It feels like a collective fashion world hallucination — or some kind of haute data leak. Over mellow, undulating piano riffs and the sound of a ticking clock (or is it a metronome?) the west London therapist buzzes in her next client through the intercom and she lies face up and on a pristine white couch, unmistakable in a black Saint Laurent dress and Westwood heels.
Within five minutes the most famously tight-lipped woman in fashion — Kate Moss, whose mantra is supposedly “never complain, never explain” — is unburdening herself, talking earnestly about the discomfort that accompanied her breakthrough appearance on the cover of The Face.
