I’ve been carrying with me a little black silk purse with a tortoise shell closing since my mother died 11 years ago. I suppose it’s one of the last things left from my beloved, stylish mother.
To help me pick out a replacement, I enlisted my seven-year-old granddaughter, Maélle, a fashionista like me and her great grandmother
The little black purse has been sitting in the bottom of my bigger purses; let’s call them handbags, although ‘handbag’ seems so old fashioned a word. I only use ‘handbag’ now to remember my French licence plate – EY 107 HB, ‘every year I buy 107 handbags’ – having moved here following my husband’s sudden death a year ago.
My mother used this little black purse for a lipstick and tiny mirror when she and my father went to a soirée and she had to powder her nose. The purse was one of the gifts she received every year from my father’s godfather, Arthur ‘Red’ Motley, publisher of Parade magazine.
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