Three sisters in matching outfits catch the spotlights on their sequins. They pause and look around. They look at you. They move on. The soundtrack pulses, gaining momentum. The party saunters out. They walked alone or in packs, each footstep seeming purposeful. “He is nightlife, I am the morning after.” A phrase repeated from the first show. “He” is Tom Ford. The morning after is Haider Ackermann.

Steamy mirrors around the showspace, guests seated on plush benches. We’re in a club, somewhere. We’re not sure how we made it past the door. Why is everyone wearing sunglasses inside? There’s women wearing full leather. Their skirts have delicate doily patterns on them, their bras are mesh, but it’s all black leather. It all comes together with a shocking red lip. The men are in jock straps. They’re black and you can see them through their shorts. One’s carrying a newspaper. Another has a white jumper wrapped around his neck. Where are they coming from and where are they going?

Sky-blue high heels prop up the frame of a man in brown leather. Nighties are being worn as dresses and pyjamas become suits. The music lulls only to come back louder than before. It throbs. Mariacarla Boscono arrives in a black dress held up by gravity. Susie Cave in a white nightgown, or papal vestments. A group wearing the same silhouette three times. Pink, green, and white. Again, they stop. They look at you. A blue dress, cobalt blue, clasped around the shoulders like it was clicked on. Then, it all ends. 

“Desire is engrained in the spirit of this house, suffused like a heady scent in the rooms in which I keep on dancing.”