• Baume Levres lip balm. A favorite of Liv Tyler’s
• Ouidad hair products for curly hair from Ouidad’s swanky uptown salon
• Shampoo from Korres, a hot new line of products from Greece
• Gift certificates for a blow-out or a manicure at the posh Warren Tricomi salon
• Star-shaped candy from Dylan’s Candy Bar, a candy wonderland owned by Ralph Lauren’s daughter Dylan
Note: Karen didn’t get a gift bag at the end of the night. Melissa, of course, did. She made sure to secure hers early in the evening, while Karen plain-old forgot until it was too late and there were none left. The day after, our book editor, Allison, called us because she didn’t get one either! “I should have brushed up on those gift-bag tips from the book.” She laughed.
PARTY FAVORS
BE A VULTURE WITHOUT SEEMING LIKE ONE
• Leave parties early. Goody bags are often first come, first serve. So it’s best to beat the crowd and stake your claim before anyone else does the same.
• “Fake leave” a party. Walk out to receive a goody bag and return for the fun soon after.
• Try to snag the bag on your way into the party—if you’re lucky, you may just get another one on your way out.
• If you notice that other people have gift bags and you don’t, say politely to the person in charge, “I’m sorry. But I can’t seem to find my goody bag.” This person should remedy the situation.
• If you’re given a particularly good goody bag and you want another, tell the person who’s manning the gift-bag station that you would like to get one for your friend who came to the party but forgot to take hers, or for a VIP, like “my editor” or “my friend Lucy Liu.”
• Keep an eye out for the gift-bag table, and as soon as it’s set up, make your move.
• If the bags are unmanned and simply scattered on the shelves or on the floor, help yourself. Nothing’s fair in love and gift bags. (If someone stops you, just apologize and act like you had no idea that what you were doing was inappropriate.)
• If, by some awful twist of fate, you did not get the goody bag, call the person who threw the party (or the person’s publicist) and sweetly ask for one. “Thank you for organizing such a wonderful party. I was having so much fun, I left without the gift bag!” Subtle hints will ensure that a goody bag will be messengered to your door the next day.
CLOTHES WHORES
ONE-NIGHT STAND
Twenty-four hours before my thirtieth birthday, in the midst of all the hoopla about my gala, I was stressing out over what coat to wear. I didn’t own the kind of dramatically elegant evening coat that makes a statement and screams, “I’m here!” when you enter a room. I was a wreck, I tell you! A wreck! I tore through department stores, boutiques, and sales racks to find something special. No luck. As the hours ticked away, I became more and more frustrated. How could I go out without the right coat? I needed something fierce. Otherwise, my micromini pink tiger-print dress would be ruined—and everyone would realize it was all a fraud. A famous person always has the right coat. I was convinced I’d have no grand entrance without one.
Then my phone rang. I was so depressed, I screened the call. “Hi, Karen. This is Ann Dee Goldin,” a voice said. “A little birdie told me it was your birthday and I wanted to invite you to borrow …”
Ann! Dee! Goldin! My heart skipped a beat. She is one of the most chichi furriers, who has worked with designers like Narciso Rodriguez and Karl Lagerfeld, as well as all of the socialites. Now, I never thought of myself as the kind of girl who wears fur. Not just because of animal rights and my fear of red-paint-throwing activists, but because it always seemed so “rich bitch.” But since fur has been in every magazine, on the slim shoulders of everyone from P. Diddy and Cher to Naomi Campbell (years after she posed for PETA ad campaigns, spewing, “I’d rather go naked than wear fur”), Foxy Brown, and all the junior socialites of the city, the once-politically-incorrect material has become more than a fashion statement, even—dare I say—socially acceptable. Fur—politics aside—symbolizes instant glamour, which is just what I craved for my big night.
I first met Ann Dee Goldin the year before, when I wrote about one of her pieces for the Styles section of the New York Times. The last time we spoke, she told me I could call her if I ever needed something. I didn’t think “free fur” would be an appropriate thing to ask for, so I never called. But now she was calling me! I knew this was going to be a good conversation, so I immediately picked up my phone. “Yes, this is Karen,” I said, acting as cool as possible. To make a long story short, her publicist told her about my party, and she wanted to know if I’d wear one of her coats for the night.
Here’s the thing about celebrity style. We see them waltz down the red carpet wearing the most glamorous of threads, a different ensemble each and every time we see them. It is often because they are wearing something on loan. It’s called “clothes for a night,” otherwise known as “one-night stands.” Sometimes a whole bunch of one-night stands are better than making a commitment to one frock that you’ll likely get sick of or wear only once anyway (this in no way reflects my dating ethics). People like Iman, the Lauder sisters (as in Estée), and Jennifer Lopez have all borrowed furs for their nights out, and I wanted to, too, dammit! In Tinseltown, it’s all about borrowed glamour. Why do you think everyone is always in Versace? And suddenly Ann Dee was letting me in on the A-list action.
I hopped in a taxi and made my way to her showroom, where I draped myself in sheared minks, chubby fox furs, long sables, and fluffy shawls. It was heaven. Each piece was softer, more luxurious, and more expensive than the last. Then Ann Dee brought me to her vault, where she archived her special pieces. I instantly fell for a $20,000 chinchilla. I named her “Chin-Chin Rodriguez” and declared her mine.
She would work perfectly with my slutty pink dress! It was an Ivana Trump moment. Even if I had to sign a release form that said I would pay for it if it wasn’t returned by noon on Friday.
I returned the coat, along with a thank-you note and a photo. And she was so touched by my gratitude that she sent me a present—the savage-looking partially sheared fox-fur chubby I was flipping out over in her showroom. Free fur! I think the only free fur J. Lo’s gotten was a Dolce & Gabbana jacket from Ben. I heard she named hers Chi-Chi! Great minds think alike.
GIFTS FROM THE DESIGNER
I was all set to do my two weeks of fame on the strength of my own wardrobe. I was, after all, a shopaholic and a fashionista, so how hard could it be? But being famous meant going out every night and making sure I was photographed in a new and different and up-to-the-minute outfit that no normal person, no matter how deep their closets, could possibly put together on their own.
As a fashion journo, I was familiar with one of the industry’s standard practices, “pulling for a shoot,” otherwise known as borrowing clothes from designer showrooms for magazine editorials. I made an appointment with a showroom that represented the likes of avant-garde designers Alice Roi and Ulla Johnson. They typically provide clothes only for fashion photo shoots, but I convinced them that it was practically the same thing, since I would be photographed wearing them at several “high-profile” events that would run in several media outlets. “We’ll get credit?” the showroom manager asked skeptically. “Of course!” I promised, keeping my fingers crossed behind my back. He finally agreed, and I was allowed to leave with a week’s worth of outfits. I was so loaded down with my two heavy shopping bags that I tripped on a step as I exited the showroom. “I’m all right!” I assured them from the doorway. It was not one of my most dignified moments. In fact, I must have looked like a thief making a bungled getaway.
Still, it was a start. And the next day, fresh from last night’s success, I brazenly called Celine, the Michael Kors-designed couture line, to borrow a knockout dress for several premieres I would be attending. I heard that they were particularly generous loaners for celebrities. I spun my tale and promised “high-profile” publicity.
“Sure,” the manager said. She just had one question: “What size are you?”
“Um, a ten,” I replied. There was an ominous silence.
“Our samples are sixes. Very, very small sixes. And unfortunately, Angelica Huston has all our tens for the Academy Awards,” she informed me.
I felt defeated upon learning I had the same body size as a fifty-something woman! Even if it was Angelica Huston.
Undaunted, I cold-called the Alvin Valley studio. After reading in the New York Times (um, in an article that Karen wrote!) about the Cuban designer’s sexy, leather-waisted trousers that turn any girl into a leggy Cameron Diaz (who’s a customer), I decided I must have a pair. Jennifer Pearson, Alvin’s PR rep, was more than happy to accommodate me when I fed her my line about “multiple photo ops.” They fitted me for several pairs of pants, and Alvin personally selected a Julia Roberts-like cutout black jersey top for me to wear. There’s even a self-esteem bonus—in Alvin’s sizing, I’m a svelte eight!
I twirled and admired myself in the mirror. “These make my butt look great,” I said as the seamstress cuffed the hems. They planned to messenger them to me in the A.M. Then Jennifer asked, “Should we charge this to Marie Claire’s account?” Since they were customizing the pant length, it would have to count as a “sale” and not a “pull.”
“Um, no. The magazine isn’t paying for that kind of thing,” I stammered sheepishly. And there was no way I could pay for them. The pants were $400 each! And they had fitted me for three pairs! “Hmmm,” she said. “I’ll talk to Alvin.”
The next day, the pants were sent to my apartment, beautifully hemmed, with a note from Jennifer: Alvin would like you to keep the pants as a gift. I hugged myself in relief. I wore those Alvin Valley pants everywhere. I became known as “the Alvin Valley girl.” When our “Two Weeks of Fame” article came out, Alvin sent me a box full of three new pairs. I felt so honored.
But it didn’t stop there. During the next week, as photographs of me in my borrowed garb appeared in magazines from Ocean Drive to New York magazine, a strange thing began to happen … I began to receive packages from other designers sending me their wares. Rock & Republic, a new Los Angeles-based designer worn by Sheryl Crow and Courteney Cox, sent me three pairs of their herringbone, suede-trimmed, low-rise jeans because the designer was a fan of my novel and had loved my “famous” piece in Marie Claire.
“Oh, my God!” a fashionable friend said upon seeing my new jeans. “Those are so next season! You can’t even buy them yet!” For my wedding, jewelry designers Slane and Slane, who craft elegant and one-of-a-kind pavé diamond and pearl necklaces, gifted me with an exquisite set of matching diamond earrings, ring, and necklace. They even threw in a gorgeous sterling-silver cuff link and shirt-stud set for my husband. If this keeps up, I may never have to shop again!
BLING! BLING!
As the details of our book deal party came together, we had only one thing left to stress about: what to wear! For the two of us, picking the right ensemble is a science, something that often requires trying on everything we own, shedding some tears when things don’t look quite as good as we had hoped, and complaining that we have no clothes, when our closets wholeheartedly disagree. We needed to shine at our party and nothing in our wardrobes would do.
Enter celebrity dressing. The red-carpet parade is a walking advertisement for designers, so it’s no surprise that luxury design houses staff entire departments solely for “celebrity dressing.” Their goal: to get stars in their designer threads. They fly out to the Oscars and film premieres with trunks full of gowns and accessories, hoping and praying to wardrobe the brightest stars.
What designer represents celebrity like none other? The answer: John Galliano. We had a contact at Christian Dior who put us in touch with Grace Cha, who handles celebrity dressing. We faxed a request and three days later, we were on the thirty-seventh floor of the plush LVMH offices, rifling through racks of leather pants with mirrored embellishments, silk knit and tulle gowns, racy dresses that laced up the front—and the back. There were leather jackets, kangaroo fur coats, dazzling T-shirts with fishnet sleeves. It was a dream come true, even if most of the things were too long for K and too small for M.
“This is the dress Kirsten wore.” “Sofia loves this one,” Grace told us. (Meaning of course, Dunst and Coppola.) Karen ached to wear a stunning silver-and-black Grecian-style minidress, but was reprimanded, “Sorry, we can’t loan that out. It’s a Spring. No celebrity has been photographed wearing it yet.” So she chose a leather miniskirt and T-shirt (but later hemorrhaged her month’s rent for a chartreuse Gucci frock because she wanted something more like the dress she fell in love with but was not allowed to wear). Melissa was relieved to find something she could squeeze into: a bright red stretch wool strapless dress, embellished with sequins and beads. It was very “fiesta.”
As we air-kissed our way out, Dior garment bags in hand, we bumped into Gina Gershon, who began sorting through the racks for another party that week. We snickered that she would have to make do with our “rejects” … until we realized that the covetable spring collection probably wasn’t off-limits to the likes of her.
From there it was on to a fur showroom (Ann Dee Goldin again!), where Ann Dee gave us the pick of the litter—a buffet full of chinchillas, mink, silver fox, animal-print numbers, and over the top coats—for our party. We frantically tried on dozens, grabbing hanger after hanger of plush pelts. Do we wear the floor sweeping sable, the chubby squirrel, the hot pink shearling? Oh, such decisions! After twenty minutes of living out our Audrey Hepburn fantasies, we were ready to leave with $20,000 of merchandise. Sadly, however, we had to sign a release form of responsibility—if something were to happen to the coats, we had to pay. Unable to deal with such accountability, we passed on the fur and went back to Dior for swing wool coats with fur collars and buttons—sans release form.
Twelve karats of diamonds each! The studs J. Lo wore on the cover of Vanity Fair!
We were in the middle of a fashion fairy tale and our day was far from over. We had handbags and jewelry to find. After our party invitations went out, a grateful recipient invited us to his Upper East Side “socialite” boutique called Vivaldi. David Trugerman, the store’s owner, greeted us at the door—and led us to the back room, where an oversized velvet poof cushion covered with Valentino bags awaited us. “Pick any one you want,” he said. “Consider it a gift from us for the two stars.”
“We couldn’t,” we said. “That’s too much.” But who were we kidding? We could! And we did! Should we take the deco clutch or the suede pouch with the gold V buckle? Celebrity looting at its finest! (We could get used to this!) We both wanted the leather floral bag that would have cost us over a grand if we actually bought it, but because there was only one, we decided it wasn’t worth the fight. So we opted for matching snakeskin clutches with a small rhinestone V emblazoned on the front. Very chic. Very mod. Very celeb. Very us! We said our farewells calmly and coolly, as if this sort of thing happens to us all the time. But once we hit the street, we jumped up and down, giddy with laughter. Admiring our new coup, we screamed with delight, “This is crazy! It’s not normal!”
We stopped for a chamomile tea in order to calm down and get our bearings before our next appointment: As per an invitation from a publicist, who wanted to help dress us for the party, we were planning to pay a visit to Jacob & Co., the jeweler of choice in the hip hop and music communities. P. Diddy, Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, and Justin Timberlake wear his out-there diamonds—giant microphone pendants, huge ID necklaces, enormous crosses.
Picking Valentino bags at Vivaldi. Thank God they’re free!
We tried on rock after rock, trying to figure out if we should go for rare and outrageously precious pink diamonds, or a necklace with a diamond-encrusted revolver the size of a small football? In the name of classic elegance, we each chose twelve-karat diamond earrings, the exact same ashtray-size studs that J. Lo wore on a cover of the music issue of
Vanity Fair in November 2002. They were bigger than our lobes—just what the doctor ordered.
We couldn’t wait to flash our new wares. When all was said and done, we would each be worth a mere $178,000 for our debutante ball, but we felt like a million bucks.
CLOTHES CALL
PUMP UP YOUR WARDROBE WITHOUT BREAKING THE BANK
• Write a fan letter. Our friend wrote one to Balenciaga designer Nicholas Ghesquiere, and he was so flattered, he sent her a lace top, a veritable gift from God.
• Tell PR gals at designer showrooms your pictures are scheduled to run in the papers. They will loan you clothes gladly if you’re able to get them press mentions. If you land a good “hit” they might even let you keep the swag!
• Become friends with talented designers before they make it. Don’t know any? Try hanging out near fashion schools, like FIT and Parson’s in New York or St Martins in London.
• Befriend the owners of a store you adore. If you’re a good customer, they may not be opposed to loaning you something for a night.
• “Call in” (meaning: request) clothes from designer showrooms for glossy magazine photo shoots. (Don’t have one? Just make it up.) Take the items for a road test and return them—as promised—in good condition (the showroom will often make you sign a consent form that says you are responsible for any damages). They’ll never know your “shoot” was merely a job interview/first date/birthday party.
Dying over Harry Winston diamonds. I’d like to thank the Academy….
• No luck scoring swag on your own? Move to LA and get a job as the personal assistant to a major celebrity. If you play your cards right, some of their loot may be yours (there’s only so many free Gallianos one person can have).
• As you become more famous, free threads are a given. People will want you to wear their clothes, because if you look good, they look good. You may even become the designer’s model—and get paid for wearing his or her creations. Look at Penelope Cruz and Ralph Lauren.
How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Page 19