No Place Like Homeland
by Vogue | January 20, 2015
“Do you know, I think you might wear a suit better than any man I’ve ever met.” In the intimate and strangely forbidden confines of a lift at the National Theatre, Helen McCrory’s heavily made-up hazel eyes are drinking in her husband’s tall, tailored frame.
“Thank you,” he replies, faintly awkwardly, looking down at the same Tom Ford tuxedo he wore to accept the best actor Emmy award only last month. “Does this mean you want me to do all the washing-up for a week?”
A gypsy laugh bubbles up from deep inside McCrory’s tiny dancer’s body.
“No, my darling, of course not! Just the bedtime stories…”