Clinique delivered baby bibs and bottles in Clinique-green. The twins, named Joseph and Sam, were identical, and a handy tip I learned from one of the floral sightseers was to paint the toenails of one baby, so you wouldn’t mix them up and you would know who had just been fed. Once again, Chanel stepped in, supplying me with the popular Rouge Noir nail lacquer, which I thought was a good, strong, masculine shade.
Three crazy months later I was back in Paris, thankfully with the most generous family-in-law that a new mother could ever wish for. Mourad’s parents doted on their new grandsons, and were happy to take them overnight, often for days at a stretch. Mourad sometimes had to remind me to ask for them back.
We moved to a lovely apartment in Saint Germain en Laye, just outside of Paris, and while it was the end of my nightclubbing days our different schedules somehow seemed to work. I would spend the morning with the babies and then, when they went down for a sleep, call my editors in Singapore and Sydney to discuss upcoming stories. Mourad would then wake up, take over and I would head into the city and do interviews and shoots. Being based in Paris also meant that I could travel easily and so I did, incessantly, overnighting in Denmark to interview a scientist, weekending in London, attending the Biennale in Florence, or a lunch in Tuscany.
The most extravagant beauty launch I was ever invited to attend during my time in Paris was held by Elizabeth Arden in 1994. It was a four day event and took place in Monte Carlo for the launch of a new fragrance, Sun Moon Stars, created by legendary designer Karl Lagerfeld. Most excitingly, my friend Deborah Thomas was being flown in from Australia, and Lee Tulloch was also attending.
The scale of this launch was unprecedented. Journalists from around the world were flying in first-class to Cannes and then helicoptered into Monte Carlo. We were booked at the magnificent Hôtel de Paris, one of the finest hotels in the world. Lee, Deb and I checked in, pinching ourselves, while the whiny American editors went ballistic when they were informed that the rooms would not be ready for another half an hour. They were ‘exhausted’ from their Concorde flights. Deborah had come from Sydney and she was ready to run a marathon.
In my experience on press trips, American journalists are incredibly high maintenance. Italians have very lofty standards, but instead of complaining they just show up whenever they like—or not at all—which is maybe preferable to kvetching. The English mainly whinge. I have no opinion on the French because they rarely mingle.
We were then given mock credit cards which we were able to use for anything we required—in the hotel, at the casino, at The Beach Club—and which would then be billed back to Arden. Dinner that evening was at Le Grill on the eighth floor of the Hôtel de Paris, where the roof slid back to reveal a starry night sky, a clever gesture to kick off the lavish PR exercise.
The next day was free. Deborah, Lee and I had the most indulgent day lounging around at the Monte Carlo Beach Club, where hiring a towel is the equivalent of about one week’s rent. Thankfully we had our Elizabeth Arden play money. I spent most of the afternoon fixated by the glamorous jetset Euro mothers and their children, wondering why one toddler required two nannies. It became perfectly obvious at sunset, while the mother was slipping out of her Eres bikini, that one nanny is needed to put Junior into his cashmere swimrobe while the other packs up the Chanel tote.
Our hectic schedule included tours of Saint Paul de Vence, long lunches at the world’s most famous restaurants and a stroll around the magical medieval village of Eze. But no work as such. We were shown a bottle of the fragrance, saw the advertising images featuring the American actress Daryl Hannah, and told that she would be joining us for a special dinner at the home of Karl Lagerfeld. It was like a dream holiday.
One balmy afternoon, I wandered through the streets surrounding the hotel and came across a store selling vintage postcards. My mother had travelled to Monaco in the late fifties and during her trip sent a card home to her father, a black-and-white vista of Monte Carlo that I had found and placed in an old wooden photo frame. Here, in this poky shop, was exactly the same postcard. I was thrilled. I would post the identical card to my mother, nearly forty years later. I returned to the Hôtel de Paris and rushed excitedly up to the concierge’s desk to buy a stamp.
The concierge was chatting with an American man when I interrupted them, but they both turned to me amiably. ‘Where did you find this old postcard?’ the concierge laughed, and I launched breathlessly into my longwinded family history of the card and what an amazing coincidence it was that I had found it. The American was nodding along, listening politely, asking me good-natured questions and I thought to myself, ‘Gosh you’re handsome. You look kind of familiar.’ We started chatting casually for several minutes and then suddenly it dawned on me. It was Robert Redford.
I must have displayed that creepy star-struck face people get when they realise they are in the presence of a screen idol. His look turned into one that said: ‘Damn, she has just clicked who I am.’ I then backed clumsily into the old-fashioned telephone cabinet behind me and dialled Deborah’s room. ‘Get down here,’ I hissed. ‘Robert Redford is at reception.’ Deborah unfortunately had her wet hair up in a towel, and by the time she descended I had turned into a blithering idiot and Mr Redford had taken a hasty retreat. I did spot him later that afternoon leaving the hotel, and he waved and smiled at me. I’ve met many celebrities over the years but that encounter was fun, because it was by chance and the conversation was natural. Until I blew it.
The Sun Moon Stars festivities were still rolling along. At another grand dinner we were presented with a bottle of the fragrance, which was an opaque navy-blue orb etched with, naturally enough, the sun, moon and stars. I’m not sure that it smelt particularly special, but the branding was all very high-end and it felt a bit thirties, which I liked. At the end of dinner the assembled journalists were given a scroll, wrapped with a navy satin ribbon. Upon unfurling the missive we discovered that—officially—each of us had a star named after us. Seriously. There will forever be a star, out there in space, called Kirstie Clements.
By this time Lee, Deb and I had settled into a perpetual clinking of wine glasses, toasting to our ridiculous good fortune. Then the news emerged that Jackie Onassis had passed away. Darryl Hannah was, at the time, dating John F Kennedy Jr, so we were informed that she would be unable to attend at the official dinner. It went ahead regardless, hosted by Karl Lagerfeld at his magnificent villa. It was one of the most memorable evenings in my career. Lagerfeld was at the head table in the centre of the room, surrounded by Princess Caroline and Prince Albert of Monaco, photographer Helmut Newton and his wife Alice Springs, with Michael Hutchence and then girlfriend Helena Christensen. Despite the dinner being very opulent, there was a lovely casualness to the event which meant we could walk back and forth from the terrace (to watch the specially arranged fireworks naturelment). I exchanged pleasantries on my way to the bathroom with Prince Albert, and was introduced to Karl for the first time, which thankfully was not to be the last. All of this against the backdrop of a languid May night on the Cote D’Azur with the moonlight shimmering on the surface of the sea.
Once back in Paris I contacted the Arden PR in Australia to thank her for a most remarkable trip and to enquire in which month’s issue she would like the story placed. Boy, this was going to have to be a killer piece. She told me she would get back to me, but months went past and there was no word. After a few promptings, the news came through. For reasons unexplained, everything was cancelled. The Sun Moon Stars fragrance wasn’t going to launch.
We could forget we’d ever seen it. Unfortunately I no longer have the bottle, which would be a collector’s item indeed. But, hey, we all still have our star in the sky.
6
UPHEAVAL
By early 1997 I had very much settled into my life in Paris, and found a happy routine balancing motherhood and work commitments. There were frequent visitors from Australia, and at least twice a year magazine colleagues would arrive for t
he RTW shows in February and September, which was always a treat. Along with my wonderful friend Charla Carter, there was plenty of good company available, with a vibrant expatriate community. But as many Australians who have relocated to cold climates have observed, when your children begin to walk and play, you start to miss our sunny outdoor lifestyle. It’s all very well dressing tiny babies up in beige Bonpoint cashmere for the first six months, but when the child is two, and fighting like a Tasmanian Devil as you try to force him into his padded combinasion, visions of t-shirts and bare feet at the beach are never far from your thoughts.
Whenever I was housebound with the twins, I would make a valiant attempt in the afternoons to take them out into the fresh air. Joseph and Sam both detested being dressed. I would begin the Herculean task with the first one, shoving him into his Petit Bateau bodysuit, sweater, overalls, socks, beanie, gloves, boots and ski suit, while he kicked and screamed. The exercise would then be repeated, and by the end I would be pouring a rosé, almost too exhausted to go. We would arrive at the park, with sleeting rain, puddles full of dirt and a subzero wind chill factor, and the gorgeous little things would raise their redraw faces to me with a look as if to say, ‘You think this is fun?’
The miserable weather often meant that I was reduced to taking them to the local McDonalds, so they could at least expend some energy in one of those glass enclosures filled with coloured plastic balls. The big problem was they weren’t quite the minimum size or age allowed, so they would become completely submerged and I’d constantly be wading in to fish them out. We went on a summer vacation to Biarritz for two weeks and the sun never came out. Not once. It was too cold to eat ice cream. Joe, Sam and I cried throughout the whole holiday.
One drizzly morning my editor at Vogue Singapore, Michal McKay, an incredibly chic woman with a precise ebony bob, rang to share the sad news that the magazine was to close. It was a shame for all, as the team had done a wonderful job, but it also meant that I lost my monthly retainer, which was a serious blow to the household finances.
The news travelled fast and Nancy was on the phone shortly afterwards with a proposition. Would I like to return to Australia to fill the position as her deputy editor? Nancy had already suggested once before that I come back to Vogue. A new CEO, Didier Guérin, had recently been appointed, and Nancy confessed that they were not exactly seeing eye to eye. She needed the moral support.
Mourad and I sat down and discussed moving back. I had been asked to return by Condé Nast twice; I believed there wouldn’t be a third time. I also truly believed that Sydney would be a better environment to raise young children. In his heart, I don’t think Mourad really wanted to come to Australia, as he is very close to his family and was reluctant to leave them. But he agreed to do it for me. I accepted Nancy’s offer, agreeing that I would commence in March.
We decided that the twins and I would leave first, and move into my mother’s house until we found somewhere to rent. Mourad would follow later, after his car was sold and the apartment packed up. The airfares were booked and purchased, notice given on our lease. I had packed suitcases for the children and myself, and closed my French bank account. With only a few weeks to go before our departure, the apartment phone rang late one night. It was Nancy. She had just been fired.
It was a sickening moment, for both of us. She was understandably upset and the last thing I wanted to say at such an awful time was: ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Nancy didn’t know who had been appointed as her replacement, but she had thoughtfully already clarified with Guérin that my job offer was still in place. I really didn’t want the gig anymore, not under these circumstances, but I had no other choice. We couldn’t even begin to guess who the new editor would be. ‘Okay,’ I said to Nancy. ‘I’m going to the couture tomorrow. Let me talk to some of the other press and see if I can find out anything.’
After a sleepless night I took the train into the city, and found my seat at the Valentino couture show. A fellow journalist I knew from the South Sea China Post was beside me. ‘Aren’t you going back to Vogue Australia?’ she said. ‘I heard there’s a new editor.’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ I replied, trying to maintain my cool. ‘Who is it?’
‘Marion Hume, the English journalist,’ she said pointing to a woman in a navy-blue pantsuit sitting on the other side of the runway. ‘She’s over there.’
I already knew Marion, only very slightly, from the circuit. She was a well-respected fashion journalist in London, and had been a recent guest at Australian Fashion Week. Her expert commentary while she was in Sydney must have caught the attention of the powers that be at Vogue. No matter, apparently, that she had never run a magazine. After the show had finished, I made my way over and touched her on the arm. ‘Ah hello, it’s you, Kirstie,’ she said in a not unfriendly manner. ‘We need to talk.’
Marion was accompanied by her deputy, another British journalist called Alison Veness who had piercing eyes and dark curly hair, and was wearing a full-length greatcoat and staring at me intently. Marion explained that Alison would be moving to Sydney to work with her. ‘Come with us, we’re going to see Mr Valentino. We can talk in there.’ Thus, I found myself perched on a sofa, awkwardly waiting for Valentino in his backstage suite, as his numerous pug dogs pattered around the room. These two Englishwomen would now be in charge of Vogue Australia. All I wanted to do was get to the phone to call Nancy.
Guérin had obviously spoken to Marion about my imminent return to Australia, and perhaps because I had been Paris-based and seemed more global, she approved the placement. However, as Alison was now going to fill the role of deputy, and was being relocated to Sydney with both her young daughter and the nanny, I was told I was headed for the beauty department. I had no real problem with that. A job was a job at this point. Within weeks, I had wistfully said farewell to Paris and my hospitable in-laws, and was back at my old desk in the Vogue office.
I had been away for four years and there had been many other staff changes, not just Nancy’s abrupt departure. Karin had been the editor of Mode magazine, published by Australian Consolidated Press, since 1995; fashion director Judith Cook had gone, and fashion editor Tory Collison was soon let go by Marion for some inexplicable reason. All the good taste had left the building. There was no denying both Marion and Alison were ace journalists and news-hounds, and I liked both of them personally, but a Vogue magazine discipline is completely different to a newspaper one. They spent most of the time in Marion’s office with the door closed, hiring UK-based freelancers who wanted to escape a northern hemisphere winter.
It was immensely difficult for the local magazine staff as we were all keen to understand what vision they had for the title. From what I could deduce, the view was particularly British. There was a general belief—also held by the second-rate freelancers who were arriving by the planeload, business-class—that Australians were basically clueless. At a rare planning meeting for the December issue, Marion shared her idea of featuring Kylie Minogue, Nick Cave, Dame Edna Everage and Rolf Harris for God’s sake, celebrating at a Christmas party. A number of younger staff looked at me quizzically. They didn’t have a clue who Rolf Harris was. Anyway, Rolf would be photographed opening a Christmas cracker, out of which would spill plastic kangaroos. There would be a pavlova. It had nothing to do with producing a Vogue; it was more like some comical Royal Command Performance fantasy.
Preferred shooting locations for other fashion stories included Uluru, the desert, Sydney Harbour (so that a water taxi could be included), an AFL stadium complete with players, and a ‘typically Aussie’ Christmas lunch on Bondi Beach, propped with lounges and torches in the sand. I lost it at that meeting. While various other sycophants were jotting down notes about where to borrow some vintage sofas, I somewhat tetchily raised the point that most of our readers would be at their lovely homes on Christmas Day wearing Gucci sandals and opening lavish gifts. The only ones who would be on Bondi Beach were British backpackers. It felt like we were p
roducing a magazine for Tourism Australia.
I have never been of the opinion that Vogue Australia should continually feature obvious Australian landscapes, although I know many people disagree. Our sun, surf, outdoors lifestyle can be difficult to capture in a very high fashion sense; it requires real artistry to ensure the shoot doesn’t end up looking like a mid-range swimwear catalogue. Patrick Russell, who was a star photographer for Vogue in the seventies, captured a wonderful sense of Australian sexiness, using handsome male models in Speedos alongside strong, glamorous women to create truly iconic images. Graham Shearer and Richard Bailey, who were both surfers themselves, knew how to project a casual, easy elegance that drew on the incomparable Australian light rather than opting for the obvious. But most Australian photographers are not in the slightest bit interested in having surf in the background of a shoot, unless you suggest that you were thinking of sending them to the Maldives for eight days. I always felt that the grandeur of the desert can sometimes seem diminished by fashion, and there are now strict Indigenous laws that prevent certain sites, such as Uluru, from being shot at all.
I thought our readers didn’t necessarily want the focus of the magazine to always be on the local. Vogue readers like to dream and be inspired by global references. Australians have always looked outwards; I believe it is one of our greatest strengths. We are also very sensitive if we feel we are being patronised.
Marion experienced a very harsh backlash when she ran an accessories story called ‘There’s a Huntsman in My Handbag’ in 1997, which was a creepy set of improbable scenarios, incorporating spiders, snakes and other various dangerous antipodean creatures, and featuring the actress Rachel Griffiths. I actually thought it was quite funny but the readers were aghast, and the tone was interpreted as condescending. There were fashion shoots featuring barbeques and a great deal of the styling made use of the rubber thong, often worn with a couture dress. The idea was probably that it projected a cool insouciance, but to me it just looked sloppy.
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