*I need to see you Luke. Come to my house this afternoon, at around 5. There will be snacks.
Love, aunt Liz* 💋
That damn message has been bouncing around in my head all day. What could she even want? And doesn’t she have anything else to do? I mean, I know we’re right in the middle of august, everyone’s on vacation and the scorching hot sun outside doesn’t really tempt one to do much, but come on!
Sadly, I don’t have a schedule busy enough to justify bailing on this mysterious encounter, and thus here I am, on her doorstep, hesitating before I ring the doorbell.
Elizabeth is my dad’s sister. About six years younger than him, she’s a rich woman in her early fifties, enjoying a lavish and pampered life thanks to the financial speculations of her husband.
She’s a hardcore fashionista, obsessed with vintage brands: she once spent a whole month scouring second-hand shops all over Paris in search of an elusive pair of the first iteration of red bottomed loboutins, dated 1992.
Growing up she told me all about the history of fashion, ranging from meaningless personal anecdotes about great stylists all the way to the details of the production lines of the popular brands I wore. Being an angsty, long haired boy I pretended not to care, of course. All that girly stuff was beneath me, I swore: little did I know at the time.