My morning leading up to the Martin Grant show was anything but romantic. I had just been abandoned by a certain beau on our anniversary and a Paris photog had caught me stuffing a tartine into my mouth in a depressed binge-eating spree prior to the show. I was still floating in a down-with-the-world doldrum before the first look descended down the runway — a delightfully short, navy, drop-waist dress with a spectacularly orbital gold collar — the stuff space-age dreams are made of...
My morning leading up to the Martin Grant show was anything but romantic. I had just been abandoned by a certain beau on our anniversary and a Paris photog had caught me stuffing a tartine into my mouth in a depressed binge-eating spree prior to the show. I was still floating in a down-with-the-world doldrum before the first look descended down the runway — a delightfully short, navy, drop-waist dress with a spectacularly orbital gold collar — the stuff space-age dreams are made of...
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