I remember your arrival at the Duca in Milano. You and your sister stepped out of the tiny yellow cab without any luggage. Suddenly, the car port was filled with five more tiny cabs overflowing with your luggage and many overwrought bellmen.
I remember running into you everywhere back when that was a handful of places: Armani, Versace, Missoni, Moschino, Gaultier, Ferre, Biagiotti, Chloe, Jean Muir, Zandra ... we'd greet each other in the same way, you beautifully made up and fresh, asking what was good, what was new. For a long time, the answer was not so much new but everything was good.
I remember that you could speak five languages, fluently and elegantly; I struggled with high school French which required a 45rpm speed in a 78 rpm world. My Italian was limited to a raised eyebrow, open hands flung to the sky and magnificent sighs along with enthusiastic shakes of my head. Pronto and a wee bit more.
I remember than you became good friends with the designers and they were loyal to you. I remember the boutiques you opened for so many. I remember that you loved good fashion and recognized it immediately.
I remember dinner together in Hong Kong with you looking at the menu with disdain and discreetly saying what you would really like to have. Oops, that cigarette could have been mine.
Impossibly chic and more clever than the rest of the buyers, I think.
Congratulations, and Hong Kong has been very lucky all these years.