The anticipation of a productive and fun evening has suddenly consumed me, and, if you can believe this in a thousand billion years, has even made me forget to call Victor Ragsdale.
• • •
And eight hours later, with a clutter of words swimming in front of my eyes in an exhausted blur, I realize that Liz was right again – that this questionnaire is taking a lot longer than I expected. Fortunately Carmen is helping me, and we’ve had a good time trying to tap into every single nook and cranny of popular lifestyle and culture to leave no trend stone unturned. Unfortunately, our questionnaire has grown to almost a thousand questions.
Favorite snack foods. Favorite perfume brands. Favorite actors under age thirty-five. Favorite outdoor activities. Favorite indoor activities. Favorite blog. Favorite music groups and artists. Coolest reality show. Favorite things to do on a Saturday night. Favorite things to do on a Sunday morning. Life goals. Political parties. Last clothing brand bought. Store in the mall that most reflects own personal style. Amount of time spent talking on the phone, reading, watching TV, exercising, etc. Last diet you were on, length of the diet, and how many pounds lost. Favorite acne product. Favorite anti-aging product. Favorite spa treatment. The list is endless.
“Carmen. This is impossible. No one’s going to answer this questionnaire. It’ll take them four hours to fill out!”
“I know. We have to cut it down. Severely.”
“But these are all relevant questions.”
“We can do it. We just have to be more efficient.”
“I’m tired,” I whine. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“You’re fucking lucky,” she laughs. “That I’m helping you out. Now break out a bottle of wine and let’s plow through this.”
She is a great friend. She stays until three in the morning. She never complains. She helps me contract, combine, and whittle down the questions to a reasonable length, and in the end, as we’re about to collapse, we have to admit that it’s pretty damn good. I hug Carmen good night, e-mail the questionnaire to Liz and Jen, and fall into bed, exhausted.
• • •
The early-morning sunshine wakes me up, and I jump out of bed with bright eyes and a bushy tail. I have newfound energy. I am finally ready for this challenge and I’m going to tackle it with vigor.
I have plenty of time before going to meet Liz, so I decide to walk down to Starbucks to get some fresh California morning air. But I’m barely out the door when the phone rings.
“Well, if it isn’t the luckiest girl in the world.” It’s Jen. And she’s being sarcastic.
I don’t respond for a moment. I really don’t know what to say to her. She’s the betrayer. She called Liz and told her everything, obviously to get me fired. Then again, who could blame her? I was ruining the newsletter and putting her in a very tough position. Not to mention that if she didn’t call Liz, I’d still be floundering, instead of potentially starting to pull things together.
So I decide to dodge the topic – to let it slide. Clearly she’s thinking the same thing, because all recent incidents are left unmentioned.
“I got your questionnaire,” she says, all business.
“Did you read it?”
“Yeah.” Pause. “As much as it pains me to say, it actually looks pretty good.” I must be hallucinating. “We’re going to field it tomorrow. But it was your bright idea, so you’re in charge of it.”
“That’s fine.”
“It’s a lot of work, Lindsey. I’m just letting you know.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence.
“So I met your boyfriend,” she says. I jump to attention.
“What?”
“What’s-his-name.”
“Victor?”
“Yeah. Victor. He came over here wondering where the hell you were.”
“What did he say?” I ask anxiously.
“He said, ‘Where the hell is Lindsey?’”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him? I told him you were still in California.”
I have to call him immediately. It’s eleven A.M. in New York. He’ll be at work, but maybe he’ll still pick up.
“He’s cute,” she offers. “If you like that type.”
“Listen, Jen, I have to hang up now. I’m supposed to meet Liz at her hotel in fifteen minutes.” This is not true – I still have an hour to get there, but I don’t want one more second to go by without calling Victor.
“Is there anything you need me to do out here?” I ask quickly.
“Sounds to me like you and Liz are doing just fine on your own.” The sarcasm again, and I realize where it’s coming from – that she’s jealous because Liz is out here giving me attention, helping me, believing in me. Jen Savage. Jealous of me. Seething in it, no doubt. And not a damn thing she can do about it. I make a note to put this moment on mental hold, so I can kick back later tonight and fully bask in the enjoyment of it.
I hang up with Jen and immediately dial Victor’s number. And he does pick up!
“Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey,” he says. “You’ll do anything to get out of a lap dance.”
“You’ll still get it.” I smile. “But I’m going to make you wait.”
“Waiting will make it all the sweeter. So where the hell are you?”
“I’m so sorry. I have to stay here another week. My boss is out here.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I heard.”
That’s right. He met Jen at the apartment. I grimace as I wonder what else he heard.
“Do all your roommates answer the door in their underwear?” he asks. “I saw her little-boy boobs.”
The next time I see her, I swear, I’m going to tear those little boobs right off. Then I’m going to superglue them to the side of her head. And then –
“Lindsey?”
“Sorry. She’s an extraterrestrial from the planet Wanton Hose Beast – thinly disguised as my trend-tracking counterpart. Ignore her.”
“So how’ve you been?” he asks. “Tell me quick. I’ve got a meeting in about one minute.”
“You never have time to talk.” I pout.
“I’m busy, darlin’. Plus, I’m a guy. We’re not phone creatures. So when are you back?”
“Next Sunday, I think.”
“I’ve got an event Monday night. Black-tie. Up for it?”
“Definitely!” In one second, my mind races with thoughts of a dress, jewelry, hair, shoes… Must find some time to get a tan before going back.
“I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty next Monday night.”
“Victor? Will you call me before then?” I realize that I sound like a little kid asking to be read a bedtime story, but I don’t really care. I can’t go another week wondering if I’ll hear from him.
“I will call you before then. But I’m not a phone talker. I’m just warning you.”
“Well, then you shouldn’t date someone who’s out of town fifty percent of the time,” I snap, surprising myself.
“Hey, hey! Feisty girl. I like that. Very sexy.”
“Victor—”
“Lindsey. I wanna see you. I’m just not good on the phone. I’m telling you: The Y chromosome repels the phone gene. It’s a scientific fact. But I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”
The Y chromosome. I shake my head. That may be true, but the X chromosome attracts the phone gene like the HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW! sign at Krispy Kreme after one too many rum and Cokes, that’s for damn sure. But it’s all good. All of it. And as Victor pointed out, waiting only makes it all the sweeter.
• • •
“I’m impressed,” Liz tells me when I sit down. “This questionnaire is solid. Send it to our researcher at the agency and she’ll field it. But when the numbers start coming back, the analysis is all yours.”
“Got it.” You couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if you had a bucket of bleach and an industrial mop.
“So what else? What have you noticed?” she asks.
“For example?”
“For example, shoes. Here’s the one-eighty. Last summer it was all about flip-flops with six-inch heels. This summer it’s all about flats. Or underwear. Last year all you saw were boy briefs. This summer it’s sexy thongs. One extreme to the other. But then you look at pants. Last summer the capris came back. And they’re still here, but now they’re cool only if they have huge rolled-up cuffs. So that trend was just a slight evolution.”
“Hmmmm.” Liz mulls it over. “I like it. Go with it.”
“I will!”
“But not before you go home and change into something more businesslike. You’ve got appointments this afternoon.”
“I do? Where? With whom?”
“With the head apparel buyer for Bloomingdale’s. And the head cosmetics buyer for Sephora. And Bob Schricter, L.A.’s top club promoter. These people have formulas for planning ahead. It’s time to do some serious brain-picking.”
Wow. I guess I was on the right track back in New York. If only I’d followed through.
“How did you swing all those meetings?” I wonder.
“Lindsey, I know people. I’ve even got some appointments myself. Then we’re going to rally over dinner and go over everything we’ve learned. Nine o’clock at Mr. Chow’s. It’s a great place to take notes on outfits, drinks, bar conversations, whatever we think of. Now hop to it.”
• • •
Forty-eight hours later my brain is so fried that I could melt some cheese on it and eat it for breakfast with a slab of Canadian bacon. Liz and I have worked nonstop – brainstorming, theorizing, interviewing, tabulating – and I am on a roll. I’ve never been so mentally tired, but I’m also exhilarated, like I’ve downed a gallon of coffee and am buzzing with nervous, giddy energy. Liz’s “go get ’em” attitude is infectious, and we’re learning together, teaching each other, finding a groove that is still undefined, but feels like it’s leading to something big. My inner voice is telling me to get ready – for what, I’m not sure. But something is happening. And this time it’s for real.
Chapter 17
Each day with Liz begins with breakfast at her swanky hotel. We sip frozen cappuccinos and discuss some element of theory behind trend forecasting. Mostly we’re making it up as we go, but Liz is all about originality, designing our own method, and understanding it from the inside out.
Monday and Tuesday we talk about creation and evolution – of trends, that is. After bouncing ideas back and forth like a tennis match, we decide that most trends have a distinct life cycle that can be mapped and charted with a decent amount of certainty. Let’s use UGGs as an example – plain sheepskin boots from Australia that retail at $150, but were suddenly owned by every big celebrity, and worn with shorts and tank tops in the middle of summer.
UGGs were first spotted on the likes of Kate Hudson and Cameron Diaz, as they walked down the street on a warm Sunday morning with their coffee and newspaper. Captured in Us Weekly, this image causes the average person to do a double take, because really, the whole thing looks pretty silly. Even the magazine seems unsure whether or not to call attention to it yet. But this is actually a key moment – it is the trend’s first poke into the world, squeezed from the birth canal of a tiny group that Liz and I named the Trendsetting Elite. Kate and Cameron don’t care that they look ridiculous, because they know that soon the nation will pounce and scramble to keep up while they nonchalantly move on to the next thing.
Very quickly after the Trendsetting Elite put their handprints on something new, a small group of regular people who just happen to be really “in the know” catch the early buzz and get in on the excitement. Liz and I have dubbed this group “the Number Twos.” They are people like Carmen, who hear about new trends way before most people – not from magazines or ads, but whispered between the select ears of women at the salon, in the coolest clubs, in the chichi boutiques. Carmen was undoubtedly strutting around in UGGs for the short time that everyone else at the grocery store still muttered, “What is she wearing!” under their breath as she walked by. The Number Twos usually have about two to three weeks to themselves before the trend blasts its way into omnipresence in the third step of its life cycle:
The magazines. This is when a trend gets bar mitzvahed. When it is formally introduced to the world and stamped as officially cool – a definite “must-have” for the season. If the trend is really big, it may even show up on television shows such as Entertainment Tonight or Extra. In any case, news travels fast. And overnight, what Liz and I call “the Cool Boomers” begin storming the stores in search of the trend. This is the stage when UGGs’ price suddenly shot up, the inventory stalled, and they became tagged as “really hard to find.” The Cool Boomers mostly reside in large cities, with a small selection of suburban and rural misplants who order everything online, because anything worth having is certainly not sold in or around small towns. The Cool Boomer phase makes up the bulk of a trend’s life span, but it’s just a matter of time before it becomes a bit too overplayed and loses the interest of the Trendsetting Elite. Just about the time when I wandered into Nordstrom and tried on my own pair of UGGs, Kate and Cameron were shoving theirs toward the back of the closet.
And then the calm before the storm. The trend is winding down in big markets and, for a short while, seems to have lost its steam and almost disappears. But the calm is only an illusion, because what’s really going on is this: Millions of factories in China are in the production process, cranking out cheap knockoffs of the trend that will soon hit the shelves across Middle America in what Liz and I have named “WalMart Mania.” But by the time you can purchase your own imitation UGGs for $14.99, most of the Cool Boomers have begun to realize how stupid they look anyway, and Kate and Cameron would no longer be caught dead in them. Despite that you can now find the given trend at Bueller’s Funeral Parlor, picking out its own casket and headstone, this phase is where the real money is to be made. And after that, maybe a quick stint at the ninety-nine-cent store, and then poof – it’s gone.
However. Now and then, a trend has attributes that stretch farther and greater than simple fad appeal. These are trends of timeless quality, not like UGGs – but more in the vein of Nike running shoes. When a certain Nike style exhausts its life cycle, minor adjustments are made and the evolved shoe begins the progression all over again. Nike is an extreme example, but you still see it all the time. In terms of makeup, when the glowing “dewy” look became popular in the summertime, it just downright made sense. Who the hell wants their face to look like a matte pancake while lying on the sand at the beach? No one, that’s who. So dewy keeps coming back each year, with new and improved ways to achieve it, play with it, and perfect it. Designers and manufacturers know the difference between these two types of trends (as I am learning from my daily brain-picking sessions that Liz has set up through her countless contacts). Which is how they know whether or not to ditch a trend, or work to re-create it.
So this is our hypothesis on creation and evolution. We may be wrong about the whole thing, but we really don’t think so. If it weren’t for the hottie-pants cabana boy distracting us from across the pool as we try to eat breakfast and theorize every morning, our hypothesis would probably be even better. But I digress. I was telling you about Liz and me, and our seven days together in L.A.
After breakfast we hit the road. Usually one or two meetings with designers or store buyers, either separate or together, depending on the contact. Some on-the-street interviews, some people watching, and, for a break, about an hour of reading magazines and scoping out whatever’s “hot” on television. Then dinner at a hip restaurant, where we pool together our learning from the day and attempt to make sense of it all.
Despite that I still think it’s weird for Liz to be able to spend this much time
on me (or more accurately, on The Pulse), I have to say that Liz Gordon is an absolute inspiration. Our morning discussions fuel me for the entire day, giving me the energy and excitement to tackle the things I used to be terrified of. Don’t get me wrong – I know that this week is coming to a quick end, and I’m going to be left alone again, scared and flailing. But maybe a little less scared? I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll find out soon enough.
Friday morning the researcher calls to report that some numbers have already come in on my questionnaire. I know it’s been out only a few days, but I can’t wait to see the tabulations and start to devise my plan of analysis. She e-mails me the pages and I pile them together, along with the original questionnaire. Liz has a conference call today, and I’m not meeting her until lunchtime, so I decide to go grab some coffee and read over this stuff.
Starbucks is fairly empty for a Friday morning, so I pick a table by the window and observe the room. After a week of people-watching with Liz, it’s almost becoming an instinct. When someone walks in, my eyes immediately graze over their outfit, their shoes, what they’re carrying. I listen to what they order and watch whether they pay cash or credit. If they’re talking on a cell phone (which most of them are), I eavesdrop on what they’re talking about. I find myself feeling a very strong urge to put a stamp on them, to define them and put them in some sort of category so I can feel like I know who they are, and I can move on to the next person. But I don’t know any categories, and it leaves me feeling frustrated and anxious.
“Excuse me,” a voice says, and I turn to find two teenage girls with pink Frappuccinos. “Did you drive here?”
I nod and give them the once-over. One is wearing a white miniskirt and a green tube top, and the other is in baggy shorts and a belly T-shirt. Their hair is cute and their tans are fake, but perfect. They look pretty cutting-edge to me, but then again, this is coming from a person who, at the same age, wore Madonna jelly bracelets and leg warmers as accessories. “Why?”
“We need a ride down to Beverly and Robertson, and we don’t want to take the bus.”
Bicoastal Babe Page 14
