
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Kate Moss in the flesh. It was late at night, and we were in the subterranean China Tang in the Dorchester, where Kate was draping her form on the bar while wearing black skinny jeans and a see-through mesh top with strategic sequins sewn into the fabric. In her hand, a glass of wine. In her back pocket, cigarettes.
I was young– 15 maybe – and impressionable, and so found myself quite astonished by the sight of this hugely famous, toweringly beautiful woman who clearly thought nothing of shredding that rulebook in which it says women and models especially must only drink water and live monastically to preserve youth. I remember thinking that attitude, her signature don’t-give-a-f**k thing was pretty brilliant, made her more attractive and appealing.