My First Real Client & The Princess’s Wardrobe
I started with a few items from friends — the odd piece they never wore but couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of.
Earlier that year, I had taken on a voluntary position. It was part purpose-seeking, part an attempt to cut down on the partying, part wanting to connect with people outside my usual world. Once a week I assisted in a cooking class for refugees and asylum seekers, helping them acclimate to cooking food in the UK.
I rarely met the other volunteers, but one afternoon I was called into a meeting. I remember feeling restless — the early days of starting my business were already tugging at my time and attention.
We gathered around a table, and I noticed one woman immediately: her elegant watch, the sunglasses pushed into glossy hair, her petite frame and pretty face.
I shared openly that I was starting my own business and wasn’t sure if I could continue the voluntary commitment. When the meeting ended, the chic woman approached me and asked if I had a business card — she had clothes she wanted to sell.
I arranged to visit her house, arriving with one bag, assuming she’d have a few pieces like everyone else. But she led me into her bedroom where she had laid out the most beautiful high-end items: Stella McCartney, Max Mara, Marni, Chloé — mostly clothing, all immaculate.
I was still unsure of my pricing strategy, but the wonderful thing about this client was that she knew exactly what she had paid for every item — something I would later discover most women didn’t know or remember.
I left with 14 pieces and the realisation that I needed garment bags, rails and hangers immediately. This was becoming real.
A few weeks later, on a cold, wet weekday evening at the end of October, I had just finished volunteering — exhausted and unsure whether I still had the capacity for that commitment.
My friend Christina invited me to a party.
“You should come, there will be interesting people there.”
It was the last thing I felt like doing, but it was around the corner from my house and something inside me said, go.
Near the bar, Christina introduced me to someone she knew. She turned out to be the PA of a very high-profile Princess (not British royalty, and I’ll keep her identity private).
I am not a natural self-promoter, but Christina mentioned my new business venture and thrust one of my business cards into her hand. I cringed inside, but I realised: this is what I have to do now.
The PA looked at my card and drawled,
“Oh my god, this is just what I need! The Princess has just done a huge wardrobe edit. You must come over next week and take whatever you want!”
The following week I drove to an enormous mansion on the Chelsea Embankment — the Thames just across the street from those beautiful standalone red-brick houses.
I rang the bell and was greeted by a Butler.
I had never been to a house that had one.
A mix of excitement and nerves washed over me.
He led me downstairs to the staff quarters — warm, modern, clean lines. Later, I would become accustomed to this setup in other high-profile homes.
The PA, looking utterly drained from the wardrobe clear-out, led me into the swimming pool area. But it didn’t look or feel like a pool. A pristine cover lay across the water, the heated slate-grey tiles making it feel like another glamorous room. It didn’t even smell of chlorine.
Then I saw them.
Rails and rails of the most exquisite, expensive clothes lined three sides of the pool — dresses, winter coats, fur scarves, cashmere sweaters, Celine knitwear.
Huge boxes overflowed with Louboutins (the flashes of red soles!), Dolce & Gabbana, Fendi, Prada, Hermès.
Her taste was impeccable.
There must have been hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of clothing.
I would have needed a horse box to take everything.
Suddenly the PA’s exhaustion made perfect sense.
Still inexperienced and clueless about who my customer truly was, I felt nervous.
What if I couldn’t sell her things? What if I had to bring them back?
I sifted through everything, overwhelmed in the best possible way, and chose 65 pieces — which barely made a dent. But it was all I could manage. Photographing and cataloguing each item alone felt daunting.
I folded down the back seats of my Mini, gently layering the clothes inside, returning again and again until the car was full. The Butler helped me carry the bags.
It was surreal.
I acted like this was normal, but inside I thought:
This is completely unreal. Epic. Fabulous. And also… a shit tonne of work.
But I couldn’t complain — the stars were aligning.
I had a shop in one stop.
Up until then, I had been open to taking non-label vintage pieces because I truly didn’t know what I’d get. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine starting with the highest-quality designer items money could buy.
Then something happened that I never expected.
Women who were wealthy enough to buy at this level heard I had the Princess’s clothes, and they were suddenly beating down my door to come and see — and buy.
There was a fascination with owning a piece of her life, something I had never imagined would appeal to women who already shopped at her level. But they knew her: the taste, the lifestyle, the budget.
One woman slipped on a sand-coloured Louis Vuitton coat with a hood and soft pink satin lining. She twirled. It looked brand new.
Originally £2,500 — I had priced it at £650.
It was a steal.
I watched the realisation wash over her:
I feel… smart? Savvy? For buying second-hand?
A completely new sensation for her.
Timing was everything.
It was 2009, not long after the financial crash, and even the mega-rich were feeling the pinch.
Selling unused clothing instead of giving it to the housekeeper suddenly made financial sense.
And why not buy a piece if it was immaculate — especially if it came from someone with a life arguably more glamorous than your own?
The Chic Seeker 
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