The dress that changed my life: from Sweden to New York and beyond.

Have you ever felt immortal? That life is never going to end, and you have all the time in the world to try out boyfriends, places to live and potential careers? I have.

When I came home with a good high school certificate and declared to my mother and Lutheran grandfather, who had supported my creative antics over the years, that I was now going to become an actress and move to New York, my old grandfather turned pale with shock. He was all set to see his granddaughter become the first person in the family to go to university (which – as a good girl – I duly did later on). I swore that this was my calling in life, and in the end my grandfather agreed to sponsor my studies at the Lee Strasberg Institute.

I had a summer buddy whose mother was a designer, who lived in a rent-controlled penthouse next to the Dakota building. For a few months, my summer friend and I shared a room in a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park. When my grandfather’s budget didn’t stretch to covering late nights at the Spy Bar any more, I got a job through my summer buddy’s designer mother in a tiny little shop called Älskling (‘darling’ in Swedish). The designer mother’s characteristic feature was romantic bias-cut dresses decorated with masses of lace. Women loved them. I certainly did. Even Linda Evangelista and Kyle MacLachlan came by the shop once, apparently. The owner was a Swedish woman who only wore dresses and cowboy boots and had an Indian boyfriend who always wore big hats. On days I didn’t have to go to class, I sold dresses from morning till night.

After three months, my student visa expired, and I had to go home to Sweden. As part of my final pay cheque, I got to choose a dress. It was white with red roses and lace appliqué in a sheer georgette fabric. The first time I wore it was on a shoot for a Swedish tabloid on the roof of the designer’s building. Then, back in Sweden, when – according to my grandfather – I came to my senses and moved to an old university town to start studying, the dress came with me and was placed on a hanger in my room so I could always see it (it was frequently used as party and student ball attire). When I moved to Stockholm to work as a buyer assistant for a clothing chain, it followed. Perhaps motivated by seeing the dress hanging in my apartment, I resigned again and moved to London to pursue my passion: fashion journalism.

Wear and tear has meant the white of the dress has yellowed a little now, there is a red wine stain on it that won’t come out, and the delicate lace has got a bit torn. But if I need guidance to make a decision or a push in the right direction, the dress is safely there in my wardrobe to help. All I have to do is look at the rose pattern, and the answer comes to me.