Tongue in Chic

by Kirstie Clements

  When the chief financial officer asked me—just after he’d asked me, again, if I’d had a good holiday—to stay back after the digital-publishing meeting, I felt nauseated. Being asked to stay back was never a good sign. One by one, the invitees left the room and it was just the CFO and me.

  ‘We’ve had to make some business decisions, and you’re probably not going to like them,’ he said impassively.

  God, what now? I thought. We were down to bare bones in the editorial department as it was.

  ‘Head count,’ he continued, using awful, desensitised corporate language and looking at his Fossil watch. ‘We need to cut heads.’

  I looked at him, dismayed. ‘I don’t have any spare ones, certainly not since the last round of cuts. I only have one sub, one features writer; one everything.’

  ‘I don’t want an argument. There are five people in the fashion office. Let the two junior fashion editors go. By Friday.’

  ‘But who will be left to do all the work?’ I pleaded. ‘You were just privy to an online-publishing meeting. There’s so much work to do. The fashion department has to produce every piece of content for online and print. We do all the client appointments. We have to devise apps for our advertisers. We have to host workshops and events, and large-scale shopping nights. We have to style advertorials and runway shows. We just don’t have the bums on seats.’

  ‘Get some unpaid interns,’ he replied as he left the room, clutching a stack of papers. The ‘We Light Up the World with Excellence’ memo was on top of a pile of what looked like redundancy forms.

  8

  Dollars and Sense

  As might be expected, a great deal of the time and energy of those in the editorial team at Chic magazine was spent on shopping. It wasn’t even physical shopping, it was more like existential shopping: the intent to purchase something, recited aloud and often, but generally never put into effect. This was because the sheer volume of product we encountered, combined with the lightning speed of fashion trends, meant nothing was ever absolutely perfect as far as we were concerned. Even if something were close to perfection, we knew it would only be so for a very, very short period of time, and often worn only once or twice and then forgotten. As well, there was the irrefutable truth that the staff had far more taste than they did money. All this meant that the thirst for the exact piece that would make your wardrobe complete was unquenchable, the glass constantly just out of reach.

  I had seen so much fashion-based delirium come and go, and spent so much money, I had almost become inured to clothes shopping. There were definitely a few things in my wardrobe that I was glad I had invested in over the years: Louis Vuitton luggage; Hermès enamel bangles; a Chanel tweed jacket, and various quilted chain bags; leather jackets; cashmere scarves; a Cartier watch; Tod’s riding boots. These were classic pieces that could be worn with less expensive pieces, such as T-shirts, jeans and crisp men’s cotton shirts. There were also quite a few things I would rather forget, as, when having been carried away by the idea of having a new silhouette, I neglected to see that the purchased items made me look like a walking refrigerator. However, three decades of must-haves, many of which ended up costing more than $150 per wear, had made me see the light, due to the grim spectre of being an extremely well-dressed old lady, with 100 handbags and some mouldy Prada shoes, living with half-starved cats in Swarovski crystal collars in a boarding house. Consequently, I had completely changed my approach to shopping, buying an investment apartment and living vicariously through the outlays of others.

  But I certainly loved accompanying the magazine’s staff through their various sartorial misadventures, with all the tears and the triumphs. A major problem was that we were all dreadful enablers, talking each other into buying something that was totally of the moment, ridiculously expensive and completely inappropriate because we felt that it was all done in the name of fashion. I would agree with every ludicrous purchase the girls were considering, even though I knew in the recesses of my mind that, shortly after it was bought, the item would be tossed aside and left to collect dust like an unwanted toy. It was an unwritten rule that no one was ever to bring up the subject of any obscene squandering of dollars on barely worn fashion or accessories. If, by some chance, someone remembered something another editor had bought and asked, ‘Where’s that $2500 jacket you bought last season in Milan?’ and the answer was ‘I don’t like it anymore,’ the correct response was, ‘Oh, I thought you looked great in it. Anyway, have you seen the new Marni cruise collection online? There are these amazing sandals/clogs that are so right now; you’d love them, they’re very you.’ All this would be said without the speaker taking a breath. The now disregarded jacket would eventually be sold at a weekend trash and treasure market for $150, the fact of this happening a poignant reminder that the rent still had to be paid.

  * * *

  A season’s must-have item was normally purchased during the RTW shows, just as all the new merchandise began to appear in stores. I spent many, many hours trundling around with my fashion editors, watching them excitedly part with a month’s pay for a new pair of Céline boots. While I had always encouraged them, once the GFC hit I begun to ask prudent questions about whether or not they really needed, or could truly afford, the said item.

  While this made me seem like a party pooper, some of the purchases were rather stupid. There was the season of the infamous must-have Chloé bag that came complete with a gigantic lock that made the bag weigh more than a kilo before you even put anything into it. It wasn’t a particularly special or even well-designed lock—it was a big padlock like you would put on a storage cage. However, it was a Chloé lock. That mattered. Beth had lusted after the bag for months, finally finding the last one in Europe in the Chloé Saint Honoré store in Paris. More than one thousand, but less than two thousand dollars later, and after a dislocated shoulder and the commencement of inexplicable lower-back pains, the lock on Beth’s bag broke. Since the signature appeal of the otherwise unremarkable bag was the lock, it had to be sent to Paris to be replaced. My suggestion would have been that she go to the local hardware store, but I knew that, as I was dealing with a distraught fashion editor, this would have been a most unwelcome comment. Five months later, the lock and bag were returned from Paris, fixed, but of course the bag was now no longer the ‘it’ bag of the season. Instead, everybody was headed for Luella, to buy another heavy, and rather ugly, leather bag, with a silly heart-shaped tag on it, for around the same price.

  The saga of Anna and the Balenciaga boot was another that would forever be in Chic’s shopping hall of fame. The 2010 RTW season was approaching and Anna was starting to think about packing for it. She felt she didn’t have the right shoe, although she owned about fifty pairs. She needed that one shoe, the one that would update everything she wore and place her firmly in the know and in the now, especially if those paparazzi were on the prowl. A debate started in the office, which was followed intently by everyone in earshot, and various shoes were called into the office from stores around the country.

  The choice was narrowed to a black Balenciaga ankle boot, but there were a few different styles available: one was online, one was on sale, and there was a new one just in at a local boutique. The discussion continued for a month, with the whole fashion office involved. There was a whiteboard and an audiovisual presentation with daily, if not hourly, progress reports. Finally, a decision was made. It would be the newest boot, and at $1900, the most expensive, but totally, totally worth it. The boot arrived and the trying on ensued. Everyone was caught up in the dizzy ecstasy of it all, thrilled for Anna. There was a victory lap around the office, and she went home to plan her wardrobe for the RTW season, to decide which outfits would be revolutionised by the longed-for boot.

  The first morning after Anna and I arrived in Milan we met for breakfast downstairs in the hotel. While I tried to put a safe distance between myself and the thinly sliced ham and bread rolls on the sideboard, she modelled her boots for me. We hopped int
o our hire car and drove to the Gucci show. As we walked towards the entrance a crowd of photographers gathered, like excitable crows, to take a shot of Anna and her outstanding retail purchase. Afterwards, on our way back to the car, the inevitable happened. The heel on one of the Balenciaga boots snapped off.

  Anna was inconsolable. Our driver, Giovanni, though he had little grasp of English, understood immediately that this fashion emergency could ruin the rest of the week—for all of us. He drove us back to the hotel so that Anna could change, and then, grabbing her broken boot, indicated that he would find a shoe-repair store. Of course, for Anna, getting changed wasn’t that straightforward. Without the boot, the silhouette she was aiming for and indeed her whole look had to be changed entirely. As she disappeared upstairs to try on six or seven wardrobe alternatives, I sat nursing a cappuccino and answering emails from various managers who were wondering if, while I was away, I could find a new pool of high-quality bloggers and street photographers who would be prepared to work for nothing, hand over all their material to us and allow us to have the copyright. But there was worse to come. Giovanni came back with bad news: the place he had found couldn’t fix the heel. It was specific to Balenciaga and would have to be sent back to them. By the time (a few months later) the boot came back to Anna, it was no longer required. It had become, as it were, damaged goods—and no one wants to wear those.

  * * *

  Given that the staff who worked at Chic were the world’s best shoppers, they could be counted on to bring back the best finds from location trips. After there had been a trip to Marrakech for a summer issue of the magazine, I discovered an exquisite set of hand-painted mint-tea glasses on my desk. Another team trip to Egypt resulted in my receiving beautiful hand-loomed pashminas in palest lavender, and brown leather toe thongs. I’m sure the gifts were well intentioned, but I did often think they were to placate me because I was back in the office, trying to justify the expenditure on travel to the finance department, who appeared to be under the impression that we could reproduce Eygpt with a half day in a studio. An assignment in Mexico would mean brightly colored plastic shopping baskets with garlands of paper flowers and pompoms; India, a bowl full of jangling gold rings, bracelets and earrings; Bali, woven straw bags and batik sarongs; Africa, dazzling lengths of dyed fabrics to be used as a shawl or serve as a show-stopping tablecloth.

  The staff could also come up with the goods if you sent them to Kmart: the best black lace-up shoes for $20; shirts from the men’s department, which were more generously cut, and therefore more chic than many others; $5 hoop earrings; whatever. They were unstoppable; their appetite for shopping insatiable. However, they were never very keen on high-street shopping. They could see the value in something humble, like a white Petit Bateau singlet, or an inexpensive espadrille from a service station in Saint-Tropez, but not in a knockoff. In all my trips with Marie, I never once saw her voluntarily go into a Zara or an H&M, even if they were promoting some whizz-bang collaboration with Karl Lagerfeld or Stella McCartney. I once dragged her into a Zara store in Paris, and she looked around wide-eyed with shock and said, ‘But this is all based on the blah, blah and blah collections!’, rattling off from memory each designer and which specific piece from what collection had been referenced. But we could and did shop anywhere and everywhere else—airports, department stores, pharmacies, multi-brand boutiques, outlets and, of course, online. Still, nothing could quite beat the experience of shopping in the Prada boutique on the Via Montenapoleone in Milan.

  * * *

  In 2000, when I had just become editor-in-chief of Chic, I committed the cardinal sin of travelling to Milan during fashion week wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater and a pair of trainers (not even loafers!) without carrying a change of clothes with me. I now know that the chances of your luggage arriving at Malpensa airport at the same time as you are slim to nonexistent and, of course, my bag was lost. Luckily I had my toiletries, but that evening I was forced to arrive at a dinner with the head of an international luxury fashion house wearing my slightly worse-for-wear inflight outfit. This was a sight that was particularly horrifying to Marie, who was sitting at the table wearing head-to-toe Lanvin.

  ‘You’ll have to go out and get some clothes if your suitcase doesn’t arrive by tonight,’ she suggested to me, when the executive we were dining with went to the bathroom. ‘I think we’re covered by insurance.’

  It was like she’d told me I’d won the lottery.

  There I was at Prada the very next morning, nose pressed up against the window as though I were the Little Match Girl. What did one need, at a minimum, for fashion week in Milan? A pair of navy pants, a gold brocade skirt, an evening jacket, a day handbag, an evening clutch in satin, a high heel, a kitten heel, a sweater, a cardigan and a shirt. Just ten things. And perhaps some earrings. As I was thoroughly enjoying myself in the change room (‘Would madam like a cappuccino, perhaps?’) it occurred to me that my credit card might not stretch to cover the bill. However, the fashion angels were on my side and the payment was approved. Bless those Milanese baggage handlers—I never gave my suitcase another moment’s thought; everything in it was all so last season.

  A few seasons later, Marie suffered the same luggage fate, but with an entirely different outcome. She had flown directly to Milan from a shoot in Botswana, her strategically planned fashion-week outfits packed in one large, battered suitcase. For reasons that remained unclear, the case was held up in Milanese customs; hence, she was left with the clothes she stood up in, and with no insurance money to spend. What she stood up in was a pair of skinny grey jeans, a white shirt and some very chic flat leather sandals. She also had a desert tan, a favourite Louis Vuitton handbag and an Hermès watch, and she looked absolutely fantastic, particularly as the weather in Milan was unseasonably warm. I lent her a pair of black silk pants, and she bought a T-shirt, underwear and one black evening dress, and had the most stress-free and, quite frankly, stylish, fashion week she’d ever had.

  * * *

  The season before that one had been more fraught. There had been a simply wonderful Prada show that we had adored six months previously, and the collection was now in store in Milan. One of the major, standout accessories was a glamorous, oversized and generally over-the-top fox-fur stole, dyed in various coloured stripes. Marie decided that she had to have one: this one piece would update everything she owned, and it would look great when she was walking into the shows, being a street-pap magnet if ever there was one. It must be said, Marie was not one to seek attention, but she was feeling the building pressure.

  All of my staff were. One season, Chic’s fashion writer, Cassandra, accompanied me to the shows. She was a tall, slender, understated person who looked not unlike a Modigliani portrait. She had her own style and it was completely outside fashion trends, which I loved. She favoured loose, flowing, minimal pieces in neutral shades of black, crème, beige and navy; elegant low-heeled shoes; small, low-key pieces of jewellery; and classic bags. One clever photographer noticed her innate style while she and I were standing in the throng outside the Giorgio Armani show in Milan, and rushed over to take her photo. Cassandra smiled at him sweetly and said, ‘Thank you so so much for asking, but I’d really rather not.’

  I’m sure that if her quiet refusal had been heard by the throng of overdressed freaks edging towards the photographers in the vain hope that they would be noticed, and therefore validated, a collective gasp of shock would have resonated across Europe.

  But to get back to the stole: Marie’s purchase of it proved to be problematic. First, it was close to $10 000. Second, what colour would she choose? Knowing, and loving, the doggedness of my editors when it came to choosing exactly the right item, I knew we were in for the long haul on this one. Then another first-world problem unexpectedly raised its head.

  Marie and I walked into the Dolce & Gabbana show, and I spotted my divine friend Costanza, a stunning fashion executive from Brazil, who was in her late seventies and the most stylish woma
n I have ever met. She was hugely wealthy, had an extensive and exquisite wardrobe, and once shared with me the marvellous fact that the great Cristóbal Balenciaga had made her clothes when she was a child. Constanza was wearing the Prada stole, which now had the code name ‘Foxy’—ie: ‘Foxy would look great with my black Chanel jacket and my skinny black YSL pants. And Foxy would like to go to the Chic dinner in Paris.’

  ‘OMG, you have Foxy!’ exclaimed Marie.

  Constanza was nonplussed by Marie’s excitement. ‘Oh, I have a lot of fur at home that I have collected over the years. I just liked the colour of this one.’

  It was the navy blue and black striped version.

  ‘I think that’s the one I want too,’ said Marie, sounding close to certain—but I knew, deep down, that there would be at least 100 more conversations about it.

  ‘Do you have a fur-storage unit?’ asked Costanza; her world, bless her, was one in which that was a completely reasonable question. Given that Marie and I also lived somewhere with a warm climate, I too thought this was worth enquiring about. The fact that she didn’t have a fur-storage unit put Marie off, but only for a nanosecond.