Open Book

by Jessica Simpson

  Well, I soon learned that he hated me. They showed him playing a song for his dad called “I Can’t Hate You Anymore,” and he said, “Kind of sums it all up for me.” He didn’t write that yesterday, I thought. He wrote that while I was married to him. I had been right all along.

  I watched him portray himself as a victim, casting me as this selfish person. He then mentioned that the door was still open for us to get back together. I kept pulling the blanket up over my face to hide because I felt so exposed. It was so disrespectful and dragged me back into his orbit when I was just starting to leave it. Look, I respect artists, and you can’t stop them from drawing on their lives and saying what they want to say. But this was different. This was PR and spin. It felt like I was pulled back onto Newlyweds, only it was just him talking about me with faraway looks and dramatic pauses. He blamed opening our lives to cameras for ruining our marriage to the same camera crew he’d then hired. I even watched the Making the Video special that aired after and saw that he’d re-created our life for the video, casting his future wife Vanessa Minnillo to play me as this cold, unfeeling person. I knew he did this to hurt me.

  It didn’t make me cry, it made me mad. But he was breaking down in front of the world, and, again, I felt responsible. How many times are women made to feel responsible for the actions of men? I know now that I wasn’t, but back then, it felt like I needed to fix him.

  So I called him. And I asked to meet him at my house. I don’t know what kind of rental-car or secret-driver agent tricks he pulled to fool the paparazzi and get through my gate, but he managed. He rang the bell, and out of reflex I hugged him. I meant it, too. Despite my anger, I missed him.

  Nick brought his album to play for me, and I had to sit in my living room listening to his songs about me. He even sang along and would look at me for praise. Or glance at me when there was a particularly cruel line about me. I was numb, just blank. How do you react when you find out you have apparently hurt someone so deeply that they feel entitled to such actions? I felt manipulated into some revenge fantasy, but I had put myself in this situation.

  I didn’t know any other way to make it better, so I slept with him.

  I know. I wish you were there to stop me, too. It was emotional, yet there was no connection. There is nothing more to say than this was the confirmation that this man was not my husband anymore.

  He didn’t stay the night. I was relieved because I could feel his hate. The whole situation was very dark. I didn’t want the energy in my home. When he walked out the door, I knew I would never see him again.

  I didn’t call anybody afterward to tell them that I had let that happen. I was too ashamed. I had so much to step forward to in life, and I’d put myself back in the same old boots. Nick would always be one of the loves of my life, and he taught me how to love in that way, so I appreciated that. But I had to leave him in the past.

  But to do that, I had to finalize the divorce. Nick and my dad continued to fight over how much money I had to give him. I finally asked my dad and my business manager what the sum was. They said Nick wanted a certain number, and honestly I don’t remember what it was. If it sounds crazy that I can’t remember, it was crazy to me that we had that kind of money to fight over after just three seasons of a show. We were both blessed by God, but Nick had a better lawyer.

  “Just give it to him,” I said. “You all gotta stop. Just give him the money. He deserves the money.”

  “No way, no how,” said my father.

  “Dad,” I said. “This is for my freedom, and you can’t put a price on that. Do it.”

  He relented and agreed to pay him the money just to be done.

  “I’ll make it back,” I said. “I promise, I’ll make it back.”

  And then I did. Give or take a billion.

  16

  Playing Dress-Up

  June 2006

  The fit models walked into the showroom one by one to line up in front of us. I looked over at my mom, and she was beaming. Next to her was Beth Pliler, my old dance teacher, whose smile widened with each model’s step. Mom was the president and creative director of the Jessica Simpson Collection, while Beth was brand manager.

  “The stitching on that one,” I said, pointing at one shoe. “Let’s make it—”

  “Tonal,” my mom and I said at the same time. We laughed. The Collection was a godsend for us. Starting a fashion line was my mother’s dream, one she’d held on to since she was a little girl. My great-grandmother, who had a sixth sense, used to watch my mom cut paper dolls to dress them up in scraps of fabric. She gave my mom a Dearfoams slipper box to keep them in. “This is your dream box,” she told her. “One day, you’re gonna be a fashion designer.”

  “What’s that?” she remembers asking.

  She always styled me when I started out, and during Newlyweds, people would contact her to give me clothes to wear. Mom noticed that what I wore on the show would then sell out in stores. Since everyone was always asking my mom what I was wearing, she wanted to cut out the middleman. She told my dad to find someone willing to do a licensing deal so we could just make the clothes ourselves.

  One thing that was important to us was that whatever we did had to be affordable. I had a shawl, a simple cream one, and girls constantly asked me where I got it. It was from Barney’s, and I felt bad telling them that because the price tag was out of reach for a lot of my fans. I wanted to give them the feeling of luxury without having to spend a lot of money.

  Dad put out feelers and approached Vince Camuto, who became our fairy godfather. He was a footwear legend who had created Nine West, then sold it for about $900 million. Vince was a suave but kind mastermind who first learned what women really wanted to wear when he was a poor Lower East Side kid who started out as a cobbler and then charmed his way to the floor of a store on Fifth Avenue, selling to rich New York City ladies. When my dad approached him, Vince was nearly seventy, and I think he was too busy working to know me from MTV. He asked his son John, who had seen me on Newlyweds, what he thought of me.

  “I’d bank on her,” John said. And my life changed.

  It only took one dinner with Vince and his beautiful wife, Louise, for us all to click. I talked about my own passion for dressing girls going back to childhood, when I styled everyone for prom, and I would sometimes pick out clothes to buy myself because I knew it would also look cute on one of the girls in youth group. I’d lend them out, and it made me love the piece even more. With Vince, I was adamant that I make clothes that could appeal to all women. “Not everybody has the body of someone who lives in New York or Los Angeles,” I said, and Vince smiled. “I want to sell to the average girl because I love that girl.”

  Vince had built an empire on footwear, but he didn’t just want a shoe license with me. He saw the potential for a lifestyle empire. Vince paid me fifteen million for the master license, and people thought he was crazy. “Jessica really is America’s sweetheart, and I think her fans will grow with her,” he told Women’s Wear Daily when we announced. “If this is not a one-billion-dollar or two-billion-dollar brand, I’ll be shocked.”

  He built a seven-thousand-square-foot showroom for me in the Macy’s flagship store in Herald Square in New York, and then went to Italy to find these gorgeous chandeliers and white marble fixtures to put in the showrooms in both Macy’s and the Southern chain Dillard’s. It was a sign to the customer, and to me, that this was a serious venture. My mom created an office for her and Beth right over the garage of her house. She was at it almost every day, creating the color palette and picking out materials and fabrics. Beth helped with logistics, and we gradually involved more family friends, still keeping the operation tight.

  We started the line with shoes, specifically a high-heeled red cowboy boot that cost $69. With Vince, everything was for the love of shoes. We all wanted to make money, too—and we did right away, but Vince showed me how important it was to put your heart and soul in the sole of the shoe your customers are walking on. The c
owboy boot sold out immediately, and we brought in $50 million in wholesale goods the first year alone.

  As we expanded to denim and sportswear, then handbags, home, and accessories, my mom and I hired designers in every category. We would collaborate with them in an initial design meeting, suggest a color palette and styles that we thought should be part of the brand. The design team would then go do their magic and come back for a second “mid-design” meeting where we would see mock samples so we could make tweaks and changes. From there, we would have a “final design” meeting, where we see the finished samples that would be making their debut on the market. That’s where we would pull the pieces that just didn’t work and add finishing touches to the collection.

  My mother could execute ideas like none other. She brought all the efficiency and penny-saving of a preacher’s wife to her new calling. Then I would do eight- or ten-hour days at the showroom, either approving or tweaking the designs. I have an attention to detail that sometimes drives me crazy, but while being a perfectionist is hard, when it comes to design, it is so rewarding. If I asked for a change, I would remember it the next time I saw the piece. I think people were surprised by how involved I wanted to be. I trusted my mom with the keys completely, but I still liked to get in and drive every now and again.

  Which is what I was doing that day in the showroom. One of the fit models was new, a cute girl with long brown hair, pulled back. She was willowy and graceful, and kept turning her heel to better show the shoe.

  “Would you buy it?” I asked her.

  She paused, her eyes widened. This happened with the new models every time. They were so used to being treated like mannequins by designers, so they didn’t expect that I was genuinely interested in how they felt wearing the shoe or the accessory. The fit models make the rounds of all the showrooms, and they know the quality of other people’s stuff. I want to know if they will wear the shoes. And can they actually walk in them?

  “You’re not hurting anybody’s feelings,” I said. “We’re in these meetings to fix things. You’ll still get paid if you hate the shoe.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  “But?”

  “But I’m tall,” she said.

  Mom and I looked at each other and did a quick nod. I’m on the shorter side, so the higher the heel, the more confident I am. I tell people I live on stilts. But I needed to translate my preferences to make something for everyone.

  “Maybe we should take the heel down an inch,” my mom said.

  “Half-inch?” I begged.

  “Three-quarters,” she said and laughed.

  “That work?” I asked the model.

  She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Then I’d totally wear them.”

  I put my fists up in triumph. “Sold!” I said.

  It was interesting to see my mom in action. This was her calling, something she could work on with me that didn’t involve my dad. Until recently, my mom was very shy and always turned down magazine profiles and generally refused to walk red carpets with me. This was all hers. This was what they lived and breathed.

  Fashion wasn’t my dream, though of course it’s been fun. My payoff was always making people feel beautiful and confident. That moment the model smiled. The bigger girls I’d meet who thanked me for not making plus-size looks that were only about covering up. Curves should be glorified. People think they need to hide a mom bod, but that body literally built life for someone else. I want all girls to put on my looks and have five people telling them they love their outfit.

  It’s why our fit models have a range of body types and why I never diet for my ad campaigns. If I am ten pounds heavier, then I am ten pounds heavier. Sure, it helps that I have control over the shot, and I get to choose the photographer, so there’s trust. But once I was handed the reins of the Jessica Simpson Collection, I could just steer the business where my mom and I wanted us to go.

  A lot of celebrities crash and burn with clothing lines, mainly because they let their pride get in the way. They either try to sell something that isn’t like anything in their Dior-stuffed closet, so it is out of touch with what is truly wearable, or they try to do super high-end sample sizes at four hundred dollars each. I don’t need the price tag on something with my name on it to be high just so I feel fancy. I might buy that stuff—like, a lot of that stuff—and I respect it. But I don’t need to sell it. You have to let go of your ego in this business. I always say, “People can walk all over me as long as it’s my logo on the bottom on the shoe.”

  Another reason I have succeeded when other celebrities haven’t is one small but very important decision I made when I signed: a noncompete clause. I didn’t want Vince to be able to sign any other celebrities without asking me. I am not giving up my floor space in department stores so some pop star or reality TV person can launch a line.

  The point is that you must take care of yourself, even when you are given an amazing opportunity. My mom could ace the bar exam if she took it tomorrow because she has read so many contracts. “I just google the words I don’t know,” she tells me. You need to nurture your dream the way you would a best friend or child, and you need someone you can trust on board with you. I am beyond grateful to my mom for all she put into this brand.

  You’ve been listening to me talk, so I want to hear from you. Press pause for a second on your life and ask yourself, What is my calling? What makes you feel passionate? If you don’t immediately have an answer, try broadening beyond something specific. My mom’s was specific—fashion—but mine was more broad. I like making people feel good. Whether I am doing that through music, which came naturally to me, or through writing, which is harder on me but brings a different reward, I’m driven by the same impulse.

  I think sometimes we get so caught up in the vessel of the work rather than what matters: the spirit that fills it.

  WHILE I WAS IN THAT SHOWROOM, I HAD A SECRET. I AM SURE AS SOON AS I left, I texted him.

  I first met John Mayer a year before at a February 2005 party Clive Davis threw during Grammy weekend. He ran up to me to tell me how much he loved the song I wrote, “With You.” We were on the same label then, Columbia, so he would randomly show up at events, like my album release party.

  “What the eff is John Mayer doing here?” Nick asked me then.

  “I didn’t invite him,” I said.

  Nick didn’t trust him, and he probably shouldn’t have. John began to write me immediately, and I was flattered, but only interested in him as an artist. He was about two albums into his career, but everyone could tell he was a singular talent as a guitar player and songwriter. His notes quickly became more intimate, and he told me he saw something in me that no one else did. He asked why I would want to just be famous as a wife. He said I was so much more than what the world perceived me to be.

  As soon as I was single, he made his move, and this time I was interested. In the summer of 2006, I was still dating, and using those “relationships” to figure out who I was. There were a few guys with big hearts and strong personalities, and I found myself changing to suit them. John wasn’t having it and told me he wanted to have all of me or nothing. He assured me he didn’t want to make me into anybody else. Early on, he wrote a song about me, and he made it so plain that I thought, Oh, he does want me to be myself. So I chose him.

  CaCee felt uncomfortable with my decision to date John. I always saw CaCee as my friend first, but she was always very professional as well. John was a Columbia artist, and she knew John from even before he signed. She had already been put in the middle of the situation with Nick and she didn’t want to go through that again. But CaCee was also uncomfortable with a lot of my decisions back then. She was worried in my rush to start my new life, I was losing the girl she had first met. She quit being my assistant, telling my father first and then offering to help train a replacement. I’d grown so dependent on her that it felt like she was leaving me. I felt abandoned. Our friendship was strained for quite some time.

 
John and I dated in secret for months, with dinners at my house and meetups in hotels. My security team would lead me through a back entrance of a SoHo hotel, then up a shabby service elevator. When he visited me, he would have his hood up, but he wasn’t on the radar of any paparazzi. John was a night owl like me, both of us unable to turn our brains off. He said that I had kept him company in the middle of the night with my Proactiv informercials. In the beginning, there was a give and take. I saw him combing his hair and told him not to bother, that it looked better wild. Like a dark romantic hero. He would ask me for advice on outfits, and just seeing him wearing something I picked out made me feel proud. He saw me writing in my journal and left a note in there for me. “If I wrote you a note, would you read it?” it began, the sureness of his jagged handwriting so different than my whirls. I was in love.

  It seemed mutual. Again and again he told me he was obsessed with me, sexually and emotionally. The connection was so strong that he made me feel seductive, and he spoke about sex and my body in a way that made me feel powerful, at least physically. His focus on me was the opposite of my marriage. I would get up to go to the bathroom, and John would ask, “Where are you going?” While I was married, my ex-husband couldn’t be bothered to figure out what city I was in. It felt safe to be so desired. I knew John would never cheat on me, and that confidence was a new feeling for me.

  Where I felt insecure in the beginning was that I always felt that I was falling short of the potential he saw in me. I constantly worried that I wasn’t smart enough for him. He was so clever and treated conversation like a friendly competition that he had to win. He would get going, riffing from one subject to another so quickly that I would get lost. One minute he was explaining the start of his Rolex collection, and then another he was going on about a collector who he was jealous of, then the nature of jealousy, then the construct of time and the heft of it on your wrist . . . When I tried to leap back in and say something to add to the dialogue he was having with himself, he would challenge what I said, because that’s how he saw the give and take of conversation. Sometimes he wouldn’t let go of questioning why I thought a certain way until it had me second-guessing myself.