Kate Moss for ES Magazine
(Picture: Quentin Jones)It’s a hot Wednesday afternoon and I’m sitting in Kate Moss’s living room at her west London home. I can hear her laugh coming from somewhere in the house. It’s a loud, raspy sound, forged from cigarettes and late nights, a cackling siren promising mischief and lots of fun. Framed prints of Warhol’s Diana Ross, a sepia samurai warrior and a young Bob Dylan mid-performance line the walls. There are books piled on every available surface: editions devoted to the photography of Bailey, Beaton and Tim Walker; fashion tomes on Dior and Saint Laurent, still in their shrink-wrap; and one curious title on the origins and practices of superstition. Huge chunks of Superman-like crystal fill the fire grate and, in the corner a pink vinyl of Elvis’s 40 Greatest rests on a turn-table. Suddenly, a small pomchi skids round the corner, drops at my feet and offers up his stomach. I oblige.
‘That’s Stanley,’ says Kate with a big smile. ‘Awww, look at him, he loves his tummy rubbing. He’s my baby.’ Dressed in a denim mini-skirt and an old T-shirt, flip-flops on her feet, this is off-duty Kate: a million miles from the image that’s launched countless luxury brands and magazine covers, but no less striking. To write that, at 48 years old, Kate Moss looks incredible is, frankly, a waste of word count — but she does, so there, I just did. ‘Let’s go down to the kitchen,’ she says, tucking Stanley under her arm.
