There were a few advantages though. As the daughter of il dottore, I was asked to attend several more sponsored benefits, including a concert at Radio City Music Hall starring Frank Sinatra and Luciano Pavarotti. Another highlight was the biennial Carousel of Hope Ball organized by the Children’s Diabetes Foundation where Marvin Davis, the industrialist and philanthropist, threw a “Florentine Fantasy”–themed party with a catwalk show featuring models in black leotards parading Gucci apparel and jewelry.
As my father was held up in Rome, I was chosen as the figurehead for the evening. Once the dinner was over I stepped up onstage to make a short speech. “On behalf of my father, Dr. Aldo Gucci, who unfortunately wasn’t able to be here tonight, I am so happy to be here to support such a worthwhile cause. I hope that everyone is having a wonderful time and enjoys the show.” Then, as part of the finale, I reappeared in a full-length white fox coat wearing a custom-made necklace with a huge aquamarine. Although it may seem hard to believe for one so young, I took it all in my stride. This felt no different to me than performing on a stage as an actress at school or in my classes. It wasn’t me—it was just a role I was playing, and if I ever had any nerves they were never about representing the brand but about not embarrassing my father.
In those early days, Ruby Hamra—my mentor who coached me on what to say to the press and at public events—almost always accompanied me. “Let me know what you think of this,” she’d say, showing me a speech she’d prepared for me to deliver. If I ever looked nervous, she’d tell me not to worry and claimed that with my English accent I could get away with almost anything.
I was still so young but getting used to the idea that public appearances were all in a day’s work. I think Papà was quietly asking me, “Do you want to do this?” but not in a way that made me feel any pressure or expectation. He was testing the water, letting me go out and have some fun and seeing how I fared. Thankfully, I never lost my way or became starstruck. In fact, I found the A-listers as boring or as charming as the next man. But I did appreciate that these experiences were special and I was honored to be part of them.
My father must have thought I was doing a good job because new assignments started to accrue. Best of all, when I suggested some ideas for our windows on Fifth Avenue, he gave me free rein with a few guidelines on how to show the merchandise. I treated each window like a stage, using abstract works of art from up-and-coming artists I knew downtown and pairing them with various props and fabrics to make it all more eye-catching and fun. I mixed things up a bit—instead of having shoes match the handbags and the outfit, as had always been the Gucci way, I’d throw in something unpredictable like a brightly colored bag, a jaunty hat, or a vivid scarf.
The creative process came naturally to me and the results were so well received that I eventually took charge of all shop windows in New York, Chicago, Palm Beach, Beverly Hills, and franchise stores across North America.
As always, I went along with whatever was required of me, delighted that Papà was prepared to take a risk and give me more responsibility. My new role meant that we now had some common ground, as I increasingly became a part of his everyday world in a way that had eluded me as a child. Not that we ever had any particularly deep conversations. We kept it lighthearted and he could still make me laugh so hard in restaurants that I almost choked. Especially whenever he singled out random people who caught his eye and sized them up.
“See that young lady over there with that old man? That’s his secretary, not his wife.”
Mamma always said there was no one he couldn’t figure out. “He had everyone pigeonholed.”
I found his ability to read other people’s relationships fascinating, especially as he wasn’t always the best at judging his own. Each time we parted, however, I realized with a sigh that although we were undoubtedly closer and more at ease in each other’s company, nothing much had changed. After a peck on the cheek and a quick hug, I invariably came away feeling as if I hadn’t really learned a thing about him or his life, and I sometimes wondered if I ever would.
Love is a subject I feel more than qualified to talk about. I may have been deprived as a child but after all I’ve gone through in my life, I now feel I am something of an expert. It wasn’t always like that, though. In my youth, when I played around with my first relationships, I was never very adept at picking suitable partners and often ended up in tears.
The unexpected benefit of this youthful heartache was that it brought my mother and me closer together. We still clashed but then gradually became allies as we sought out each other’s opinion and advice. In time, I began to confide in her—especially about my love life, which was never a subject I could broach with Papà. Like most fathers with daughters, he was extremely protective and once interrupted someone who asked me when I might marry, “I won’t allow it!” He added that he kept me “too busy” for a boyfriend. Little did he know.
Mamma knew though. She went through all the times I thought I was madly in love and all those occasions I realized that the man I’d fallen for wasn’t right for me after all. Having been a front-row spectator to her relationship with my father, I had vowed to avoid Italians altogether. “They’re all cheats,” I declared. “They behave the same and they bore me. They’re so predictable, especially when it comes to how they treat women.”
I preferred Nordic or Anglo-Saxon types, all of them tall, handsome, and diverse. Although none of my liaisons came to anything, my mother lived vicariously through me and delighted in every detail of my romantic affairs.
By the time I turned nineteen, I was too busy to contemplate a serious relationship as my involvement with Gucci was ramped up a notch. Gloria Luchenbill sent my father a memo saying, “I think it’s time we take advantage of Patricia’s excellent and stylish image as a dazzling asset and representative to a lucrative teenage market.” It went on to say that it would do the company “no harm at all” to be associated with the next generation and could help counter the “matronly” reputation we had acquired.
“What do you think, Patricia?” my father asked, showing me the note.
“What would it involve?”
“We’d create an advertising campaign around you, wearing the latest collection.”
“Would I continue to have a say in the styling?” I asked.
“Of course,” he replied reassuringly.
Everything happened in such rapid succession that I couldn’t help but think he had planned it all along. I was suddenly brought out from behind the scenes to be a model and the public face of Gucci with five-page magazine spreads. As a teenage girl wearing our clothes, I already looked different from the previous older models. I turned up at the Gucci Galleria and was zipped into evening gowns, casual wear, and even swimwear while hairdressers teased my hair and attended to my makeup before the photographer clicked away.
Then my father did something else that surprised me. In a very casual way, he showed me a memorandum one day and when I inquired what it was, he said, “Oh, it is just the announcement that you are going to be on the board.”
It seemed I was the last to know. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“It just means you have to show up to the odd meeting and then you’ll have an inside track on how things are run around here.” And so it was that, in a completely routine manner, I was appointed to the board of Gucci America. Not only had I been given a broader mandate in my day-to-day activities, I was now officially part of the executive committee. “I want to give you a more mature role,” he told me, disguising the real reason behind my sudden promotion. Having a partisan vote on his side had its advantages; nevertheless I’m sure he genuinely thought I could bring something worthwhile to the table.
I wasn’t yet twenty so I didn’t give much thought to becoming the first woman in the family with a seat on the board. As I walked in dressed head to toe in Gucci and took my place at the oval mahogany table next to Giorgio, however, I could feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. Keeping
my composure, I simply nodded and smiled.
Everyone knew I was there chiefly to support my father but I relished the opportunity anyway. I was also fascinated by the dynamic between him and my brothers as he presided over the meetings. Roberto, his favorite, was seldom in the US, but on the rare occasions he showed up he could do no wrong. Giorgio was also an infrequent visitor but my father treated him quite differently, coming down hard on him every time he spoke. Paolo never attended a single board meeting the entire time I was in New York. He and my father were still at loggerheads and during this period he was mainly in Italy working on Gucci Plus. My cousin Maurizio was always there and remained in thrall to my father’s every word.
Once the new marketing campaign took off, the press dubbed me “Gucci Girl” and the New York Times Style section named me “the most eligible girl in the world,” describing me as the “Italian beauty with the English accent born into a male-dominated dynasty.” Others tipped me to be Aldo Gucci’s successor. The idea of being the heir apparent was preposterous, and if anyone asked me, my reply was, “I certainly hope not!” I was still learning and Gucci was hardly some little drugstore. I could only imagine what my brothers thought about that, but I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Paolo, still jostling for position, claimed I wouldn’t last a day without my father, although he did admit I had “more brains than the rest of them put together.”
Meanwhile, I set off around the country to cut ribbons at various store openings. Dressed in camel-colored leather trousers or a suede skirt with a silk blouse—always with the obligatory Gucci accessories—my role was to show how our clothes could be adapted to a younger, more contemporary audience. “My generation wouldn’t dream of buying anything with GG,” I’d confide to Ruby Hamra en route to our next engagement. “Our image is too staid. I’d like to inject some energy and fun into the equation.”
Papà must have had his reservations, but having seen how I handled the window displays, he knew I had a good eye and the wherewithal to succeed. “Just remember you’re a Gucci,” he told me. “You must be chic and elegant on every occasion.” Aside from his recognition, what he gave me above all was a voice. I felt like I was “in-house” and could see a future in which I’d have the kind of creative freedom I yearned for. Maybe there could be a long-term role for me at the company after all, I thought.
Paolo, on the other hand, couldn’t be so certain of his future at Gucci. After he returned to the fold he thought he’d be given more independence, especially when it came to his designs for Gucci Plus, but then he discovered that every drawing he submitted had to be approved. More often than not they were rejected. The board argued that he was out of step with the image of the company. He in turn saw this as a conspiracy led by Papà and my uncle Rodolfo and complained about how unfairly he’d been treated. Matters eventually came to a head in June 1982, when my father suspended him until a board review in Florence the following month.
I didn’t attend that meeting, but I heard it was explosive. Instead of proceeding at its usual sedate pace, the session was repeatedly interrupted by Paolo, who made sure he aired his grievances. He then digressed from the agenda to quiz my father about alleged profits being siphoned to offshore holding companies, a fact he claimed to have recently discovered.
When proceedings descended into chaos, my father tried to regain order and asked the secretary to stop taking minutes. In the awkward silence that followed, there was an unusual clicking sound. “What’s that noise?” Papà asked.
Everyone listened, then all heads swiveled toward Paolo. It was coming from a tape recorder hidden in his jacket. Knowing that he’d been exposed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the offending device, which he placed defiantly on the boardroom table.
“He’s been recording everything!” someone cried as there was a collective gasp at the gross breach of trust.
According to my father, the fracas that ensued began when Giorgio and Maurizio tried to seize the tape recorder from a near-hysterical Paolo. My father watched incredulously from the head of the table as his nephew and sons grappled with one another before Paolo grabbed his treacherous machine and fled the building screaming that he’d been physically assaulted. Sporting a few scratches on his face, he filed a $13.3 million lawsuit claiming breach of contract. He further accused his relatives of “battering and beating” him with fists and “various objects.”
News of the punch-up broke with sensationalist headlines such as “Family Feud Rocks the House of Gucci,” likening the squabbling to the troubles of the Borgias. My father’s response was characteristically diplomatic. Shrugging, he said, “Paolo likes to exaggerate.” Privately, he was beside himself with rage and told Mamma, “That boy shows no respect!”
Papà sacked Paolo as director, leaving him with nothing but his company shares. Knowing he wouldn’t go quietly, we all wondered what he’d do next. We soon found out when he stirred things up once more by striking a deal to lend his name to a range of furniture. He even opened a Paolo Gucci store in New York—illegally. My mother and I weren’t the only ones who worried about where this would all lead. She was especially upset to see my father dogged with problems at this stage in his life, which was meant to be the calmest.
There was further bad news to come, with the discovery that Uncle Rodolfo had developed prostate cancer. Radiation treatment confined him to a wheelchair and he retired to St. Moritz to recuperate. Within days, Maurizio stepped in and took control of the operation in Milan. When a self-aggrandizing profile on him appeared in a leading Italian magazine, my father was appalled that he’d cast himself as the future visionary of Gucci. My mother suspected who was behind the publicity and warned Papà prophetically, “Maurizio’s wife will be the undoing of this company!”
As ever, the last thing I wanted was to create any problems. By the time I was approaching my twentieth birthday in early 1983, I was a full-time fashion coordinator and roving ambassador. I had my own office and was tasked with shadowing my father on store visits, in meetings, and in interactions with staff, something I found invaluable.
“Attention to detail is paramount,” he’d remind me, stopping in his tracks if he noticed that the glass countertops weren’t cleaned to perfection, just as my grandfather had done. “Quality mustn’t be compromised,” he insisted as he checked for scratches or scuff marks on a bag. I memorized each of these maxims and took comfort from the fact that I had his experience and wisdom to draw on whenever I needed it.
I was an eager student, keen to continue to develop my role within the company even though I knew it would involve a lot of hard work and an itinerary to rival his. I didn’t mind one bit. I was having fun and earning a salary for the first time in my life.
My father continued to jet around the world keeping tabs on our overseas operations while my mother carried on as usual, spending most of her time in Rome. I still didn’t have much contact with her during this period, nor did she ever express any opinions about my involvement in the business, which was only a peripheral part of her world. When I found out that she’d be on her own in New York for her birthday that October, I decided to throw a party for her at my apartment across the hall from my father’s. One of my favorite photographs of her was taken that night. In her midforties, she looked gorgeous in a pink angora sweater and black leather trousers. My friends plied her with champagne and made a huge fuss. Then someone dimmed the lights and I presented her with a flaming cake as everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”
“Buon compleanno, Mamma!” I cried as she blew out her candles, and for once, she looked like she enjoyed being the center of attention as “la festeggiata”—the celebrated one. Although we still had our differences, we shared many more carefree moments together. It made me happy to see her so lighthearted. I only prayed it would last.
That spring my father and I flew to Milan, ostensibly to open a new store right across the street from the shop Uncle Rodolfo had run after the war. Maurizio stepped in to oversee the
launch and it was strange for my father not to have his brother at his side. Normally, Papà would have taken a more active role but everyone knew why he was really there. Foffo was dying and he had come to say good-bye.
Until that day in Milan, I’d never really had a chance to know Maurizio. Apart from his low-key appearances in the boardroom, I’d seen him at a party in New York with Patrizia but we hardly spoke. So when I discovered that he had insisted on accompanying my father against his wishes to see Foffo for the last time, it revealed a disturbing side to his character that I hadn’t previously been aware of. In fact, Maurizio supervised all such visits, to the point that my brother Roberto said later that it was as if he was “guarding a prisoner.”
My father was shocked by Foffo’s frailty. As Maurizio hovered proprietorially, they spoke only briefly until Rodolfo ordered his son to leave the room for a few minutes so that they could have a “private word.” In the brief moments they were allowed, he beckoned Papà closer and made him promise that he’d keep a watchful eye on Maurizio and never allow his wife, Patrizia, near the company shares. My father reassured him and stayed with him awhile longer before kissing his forehead.
Rodolfo died in May 1983 and was buried in the family tomb at Soffiano outside Florence. He left my father—the oldest child—as Guccio’s last surviving son. It was the end of an era and the start of a new chapter in the company’s history, with the as yet unanswered question of who would inherit his 50 percent shareholding.
Immersed in my work, I was largely oblivious to the clashes between my father and the rest of the family. He rarely discussed such problems with me, and besides, by then I had fallen head over heels in love. Breaking my vow that I’d never fall for an Italian, I’d started dating a wine merchant from Vicenza in northern Italy. His name was Santino. We had met inauspiciously when I quite literally stumbled into his arms at a cocktail party in Newport, Rhode Island, that summer. It was hosted by the Aga Khan and sponsored by Cinzano in support of Italy’s entry into the America’s Cup with the yacht Azzurra. As I walked across the grass in a short black sequined Gucci cocktail dress, the heel of one of my stilettos got stuck in the soft ground and I lost my balance.
In the Name of Gucci Page 20
