![]() ![]() ![]() Opening the door, Blahnik swept into the hallway and cried out, “Honey, I’m home!” Then, with a manic swirl, he tossed his powder-blue cashmere sports jacket across a bust of the eighteenth-century actor David Garrick, raced toward his alligator, and embraced it. We rushed through the meal and then walked along the cobblestoned streets toward his house, which sits in the middle of one of those Georgian crescents that provided Jane Austen with just the right setting for “Persuasion.” He perked up the second we arrived. He has a bad back, and it was giving him so much trouble that day that he wore a brace. It was a dismal, rainy afternoon, and we had just come from lunch-though Blahnik had been in no mood to eat. The jaws were parted, and the teeth shimmered in the fading light. About three and a half feet long, with olive-brown skin and black hatch marks flecking its body, it was sprawled imperiously across a Queen Anne table at the end of the foyer. The first thing I noticed when I entered the two-hundred-year-old town house in Bath that serves as Manolo Blahnik’s weekend retreat was the alligator. ![]()
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