Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue Makes A Comeback
by Tux Toledo
Page 3
James
easily conquered the Friday night traffic and we arrived promptly at
Everton House. Since it had been raining on-and-off I wore a
genuine Burburry’s trench coat over a heavy wool, brown bespoke suit
from Henry Poole.
Sarah's butler answered the door. It slipped from his grasp
as he opened it and it banged against the wall. Very
shabby. Not something a proper butler would have
done. Then again, he didn't look like a proper
butler. He was in his mid-twenties with a sculpted physique
that should have been adorning a piazza in Rome. Definitely
Sarah's type.
"Winston Churchill," I announced to him.
"Who?"
“Winston Churchill.”
I handed him my trench coat. He reluctantly took
it. I'm sure my sartorial flair was wasted on him.
He didn't look like the kind of man who could tell the difference
between a real Burburry's trench coat and a cheap imitation.
In case you don't know, the secret to a real Burburry is the
cotton. It is chemically treated while still in the yarn,
woven tightly into cloth, and proofed again before being made into a
garment. Class will always tell.
The butler looked at James.
"Where shall we put your driver?"
"He's not my driver, he's my chauffeur."
"Oh, then he'd better come inside."
The butler led us into a large living room decorated in shades of dark
blue and maroon. The furniture was magazine chic and appeared
to be permanently fastened to the floor. A stone mantle
imported from France sat above the fireplace and a fire crackled in the
hearth. The random mixing of interior design styles and eras
did not appeal to my decorating tastes.
Rodney, shotgun in hand, stood in the center of the living
room. Two other men, one of them Tom Sledgeton, stood in
jealous trances in front of him. Rodney saw me enter and
smiled.
"Winston!" he called. "It's good to see you again.
Sarah told me she had invited you. I'm glad you could come."
I joined the trio and shook a massive hand attached to a log-shaped arm
that protruded from Rodney's canyon-width shoulder.
Everything about Rodney was big.
"I'd never miss one of your parties," I said to him. "You're
looking good. And I say, so is that shotgun."
© 2008 David Biagini