I have two hand made suits. To get into them again I will have to shed some weight – they were made over two decades ago as a coming of age present to myself when I read somewhere that by the age of thirty a man should have a bespoke suit in his wardrobe. Back then I only knew one man who was impeccably dressed. His name was Tom. He had gone to Ampleforth, the Catholic Eton in North Yorkshire, had a Manor House in rural Oxfordshire and a place in Fulham. He was 25. His summers were spent at Ascot and his winters in St. Moritz. At his wedding, he and his bride flew into the reception by helicopter and drove away on Honeymoon in his British racing green Morgan. (The divorce wasn’t quite so photogenic – he was doing lines of coke whilst shagging a girl in the bathroom upstairs as his wife hosted a dinner party downstairs.) The comforts of inherited wealth.
Tom had a tailor. Of course he did. The tailor came to my office to take measurements and consult me on what type of suits I wanted. I had already decided what I wanted. I was wrong. The tailor was the best salesman I have encountered, a real artist. It was a pleasure spending the £3000 I spent with him that afternoon. Not only did I enjoy being measured up whilst my colleagues looked on but I was treated to a masterclass in sartorial considerations as well as sales craft. Here’s how the conversation went. See if you can spot who is controlling the conversation.
“What did you have in mind, Mr. Kean?”
“I’d like two suits – a classic, heavy cloth two piece with fish tail back trousers which taper to a narrow ankle. And a modern, blue, lightweight suit with thin lapels. Both with cream silk lining and inside pockets. Please.”
“Understood, sir. Right. Let’s start. First thing is to choose the cloth. ” With this, in a deft move he manoeuvred three very large swatch books onto the table in front of us. He touched the one on the left.
“We call this our Junior Executive Collection, sir. A nice wool and manmade fabric mix, modestly priced – between about £450 and £750. Popular.”
Junior Executive? Clearly not for me. Popular with others, I’m sure, but not for the calibre of Director that I was. No, no. Better focus on the other two books. The book was never even opened. Just as he planned.
“Here” he continued, placing his hand on the swatch tome at the right hand side of the table, “we have what we like to call the ‘Elton John’ collection: mohair and cashmere mix, exotic colours, very fine fabrics, sir, as you can feel.” I stretched out a hand. I could feel the money being pulled out of my pockets as iron filings to a magnet. No. Just looking at the swatches made my bank account sweat. Obviously I played along but we both knew I was pretending. He had successfully positioned me exactly where he wanted me – in the middle.
“The Board Director?” We opened the volume directly before me. “Worsted, wool cashmere mix – a nice range of options, sir, and hard wearing. How much will you be wearing the suits, sir?”
We continued talking about how I would be using my newly acquired made to measures as he started to size me up and took out his tape measure. Dimensions were recorded on a yellow pad with carbon copies made in triplicate, for the avoidance of mistakes and the completeness of records. These dimensions would be kept on record for any future purchases or, more likely, as a reference for when the trousers or jacket might need letting out a tad, you know, as the years go by, so to speak. That, at least, is what he said. But I secretly enjoyed the notion that now my dimensions were recorded for posterity and that I would be able to drop into casual conversation what my tailor said. The operative part of the sentence being to send the signal that I had a tailor. I know. Silly, isn’t it? Or so they say at my Club…
“Three button or two, Mr. Kean?” I was stymied. I had never considered the option. Two seemed modern, Italian. Three the more traditional, more British. My tailor eased my discomfort. “If I may hazard an opinion, sir?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
He explained that one never does up the lower button. This leaves the only option for the two button to do up the higher button. With a three button, well, you have the option to do up the top and middle, thereby achieving a slightly more ‘buttoned-up’ look. More formal. I opted for three button for both suits. I am British, after all and I remembered a piece of advice I once read: ask yourself ‘would James Bond wear this?’ (Connery, not Moore) before you commit to purchase. Who wants to spend all that money and look louche? Connery wore three button suits.
He wasn’t finished with the decisions. I say decisions, they weren’t. They were guided conversations. Advice dressed up as polite enquiry. He was using manners and language to create an elegant direction for my taste. He was steering me and I was so happy to be steered. It was like a sartorial version of the TV satire, Yes, Minister. He was Sir Humphrey to my well intentioned but bumbling Jim Hacker.
“Single vent or double at the back, sir?”
“Single?” I was hardly courageous in my conviction. The tailor affected an expression of slight pain. Combined with the barely audible but unmistakably disappointed ‘hmm’, I knew I had made a catastrophic choice. “May I demonstrate, sir?” “Please”, I demurred. At my invitation he turned his back on me and explained. “You see, Mr. Kean” he began, “gentlemen being gentlemen they often like to place a hand or two in their trouser pocket when talking or relaxing in company. When a gentleman puts a hand in each pocket and he is wearing his jacket – the one with a single vent – it has the effect of spreading the jacket either side of his…buttocks. It leaves a large expanse of bottom on show. Whereas, with a double vent, the jacket cloth simply falls either side and continues to cover the bottom, keeping a smooth line rather than a rumpled posterior. “
Simple. I could have kissed him. I was awestruck with gratitude that he had saved me from the fate of all those off-the-peg types showing their bottoms to the assembled crowds in cocktail parties and conferences up and down the land. I would be protected and also in the know from this moment on. It was like being inducted into the Illuminati – a chosen one.
I made my cheque out. It was the most money I had ever spent in an hour. A few weeks later I had an interim fitting and finally my suits turned up at work in their suit bags, complete with my initials stitched on to the inside right hand side wallet pocket. They fit perfectly. Perfectly. Every time I wore them, I remembered the Masterclass. The unhurried, trusted advisor, consultative process that guided me to making the right decision. The tailor’s scissors are not just an emblem of craft in a meticulous and noble trade, they are also a constant reminder to sales people all over the world to cut away the superfluous, the trivial, the wrong until all that is left is an unimpeachably perfect solution to this particular client’s needs.
My tailor price positioned me brilliantly by showing me three options – one I couldn’t afford monetarily, another my ego wouldn’t let me stoop to and a third option that, like Goldilocks’ porridge, was just right. He guided me through the minefield that was two or three buttons and helped me swerve the ignominy of a single vent embarrassment. And as I signed the cheque, I was grateful. I didn’t begrudge a penny – why should I? When I put on my suits I felt like a million dollars. And that’s the sort of return on your invetêments (pun, sorry) you only get with a pro.