think – with London being such a big place, with so much going on, particularly then, in the midst of the Swinging Sixties – each of them would at least be able to come up with a new, imaginative, individual excuse every time the assistants cornered them and clobbered them for messing up our showrooms, just to satisfy their need to feel a titan for once in their sorry little lives; but peculiarly enough, whenever they did challenge one of these thousand-dollar pretenders with their million-dollar egos to cough up the money to actually purchase one of their bespoke garments, they always, without exception, choked out the self-same phrase as they backed themselves towards the exit, ready to run as hard as they could from Savile Row and never come back as soon as the door shut behind them.

‘Listen, sir, my-my-my wife’s just in Swan and Edgar lookin’ fer some jewellery – I’ll just go and fetch her now, and bring her straight back here, and as soon as we’re back and I’ve shown her exactly what I’m thinking of purchasing from this – marvellous, marvellous little establishment you have here, I’ll cut you the biggest, fattest cheque you’ve ever seen so fast your head will spin.’

Of course he would.

It was hilarious – even if you were just downstairs, watching everything unfold from the workshop in the cellar – to watch them sprint the length of Savile Row as fast as their stumpy, flabby legs would carry them, panic plastered across their face as though some giant werewolf were smashing its way down the street straight for them, salivating at the thought of snacking on a juicy American fattened perfectly for slaughter. He’d head straight for Piccadilly Circus and plonk himself on the steps of the statue of Eros, exhausted – a purple-faced hock of wrinkled, walking, talking ham to ruin a thousand photographs of Go-Go girls and mop-top boys, lounging about in front of the Piccadilly Lights without a single care as the world went by all around them. His eyes would be concentrating on the grand old building that stood between Piccadilly, advancing ever onwards to the western horizon – the bronze glow of sunset funnelled past Fortnum & Mason and the Royal Academy to add a little glint to his eye – and the Regent Street Quadrant, arcing like a perfect parabola to the north. There, indeed, stood Swan & Edgar Department Store, favoured haunt of generations of upper-class women and girls, and increasingly popular – just as Savile Row had become amongst American male poseurs – amongst those lowly women who had hopped the Pond for a taste of the High Life. 

His wife probably was in the midst of a jaunt around Swan & Edgar – even if he had been lying about returning to Anderson & Sheppard as soon as she emerged from the place.

Even if he hadn’t been bluffing about returning, however, if all the rumours were true, he would have been waiting there on the steps beneath our little, arrow-wielding friend Eros for a very long time. For the rest of his life, perhaps – until he grew weak from hunger, sore from thirst, collapsed dead.

Rumour had it that Swan & Edgar were not quite so forgiving – shall we say – with the American poseurs who came through their doors. 

When the assistants at their jewellery counters saw them coming, saw them pawing, saw them humming and hawing, they didn’t try and chase them away. They’d approach with a friendly little smile on their glossy red lips. They’d ask them what sort of jewellery took their fancy. A fine necklace, perhaps? A beautiful brooch? A ring of diamond? Of passionate ruby red, or deepest, darkest, most mysterious sapphire? The assistants at Swan & Edgar – bright young things in delicate shift dresses, a sophisticated little gem hanging elegantly from their ears like a ballerina perched upon a crescent moon, in every detail the epitome of innocence – would ask of these poseurs what their dream item of jewellery was, so they could have it made then and there, before the day was out. ‘We’ll transform you into the pinnacle of luxuriant beauty before nightfall, my dear, if you’ll just come with us,’ the Swan & Edgar girls would say, in trilling, birdsong voices. ‘That’s it – through this door here – this is where the magic happens – don’t worry yourself it’s so dark in here, my dear. Just take a seat, and our master jeweller will be with you in moments.

‘Just one more thing, dear,’ they would say, before returning to the shop floor – ‘what did you say your name was?’

‘Marguerite,’ my grandfather always said, was the name of the woman whose disappearance catalysed the rumours. ‘My name’s Marguerite, if it matters to you.’

‘Marguerite,’ repeated one of the Swan and Edgar girls, half disappeared into the shadows. ‘What a perfect name – Marguerite…’

Night fell. Still, he waited on the steps beneath the figure of Eros. He saw every light behind every one of Swan & Edgar’s windows switch off at once, saw the security guard emerged to lock the doors. He sprinted across the road, almost getting struck by a Routemaster on his way from pavement to pavement, and demanded of the guard, ‘My wife must still be in there. She said she was gonna look around the jewellery department – an’ she was gonna meet me here afterwards – three hours ago. Please, sir. I know it’s late, but you have to let me look for her, see if she’s got herself stuck somewhere.’

The guard permitted him his request. The guard guided him, torch in hand, to the very back of the department store, to where the jewellery counters stood.

One of the cases remained illuminated.

Nestled within it, resting upon a pale white neck-bust, was a necklace made of perfectly translucent pearl – Formed in-store, by our master jewellers – The Pinnacle of Luxuriant Beauty. 

A bead of blood dripped from a broken stitch at the foot of the bust.