Amal Clooney Photo on the cover of Vogue
A sudden late snow is falling, bright with just a touch of magic, as the automatic gate to Aberlash House opens. It’s an afternoon in March but, in this powdery landscape, could be January. Footprints lead a few steps down a drive, between a row of trees, and climb to a small colonnaded entryway. A breeze is up; the air is bracing. Amal Clooney swings open the door and gathers me inside.
“I feel as if I know you already,” she says oddly, setting a latch against the cold. Tall, poised, and—unexpectedly for someone often seen in somber barrister’s robes—funny, Clooney is an easy host, and dashes off to hang my coat. She wears a red thigh-length Giambattista Valli sweater, jeans, and leopard-print boots she picked up years ago in Capri. The stately entry hall around us (towering ceilings, crisp Georgian molding) is trimmed with personal details. A softly faded Persian rug extends down the stone corridor. A side table, lit by a simple lamp, bears silver-framed black-and-white photos of her with her husband, George, and friends.