My dad is a surprisingly talented stylist. It’s not exactly the standard role for a father to play, but he does it with an almost impossibly endearing commitment. He takes pride in it, too, like helping me dress well is a vital part of my growing into my 30 years of age. It’s also a little bit laced with emotion, I think, for both of us. My dad’s mother, my grandmother, died before I was born but my mental picture of her is of a stern-but-kind, good-looking woman in a fitted skirt suit with lashings of bold red lipstick. She was a nurse, but she was always, I believe, impeccably dressed. Dad adored his mother; he was the eldest and they had something special between them. I think he measures every woman in his life against her, trying, I suppose, to invoke her memory. He is very proud of me when I wear red lipstick, which I do sometimes deliberately to please him, because I think it’s like a little tribute to the grandmother I never got to meet. So, when he dresses me in London department stores, I can’t be sure but I’d take a pretty bold guess that he’s picking out things she might have worn; things she might have liked to see her granddaughter wear. It makes me all the happier to put on whatever he picks out for me.