When someone great is gone
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When I heard that my former boss Hilary Alexander had died on Sunday, I opened a bottle of fizz. It felt fitting to toast her; she was good at toasts! I hadn’t seen Hils for years, but as I drank my fizz I realised how much of an impact she had on me.
I couldn’t believe it when, age 23, in the year 2000, I got the job of Fashion Writer at the Daily Telegraph, under Hilary, Fashion Editor. I thought someone more established deserved the role, especially as I spelt Dolce & Gabanna (sic) wrong repeatedly in my application feature. Much later when
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I asked Hilary why she chose me, she said, ‘You were friendly.’
Hils was unpretentious like that. We had a lot of fun at the D.T. We laughed, we smoked, we drank, we partied, and somehow between the team, filed four fashion & style spreads a week. Our office was in 1 Canada Square aka Canary Wharf, and ‘The Fashion Desk’ was a colourful place. Hilary’s office doubled as the Fashion Cupboard, and trebled as the team smoking room. That we were allowed to smoke in a windowless office, now makes me smile. No health, safety or smoking rules
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applied – or if they did, Hils ignored them.
Ideas meetings were held at Nicholas Wine Bar. With Hilary, Julia the Fashion Deputy & myself, working our way through four bottles of wine in a lunch hour. I remember one day, my computer screen was so blurry after one of these meetings, that I couldn’t read let alone type.
Hilary was old-school. She didn’t queue for Fashion Shows – everybody knew her. If you were in her entourage you’d skip the queue and sweep in her slipstream. Tickets were so tight for Stella McCartney’s first solo
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show, October 2001, that when I had no ticket I literally held onto Hils’ skirt like I was part of her outfit, in order to get in.
During catwalk shows, invariably, you’d see Hilary bopping in her Front Row seat to the soundtrack, her exuberance a refreshing anomaly in contrast to stiff contemporaries, sitting next to her. But the second a show finished, Hilary was nowhere to be seen, already up and backstage like a bloodhound to bag a quote from the designer for her newspaper copy. Often she’d have got the quote in the time it would take me to
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put on my coat. Then it was a race to leave the show, jump in a car, and type out her report, so it could make the next day’s paper. This was pre 4G, pre Wifi, pre Google. It was a military operation!
In Paris, we’d toast fashion week with a party at the Telegraph’s Rue de Rivoli apartment. Designers and journalists dancing into the night opposite the Jardin du Tuileries: it was Emily in Paris on acid – because Hilary threw a good party. One year I was responsible for buying the booze, which I ordered for delivery from a nearby supermarket.
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It was tense in the flat and I feared for my job when the caseloads of vin didn’t arrive… until 10 minutes before the party started. We all cheered and danced, when it did! Hilary even hugged the delivery guy.
However fun it was, I soon realised the non-stop Fashion Circus wasn’t for me. Once I cheekily bunked off a show that Hilary had asked me to go to, in order to treat myself to Steak Frites. When she asked me what the show was like, I replied, ‘there were lots of skirts,’ to which I can still recall her frown. The only times I remember
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her telling me off were when I missed the Eurostar once from Waterloo, and another time I failed to get a quote from Claudia Schiffer – “always get a quote!” she said.
I was sadder to leave Hilary than the role itself two years in. She was a one of a kind boss, who loved fashion and always said she’d never retire. Of course, she didn’t! I think she deserves a toast from us all.
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Molly Gunn, Editor - 8 Feb 23
When I heard that my former boss Hilary Alexander had died on Sunday, I opened a bottle of fizz. It felt fitting to toast her; she was good at toasts! I hadn’t seen Hils for years, but as I drank my fizz I realised how much of an impact she had on me.
I couldn’t believe it when, age 23, in the year 2000, I got the job of Fashion Writer at the Daily Telegraph, under Hilary, Fashion Editor. I thought someone more established deserved the role, especially as I spelt Dolce & Gabanna (sic) wrong repeatedly in my application feature. Much later when I asked Hilary why she chose me, she said, ‘You were friendly.’
Hils was unpretentious like that. We had a lot of fun at the D.T. We laughed, we smoked, we drank, we partied, and somehow between the team, filed four fashion & style spreads a week. Our office was in 1 Canada Square aka Canary Wharf, and ‘The Fashion Desk’ was a colourful place. Hilary’s office doubled as the Fashion Cupboard, and trebled as the team smoking room. That we were allowed to smoke in a windowless office, now makes me smile. No health, safety or smoking rules applied – or if they did, Hils ignored them.
Ideas meetings were held at Nicholas Wine Bar. With Hilary, Julia the Fashion Deputy & myself, working our way through four bottles of wine in a lunch hour. I remember one day, my computer screen was so blurry after one of these meetings, that I couldn’t read let alone type.
Hilary was old-school. She didn’t queue for Fashion Shows – everybody knew her. If you were in her entourage you’d skip the queue and sweep in her slipstream. Tickets were so tight for Stella McCartney’s first solo show, October 2001, that when I had no ticket I literally held onto Hils’ skirt like I was part of her outfit, in order to get in.
During catwalk shows, invariably, you’d see Hilary bopping in her Front Row seat to the soundtrack, her exuberance a refreshing anomaly in contrast to stiff contemporaries, sitting next to her. But the second a show finished, Hilary was nowhere to be seen, already up and backstage like a bloodhound to bag a quote from the designer for her newspaper copy. Often she’d have got the quote in the time it would take me to put on my coat. Then it was a race to leave the show, jump in a car, and type out her report, so it could make the next day’s paper. This was pre 4G, pre Wifi, pre Google. It was a military operation!
In Paris, we’d toast fashion week with a party at the Telegraph’s Rue de Rivoli apartment. Designers and journalists dancing into the night opposite the Jardin du Tuileries: it was Emily in Paris on acid – because Hilary threw a good party. One year I was responsible for buying the booze, which I ordered for delivery from a nearby supermarket. It was tense in the flat and I feared for my job when the caseloads of vin didn’t arrive… until 10 minutes before the party started. We all cheered and danced, when it did! Hilary even hugged the delivery guy.
However fun it was, I soon realised the non-stop Fashion Circus wasn’t for me. Once I cheekily bunked off a show that Hilary had asked me to go to, in order to treat myself to Steak Frites. When she asked me what the show was like, I replied, ‘there were lots of skirts,’ to which I can still recall her frown. The only times I remember her telling me off were when I missed the Eurostar once from Waterloo, and another time I failed to get a quote from Claudia Schiffer – “always get a quote!” she said.
I was sadder to leave Hilary than the role itself two years in. She was a one of a kind boss, who loved fashion and always said she’d never retire. Of course, she didn’t! I think she deserves a toast from us all.
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Molly Gunn is the founder and editor of Selfish Mother, a site she created for like-minded women in 2013. Molly has been a journalist for over 15 years, starting out working on fashion desks at The Guardian, The Telegraph & ES Magazine before going freelance in 2006 to write for quality publications. She now edits Selfish Mother, sells #GoodTees to raise funds for charity, & writes freelance for Red Magazine and The Sunday Telegraph's Stella. Molly is mother to Rafferty, 6, Fox, 4, and baby Liberty. She is married to Tom aka music producer Tee Mango and founder of Millionhands. They live in Bruton, Somerset.