Bestselling author Jojo Moyes: 'How I fell in love with these feel-good designer coats'

Many years ago I wrote a short story called Last Year's Coat, about a woman who longs for a coat she can't afford. Pragmatic and thrifty, she tries on a cheaper version, hoping to convince herself it's just as good, but it's not the same. The shoddy cut, the cheap fabric, all conspire to make her feel worse about herself.

I think, as is often the case, there was more of me in this story than I realised at the time. Because, of all my clothes, my coat is the thing that alters how I feel about myself. I don't buy a winter coat every season, but every few years I spy something and zero in on it like a guided missile; and then I wear that thing to death over a period of years.

The first one I remember falling in love with was a child's raincoat. It's possible my mother made it for me; she made a lot of my clothes. I teamed it with my grey beret and felt invincible wearing it. I think I was three. Equally, aged eight I remember the horror of being given a neighbour's son's parka (it was the 1970s, we were all broke, and all wore cast-offs). I wept, convinced that if I wore it everyone would think I was a boy.

Even then I understood that a good coat is armour, not just against the weather but against the world. Walking my dogs on winter mornings, I wear a nondescript black padded coat, hood up, shielded against the elements, invisible. Heading to a meeting, it might be a cream fake-shearling wraparound, or an eight-year-old ankle-length navy leather reversible with white stripes that was so expensive I had to hide the bill from myself (I'd only popped out for a sandwich). In an age where trainers have become standard footwear and many work from home, the coat is the part of my outfit that speaks to how I feel about myself. I'm not very flamboyant, but coats are where I cut loose.

I thought of that short story as I headed to the offices of designer Charlotte Simone. I had spotted her coats a couple of years ago in an online advert for a multicoloured fake-fur jacket. I knew, as soon as I saw it, that I would wear it endlessly. By the time I clicked, it had already sold out.

It turns out Simone's coats pretty much always sell out. She makes relatively small batches of between 150 and 400 and announces three 'drops' a year on social media, usually lasting a week, which are swiftly bought by fans who include A-listers such as Taylor Swift, Dua Lipa and Katy Perry. She used to sell through stores such as Selfridges, but adopted the drop method almost accidentally during lockdown, when she 'lost all my retailers overnight', and has employed it ever since.

I turn up at the designer's Marylebone studio in no mood for trying on clothes; a night of insomnia has left me whey-faced and exhausted. (I arrive in a black mac, which probably speaks volumes.) Simone is not what I expected from her coats; she is low-key in jeans, an oversized white shirt and trainers. An elderly sausage dog called Harold potters around the studio.

I'm feeling more at ease but a bit dubious about her first choice for me: called Bonnie, it's a pink fake fur with a high collar (I feel decrepit, and the colour is not really me). Within minutes of trying it on, I am reassessing. A high collar, as any woman over 40 knows, is flattering, and the shade is transformative against my skin. Pulling its soft collar up around my face feels like I'm being cradled. Can a coat really make me feel this much better? I try a long, fake-leopardskin style, concerned that at my age I'll look like Bet Lynch. But it elongates me and is surprisingly elegant (no mean feat if you're 5ft 2in).

As I try on more coats, my mood lifts. They are uniformly flattering. Most are three-quarter or full length, often belted and glamorous. 'Oh my god,' I say to her, as I try on a fake-fur gilet. 'I realise what this is. Your coats are all fabulous, in the old-fashioned sense. Which means I feel fabulous.'

Simone (full name Charlotte Simone Beecham, but she uses only her first and middle names professionally) is 35. She lives in Northwest London with her husband Dean (they've been together for 18 years) and their baby Goldie. She went to New York University, which she credits with her drive and 'anything is possible' mindset, and started her brand in 2015. She runs her Instagram account herself, as she enjoys the direct contact with customers and seeing how her coats affect their confidence.

'I'm a jeans and T-shirt girl,' she says, as I rip my way through her clothing rails. 'But I always loved the idea of having one statement piece that can instantly lift your look. I like to think our coats do just that – instantly elevate your everyday and give that It-girl glamour.'

Her coats have names redolent of Hollywood, like Margot, Stevie and Harlow. Her Instagram is littered with women bemoaning the fact that they 'missed out on an Edie'. Most are around the £300-£400 mark, far less than most designer coats. While Simone favours a multitude of fabrics, one of the reasons she uses fake fur is to help keep the price point down as she wants them to be affordable. Many designs are based on vintage finds and are meant to be timeless.

Her upcoming drop has been nine months in the making. 'We now work on a slow and sustainable approach to fashion,' she says. She enjoys taking time over the coats. 'We don't work to traditional timelines any more; we just do us.'

I leave, having fallen in love with not one but two items: a Stevie faux-suede gilet (left), which immediately turns my boring jeans and shirt into something more stylish, and a brown coat (belted, shearling collar, made me feel like a Charlie girl from the 70s ads) called Penny. Like Simone, I'm not interested in whether it's trendy, just how it makes me feel. And as I head back out, still on two hours' sleep, I realise, thanks to This Year's Coat, I feel pretty good.

Charlotte Simone's next coat drop will be live at 8pm on Wednesday. .com

Hair and make-up: Caroline Piasecki using Nars