Anne’s orange shearling jacket from ‘The Four Seasons’ is telling me to keep my dinosaur tee

In the middle of season two of The Four Seasons, the gang is in Italy to meet Danny (Colman Domingo) and Claude (Marco Calvani) and at some point during dinner a child looks at Anne (Kerri Kenney-Silver) and, giggling, tells her she looks like Befana. An adult familiar with the lore tells Anne she’s “like the Italian Santa”. Anne’s terribly pleased.

Later, in the local Christmas market set up to herald the Festa dell’Epifania, Anne spots figurines of a bedraggled, soot-coated, silver-haired, hook-nosed witch with a broom and a wicker basket everywhere. That is Befana, she learns. (Befana, like Santa, does go around rewarding and punishing children—the naughty ones get coal—but she’s hardly the rosy-cheeked picture of health and jolly well-being that her Polar counterpart presents.) Anne’s constantly harried presence seems to have found a mirror in Italian folklore, but the comparison does seem (a tad) unfair if you pay a bit more attention.

The Four Seasons follows the travails of a group of six friends—and three couples—who live separate lives but meet every quarter (or season). There’s Kate (Tina Fey) and Jack (Will Forte), Danny and Claude, and Anne and Nick (Steve Carell).

Season two opens with all of them minus Nick, who passed away in the first season, plus his heavily pregnant girlfriend, Ginny (Erika Henningsen), hiking up a mountain to disperse his remains. Through the course of the season’s eight episodes, while everyone has their own crises to tide over—Danny and Claude debating fatherhood, Kate and Will dithering between offering each other space and not wanting it—a key arc is Anne’s journey of self-rediscovery after the death of her spouse (albeit, or especially, a cheating, lying one).

There’s a little fling with a grownup mamma’s boy in a beach town, a flashback episode that reminds her of the road not taken, and an awkward phase where Anne finds herself cohabitating with Ginny. But she takes all of that in her stride—in fabulous style.

While others plod along in resort shirts and Breton-stripe tees, Anne’s wardrobe is a masterclass in dopamine-dressing-through-dire-straits. Think colour-blocking at every chance; a warm, autumnal palette that belongs to a David Hockney painting; and enviable separates. She’s dressed like the cool librarian or artsy aunt I long to be, even if her friends tease her about shopping for jewellery from museum gift shops (because why not).

A vintage-inspired ‘Buck n Beer’ tee from Imogene + Willie in the aforementioned hiking episode sets the scene. Clothing from the Nashville-based denim store makes regular appearances in Anne’s life, like a blue satin bomber (paired with daffodil-print pants) and a cropped green shirt.

A walk of shame happens in a pink and gold oversized shirt from Two and a pair of colour-blocked Mary Janes. There’s a multicoloured wrap dress from Indian-born NYC designer Rujuta Sheth, the most perfect contrast-trim red dress from Alemis (even if Anne’s more of a trousers gal), Old Navy chore jackets, and cheery Polo Ralph Lauren and Sezane sweaters. The only bright spot in an otherwise terrible Christmas skit comes in the form of a sparkly tulle creation she pairs with olive corduroy trousers. The No. 6 orange shearling jacket that she wears while discovering that her phone flirtation might have gone a bit further than intended is perfect for a season of crunching leaves under your boots.

Her accessory game is strong, too. We’re referring to JW Anderson mules, a memorable Ink + Alloy beaded sardine pouch, and always, whether she’s strolling the boardwalk or clutching a bag of ashes, a neat little scarf at the neck.

Interestingly, the only time she eschews wild colour for black-and-white is while traipsing across Milan clicking photos for aforementioned flirtation, which involves a halt at a Max Mara store.

I’m in my early forties, and my clothing choices oscillate between slouchie Blondie tees, tent dresses, and printed resort/dad shirts on one hand and polished knitwear in neutrals that look spiffy even at 8 pm on the other—the kind that my colleague Chloe Chou, The Nod’s fashion editor, tends to favour. The adjective “age-appropriate” now sometimes pops up when I’m standing in front of my IKEA wardrobe and trying to decide what to keep or throw out. Is the mullet-hem skirt acquired from a vintage store in Harajuku “too young”? Perhaps it’s time I retired my Jurassic Park tee? The sardine-clutch-wielding, 50-something Anne tells me: “Keep them.”

When a pair of misplaced trousers sets up a meet-cute—and a very exciting cast addition—in the season finale, it’s only fitting. That she’s wearing a very Christmasy red cardigan (&Daughter) when that happens is probably a little snub to good old Befana.