It’s early 1992 and my mother, the Duchess of Kent, and I have just stepped off a plane in Milan and into a waiting limousine. I am 27 years old, and soon to marry my husband, Timothy Taylor, in a ceremony at St George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle. Tradition dictates that I wear a British designer for the wedding (waiting for me is a gorgeous bridal gown by Catherine Walker), but the Italian designer Giorgio Armani has asked if he could dress my mother for the occasion and make my “going away” outfit (very much still a thing back in those days). And so it is to Via Borgonuovo, and Mr Armani’s private residence – an address that I will get to know very well over the next two decades, as the first ambassador of the Armani brand – that we head, for a double fitting, in our chauffeur-driven car.
This was incredibly spoiling, you understand – spending a day shopping with my mother, which is not something we did often and certainly never with an internationally famous designer present. Even though we each had quite clear ideas of what we liked wearing and what we felt suited us, I remember that we both very much wanted to be guided by Mr Armani (I never would call him Giorgio, even after 30 years of friendship); to know what he thought would look best on us. Of course, he totally nailed it. I’ll never forget the flawless top-to-toe mint-green ensemble that he made for my mother; how immaculate she looked at my wedding in her matching gloves and shoes. Mr Armani always did like a uniform colour. I know she found the whole experience thrilling and that she must have loved the final outfit as it reappeared many times after, which was unusual for her.
It is to that day in Milan that my mind has returned of late, beginning in the early hours of 4 September, when I received news that Mr Armani had passed away, at 91 years old. Then, before the clock struck midnight that very same day, by some strange heavenly design: my beloved mother had joined him. She was 92 years old.
My mother was always extremely fashionable – though, sadly for me, she wasn’t really a sharer of her wardrobe. Nor did she keep much of it: each season, she would buy up collections and then sell them, so that she’d be up to date for the next season. Her clothes were beautiful but they were, alas, never around for long.
Growing up, like everyone else my age, I would tear pages out of Vogue and stick them on my wall at boarding school. I coveted the fashions but I had no sense of style, and don’t remember being terribly interested in the way I looked in any real sense until I moved to London at 18, where I started my first job as a front desk girl at The Mayor Gallery. It was just round the corner from Carnaby Street, and I spent many a lunch break shopping for anything that had big shoulders or was electric blue (terrifying, thinking about it now). Or I went to places like Hobbs which, and you’ll have to take my word for it, was actually kind of cool when it first opened. They had long elegant skirts with beautiful ballet pumps in all different colours. But the chicest thing that I ever did of my own accord was to buy a pair of navy-blue culottes from Margaret Howell with my first paycheque from Christie’s, where I started working a year later.
By the late ’80s, when I was in my mid-20s, I remember thinking my style had veered too far down one path and it was time to rein it in (did I really need to wear so many puffball skirts?). Which is, thankfully, when Susannah Constantine, in those days a PR girl, got in touch to say Giorgio Armani was opening his first Emporio Armani store in London and would I like to go into the shop to choose a suit to wear to the opening party?
Before then, I had borrowed clothes from Catherine Walker for formal family occasions and beautiful taffeta ballgowns from Bellville Sassoon, but no designer had offered to dress me. Of course I jumped at the opportunity. I remember one of the suits I picked out was in a green viscose houndstooth. It was so fluid and floaty – I’d never worn anything like it. I just remember looking at myself in the mirror and thinking, “Oh, this is what I’m supposed to be wearing. This looks so much better.”
That was the time I first met Mr Armani. He spoke English a tiny bit, but not well enough for a conversation, and I don’t speak Italian, so we got by in French. I used to blush a lot in those days and I remember I went bright pink trying to tell him how wonderful his clothes were.
But, as I would soon learn, Mr Armani was charm incarnate. Those around him – and there was always a retinue of gorgeous people wherever he went – were deferential, yes, but not in an obsequious way. Everyone understood they were in the presence of somebody rather extraordinary. And when someone has that aura about them, that little bit of magic, people do behave slightly differently. They’re watching and learning and waiting to see what he’s going to say and do – and they’re ready to move if he needs anything at all.
But with all that greatness there was shyness too – although he was always at the epicentre of fashion and fashionable people, he wasn’t always that comfortable in it. The word I always felt best described him was “avuncular”. He was, simply, just a very caring person.
Several years after our first meeting in 1989, shortly after I was married, we formalised my ambassadorship. From then on, I went to all the Giorgio Armani shows and I took my role extremely seriously (if I was at any public event, for example, I made sure I never wore anything but Armani).
I remember my first few times sitting front row were absolutely terrifying. There were so many people and all these photographers. But I loved watching the runway shows and the music – it was an incredible spectacle and I thought it was all terribly exciting. And let’s not pretend I didn’t notice the celebrities who were everywhere around me. I’ve met some extraordinary people over the years. Even now, my daughters will suddenly see an actor on TV and say, “Have you ever met him?” And I’ll say, “Yeah, at Armani.” And it would be Leonardo DiCaprio, George Clooney, Brad Pitt.
And then, of course, there were all the store openings: New York, Paris, Tokyo or Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong. The whole Armani team would always fly everywhere together (never private, though it would feel like it, given how we would take over the whole plane). That part was always so much fun, every flight was one big party. My resounding memory from our travelling together is, no matter where we were, Mr Armani would always have to have his spaghetti al pomodoro.
Often, at an afterparty (and there was always an afterparty), you could find Mr Armani sitting, literally, on the side – I remember him sitting practically on the speakers once, watching everybody doing their thing. Like a lot of great entertainers, he wanted to see everyone having fun, but not necessarily be at the centre of it himself.
Though I can recall one instance of things getting quite rowdy. We were in Paris for the opening of an Armani café somewhere in Saint-Germain and at the dinner afterwards, Mr Armani, Karl Lagerfeld and I had to climb over a table to reach our seats, which the two legendary designers found hilarious. It might have been the most animated I’d ever seen him at a party. Those who knew him well knew he possessed a great sense of humour – he was such a tease – but it took time to see that side of him.
Some of our most memorable times, though, were holidaying together on Pantelleria, the Sicilian island he adored. There were always a few of us – me, Timothy and perhaps lovely Graeme Black, one of the leading designers on the Armani team and now an artist, as well as Robert Triefus, Armani’s then-communications king (now CEO of Stone Island), and Cal, his husband.
The packing for these holidays was extensive as I was keen to impress and if I felt I needed something extra-special to wear then, of course, that could be arranged. Mr Armani really noticed exactly what looks I’d put together because I enjoyed putting my own spin on things, changing the direction of how they might have been styled on the runway. Whenever I appeared in something, he would do that lovely thing of looking you up and down and just going, “Que bella.” Or, if I was lucky, “Bellissima.”
By 2008, barely a year shy of three decades knowing one another, we were both ready to explore other paths. The financial crash had been difficult for so many fashion brands, and Armani was no exception. But I was the driver behind moving on: I had various ideas of things I wanted to do, and one was to go back to the art world and work with my husband at his gallery. I was also, by then, mother to four children and travelling internationally was becoming difficult. It was a mutual agreement that this was a good moment for us both to seek out change. And change, in my book, is always a good thing. It was time to part ways.
In the years since, there were messages and cards and presents, but I never went back to Via Borgonuovo. I last saw Mr Armani at Vogue’s centenary party in 2016, which I attended with my son, Cassius. I knew Mr Armani was going to be there and so it was a truly heartwarming moment when, having not seen each other for maybe 10 years, he just opened his arms and said, “Cara [dear one], Helena.” That wonderful feeling when you finally see a beloved old friend. There was much smiling and hugging and something I’ve learnt is that you don’t always need words to be able to “speak Italian”. I realise now that was such a perfect way to remember him. I’ll always treasure that moment.
In the days after Mr Armani and my mother’s passing, I was going through her belongings when I discovered that she had, in fact, kept some pieces in her wardrobe: among them, of course, some beautiful Armani. On the day of her funeral, my daughters, 22-year-old Eloise and 20-year-old Estella, each picked an Armani look from my own collection to wear, the two of them so elegant in his impeccable tailoring. It was an incredibly poignant full-circle moment.
From now on, 4 September will always be a momentous day in my calendar. But I like to think Mr Armani and my mother are together somewhere, admiring each other. Him saying, “Que bella.” Her smiling. Bellissima.
