Earlier this evening I attended a little gathering at Aseana in Suria KLCC, after receiving an invitation and several reminders from my social-climbing Senior Manager. I discovered too late — when I had both feet in the door — that it was actually a gathering hosted by one of her friends, who went from nothing to everything when she married the son of a former politician. Apparently, when you spend six days a week at KLCC and frequent a boutique like Aseana so much, the management actually asks you to lasso your friends/groupies/hangers-on together and have a little private shopping session, complete with coffee, sushi and desserts.
It was the first time I had ever watched the social-climbing elite of this country shop. I suppose it would be similar the world over — I had previously seen some Manhattan socialites being waited on hand and foot at Bergdorf Goodman — but the experience seemed different when the co-host was someone I actually work with and know on a personal level. It also reminded me of why I never had the patience for this type of crowd: they were Society’s scalawags in their natural habitat.
It was a little difficult to watch these women trampling around the store in Marchesa gowns and Hervé Léger bandage dresses — of which I am admittedly a huge fan, only not thin enough to wear — and not wear a bemusedly incredulous look on my face, so I amused myself by admiring said bandage dresses that were hanging on a rack some twenty feet away. When I decided that I had been there a respectable amount of time, and that visiting the other stores would be a much better use of my time, I said my goodbyes and scurried out and over to Hugo Boss.
I admit I have a tendency to look at men’s suits, either when I’m passing a store or when I’m in a store that carries men’s suits; this can be attributed either to the fact that women’s suits just don’t match up to the quality and standards of men’s, or to the fact that (almost) no man looks bad in a suit. If the staff at Hugo Boss were surprised, and probably amused, to see a woman walk into their store all by herself, they didn’t show it. Indeed, the salesman who attended to me was quick to draw his own conclusions: that I was shopping for a suit for my husband. I decided it would be mean of me to laugh in his face, and also felt that telling him I was scoping out the collection ‘on account of a friend’ would sound silly, so I beamed, thanked him and left. But not before he advised me very seriously to bring said phantom husband to the store the next time so that he could try on their suits for himself.
Phantom husband, indeed.