Bette Davis Fur Coat

Mrs Stein shops at the Bergdorf Goodman department store on Fifth Avenue in the Upper East Side of Manhattan in New York City.

On the first Tuesday morning of each month, at 10:55 prompt, at the grand entrance, the grey liveried doorman is on watch for the black vintage carriage which transports Mrs Stein the short distance from her brownstone townhouse to this landmark store for her scheduled visit to peruse the latest fashions with a discerning eye and a cutting tongue. At the first glimpse of the 1950’s Cadillac Sedan de Ville, the doorman abandons his post and strides to the roadside in readiness to attend this most valued Bergdorf Goodman customer of some forty years standing.

At 11:00 prompt, Mrs Stein’s chauffeur pulls up to the kerb, and the doorman opens the rear door of the motorcar with one hand and doffs his peaked cap with the other. Extending a white kid-leather gloved hand, Mrs Stein allows the doorman to offer his arm to assist her from the vehicle. A figure adorned in a floor-length sable fur coat, she emerges with the poise and grace of royalty. A sable fur hat sits atop her sleek silver chignon and a large pair of vintage Dior sunglasses frame her cat-like eyes. A crocodile handbag and a pair of snakeskin stilettos complete the cruel ensemble of this obscenely wealthy widow of an oil baron dead and buried over a decade ago.

Mrs Stein does not acknowledge the dowdy window shoppers or tawdry tourists who gather to gawk and gossip at her extraordinary presence. She does not flinch at the flashes of the cameras that capture her striking image to be uploaded to social media sites accompanied by a crude caption along the lines of Rich Old Bitch at Bergdorf Goodman!  Mrs Stein does not lower herself to respond to the ill-mannered behaviour of the masses. Her natural air of superiority keeps these vulgarians at bay, but with each step she takes toward the entrance of the department store, she benevolently wafts the exquisite scent of Chanel Grand Extrait at $5000 per ounce.


Now, rather than Editress offering this tale to the reader on a plate, the reader must now grasp the bowl and beg for more…