If you know me at all, you know that I am not a fashionable person.
I did, however, develop a brief fascination with fashion in the mid-2000s. My first boss was a notable banker to investment firms by the name of Roberto de Guardiola, and at the time he lived in a beautiful townhome on E. 64th Street. Roberto was an intimidating, old school banker. Gold glasses, suspenders, Southampton estate, Turnbull & Asser — the whole package. Like many peers of his vintage, he wanted printed models and presentations hand-delivered to his home. Unlike many peers of his vintage, he was home a lot, because that’s where his kids were. Something I admired a great deal about him.
No, in case you’re wondering, the fascination with fashion wasn’t the result of the resemblance this story has to a similar scene in The Devil Wears Prada, although the reality was very much like that. I got buzzed in and left the papers on a table in the anteroom, which had a separate set of doors to the imposing empty black marble foyer. It was unthinkable that I would even try that second set of doors.