Fantasy fur
Catherine Chester Levy
I DESPERATELY want one. I always have. My biological clock is ticking away at a ferocious rate. I eye each new grey hair with trepidation. No, not one of those; I already have three, born within three years of each other. I crave a black mink coat.
This desire has outlived all the other passing whims: a Wimbledon debenture, a home in St Tropez, a pickled sheep by Damian Hirst, and a private word with the Pope. More recently, it has survived childbirth and the pangs of their upbringing: Tamigoches. Pokernons and lethal micro-scooters.
I remember perfectly when I conceived this yearning: during my final year in school in County Dublin. We were performing Witness for the Prosecution when Mrs Stone appeared, late as usual. She was the mother of the 'victim', and of seven other children. But that is not an adequate description. She was tall with a mane of blond hair. Over her blue jeans and loafers she wore a black mink coat, which fell, as though in heavenly ordained folds, from her shoulders. Feeling her way in the dark to a seat, she was like a preying panther in a field of Laura Ashley and Liberty prints. At that moment there was no one else in the world I longed to be.
Two decades later the mink had long been consigned to the emotional file marked 'unrequited' and would undoubtedly have remained so had I not recently, out of the blue, been given a dollop of money. The only condition it carried was that the money had to be 'squandered'. After nine years of Mothercare and John Lewis, I had to sit down and reactivate my squandering muscles.
My new financial status has forced me to confront my own demons — principally the one to whom I am married. Early on in our relationship, when I felt that I knew my husband well enough, I let him in on my unmentionable appetite. While a little surprised, he was understanding; as sweet and reasonable, I now realise, as only one who is confident that his bluff will not be called can be.
He never admits that his reservations have anything to do with cowardice, but I know that he fears for his safety. Around every corner he imagines animal-rights campaigners wielding five-litre cans of Dulux. He is even suggesting that we do not abide by the spirit of the gift. I struggled to convince him that neither payment of part of the mortgage nor payment of a term's school fees would count as 'squandering'. It was the final straw when he said that perhaps I should invest in a fun fur. I let him know that a fun fur would be no fun for me.
As if it were not had enough to find you have married not a man but a mouse, my seven-, eightand nine-year-olds, for whom I lost my stomach muscles, have decided to side with their father. 'And what about the mink's rights?' demands the nine-year-old, a product of London inner-city-farm projects. 'What about me, my rights, my feelings?' I wail.
I tried all the big obvious places. Selfridges suggested that I try Harrods, and Harrods suggested Harvey Nichols, who suggested that I try 'auctioneers'. I felt positively dirty as I put down the telephone. The personal shopper in Harrods tried to seduce me with fox-fur collars, chinchilla waistcoats by exotic Italian designers, and 'sherling'. 'Is that an animal?' I asked, sounding like Cruella De Vii. Shelling, it turns out, is the luxury end of sheepskin. 'No ranch mink?' I slipped in. 'No. We were heavily criticised for selling fur. We have to be sensitive to our customers who do not agree with killing animals.'
When I asked for a fur coat in Dickins & Jones, the sales assistant offered an interesting new angle. 'Do you want the fur on the outside?' Where else, for heaven's sake? I spoke to the store's personal shopper and offloaded my woes. I explained that I was finding it impossible to buy fur, even though it has been hailed as the indispensable fashion accessory this season. 'Well, you know, it's a bit of an issue. Some people look with disdain on people who wear fur.' I tried to engage her in a lively debate on fake versus real fur, but she was clearly on the other side. 'You're really talking to the wrong person,' she interrupted. 'I'm very against people wearing fur.' The personal shopper in Fenwick would not be drawn on the subject. 'I really can't help you with that. It is a personal decision.' There was no mistaking the wind of disapproval blowing my way.
My final attempt was Fortnum's, purveyors of teas and all things fine. 'What I say is that wearing a fur coat is as dangerous as crossing the road,' said the voice in the womenswear department (where they don't, as it happens, have any fur coats). 'It all depends on where you are and who happens to be there at the same time. I wouldn't go into the Underground or to a supermarket. I think you could feel very uncomfortable. Children also influence whether you feel happy in a fur coat. Mothers are often pressured out of fur, as both you and your children could be socially ostracised.'
And so, in desperation, I turned to the Yellow Pages. There, sandwiched between Funeral Pre-planning and Furnishers, was a very short list of furriers, I decided to telephone Mr Burland of Ivan Furs in east London. He promised to send me sample sketches of the most classical models. Sure enough, 12 sketches arrived. All of the models looked firmly rooted in the 1950s and had names such as Leonora, Gilda, Lorraine, Felicia. Letitia and Cherie. The sketches were accompanied by very detailed instructions on how to get there.
Nowhere on the old, unprepossessing factory building was there any indication of what lay inside. I rang the bell and a voice asked me my name and business. I was told to come in and up. Suddenly, I was surrounded by fur coats of all descriptions and colours at various stages of assembly. 'Ivan' ushered me into an office lined with rows of fur coats, containing a faulty telephone, stationery and two mirrors. It was a far cry from `modom' sitting in a fin-de-siMe boudoir being indulged and pampered.
First, Ivan pulled out a black female mink, but the shoulders were a little too Southfork for my liking. He then produced another coat, which was very beautiful but would never pass as a fake fur. 'What about a shorn mink coat?' he said. This did look like a fun fur, but at the fun price of £2,000. Next up, a male pelt, bigger and generally coarser. I'm not sure if it was the strip-lighting, but the coat looked a little grey. The last thing I need is a mink that is going grey. Before leaving, Ivan brought me out cm to the factory floor and showed me what looked like acres of fur.
When I said goodbye, he asked me to make sure that both security doors were closed behind me as I left. 'Ring me if you do want one,' he urged. 'Merchandise moves.' I looked carefully to the left and right before leaving, and in that moment came to terms with the fact that I shall never own a fur coat.
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