One of the first things you notice when you move from the regions to London is how much prettier everyone is here. That sudden, clear-sighted proximity to undeniable gorgeousness chimes with the clarity of a fire alarm siren. Like hardened political power, dizzying financial acumen and household-name fame, London is a place which magnetises hotness. The line of beauty imperceptibly changes.
When I moved from Manchester, where I grew up, to London, where I’ve now spent most of my life, I was a reasonably safe seven. Still in my mid-twenties, I had hair. The extra waistline timber hadn’t started to settle. By the time my postcode upgraded, M15 to N7, I slumped to a five, worked out by catching myself in the mirror.
Living in a city of beautiful people will do that to you. Working mostly for fashion magazines hardly helped. There are other side-effects. Because everybody needs milk, a trip to Tesco can take on mesmerizingly cinematic twists, as undeniably delightful faces settle in the back-lit glow of the self-checkout camera. Subconsciously, it makes you work a little harder, personality-wise, though on a day when you’re perhaps feeling glum, the pictorial evidence of being around so many symmetrical faces, honed bodies and tweaked features can offer a disquieting upset in equilibrium.
Like hardened political power, dizzying financial acumen and household-name fame, London is a place which magnetises hotness
I was thinking about this when Chanel announced it will present its prized Métier D’arts show — a highpoint December bookmark in the fashion calendar — in Manchester. For a second, the announcement made me laugh aloud. I bow to nobody in my tireless cheerleading for the city which shaped me, but even I would be hard-pressed to frame it as chic. Perhaps Chanel would shut down the Arndale Centre, as Louis Vuitton did the Pont Neuf? Maybe cagoules were due a new intersecting C’s insignia? Making the move from Manchester, it genuinely astonished me that all men didn’t wear trousers two sizes too big, or that anoraks weren’t considered acceptable nightclub attire, even on hard drugs. The mysteries of menswear kept unravelling, those uniquely northern styling points refusing to budge. Every time I try on a suit that fits, I feel like I’m wearing ITV1 game show host drag and somebody will crack the line, “you in court today, then?”
Despite Chanel’s surprise decision to anoint the north, an autumn of nonpareil beauty awaits Londoners, reinforcing its position on the UK beauty grid. In September, the city’s hotel lobbies will flood with rarefied, intimidating physical excellence for Fashion Week. Linda Evangelista, right, is close to selling out her intimate “Evening With…” at Cadogan Hall. A Netflix documentary, The Supermodels, will investigate her peers from the famed Peter Lindbergh cover of US Vogue which first set in stone extra new layers of beauty.
In two weeks time, I hit 52, a stately enough age to have stopped worrying about where one figures on the hotness scale. Instead, I’ve started to think of the city’s rotating array of beauties a bit like its architecture. Just because you don’t live in one of those buildings doesn’t mean you can’t still be dazzled by them.
All about the maitre d’
Manzi’s is the dreamy new seafood restaurant which beamed into Soho and immediately ascended to the top of London’s appointment dining pyramid. For many, this will be due to the failsafe monkfish wellington on the menu; for others, the baroque art direction. A new statement dining room has landed.
For me? This is all about following my absolute favourite London maitre d’, Gianluca Antonelli, who has decamped from sister restaurant, Aldwych’s finest, the Delaunay. Schooled at Rules and the Paternoster Chop House, Gianluca has made each trip to the Delaunay feel like a casual event since 2014. When you have been waiting staff yourself, you understand what an absolute grind making other people’s happiness your priority can be, over gruelling hours of service. He is always attentive, never interfering. Now he has a new home, so do I.
