The first time I saw him, he was eating a bilious looking bowl of broad beans. I stood in the doorway and watched with abject fascination as three beans were fighting their way out of his mouth while he attempted to shovel another twenty or so in. He summoned me forward, set down the bowl, jumped up and started to careen towards me hand outstretched.
He had a wore a dingy white shirt that had a big, wet stain above the left breast pocket, his pockmarked glistening jowls hid the knot of his tie and his shirt cuffs were rolled halfway up hairy forearms. His wrinkled, grey pants were too tight and two inches too short and but, surprisingly showcased the intricate Navajo design of the buckles on his boots - beautifully.
I stepped forward extending my arm hopeful that, at least, I was going to make a good first impression. As my dry, soft hand touched his slippery one – I wondered - How on earth did this man – Andreas Morton - rise to the top of the world’s most illustrious fashion empire?
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