Finding Myself in Fashion

by Jeanne Beker

  That summer, I took the girls to Martha’s Vineyard to visit family friends. We had a magical time, spending lazy afternoons on the beach, having sunset picnics, going to great parties, and even sailing on a hundred-year-old wooden boat. I was feeling physically fit, thanks to a new workout regime, and most important, I was seeing that even though worlds come crashing down and situations change dramatically, life goes on. I even had a brief romance with an old high school pal—someone I normally would never have got involved with. But one especially lonely night, I was out at a restaurant with my girlfriend Jackie Feldman and we met up with this unlikely suitor, someone from high school, whom neither of us had seen in years. When he learned I was newly single, he playfully put his hand on my butt for a moment, and something went off inside me: I knew instantly that I was ready for my first post-breakup fling.

  Unfortunately, the dalliance ended miserably after only a couple of months, and he proved to be a bona fide cad. It served me right for having been so impulsive! My shrink summed it up beautifully. It was, he said, as though I had been hit by a truck and was in need of medical attention, so I just went to the closest emergency department. The attention I got was totally substandard. But at least now I could limp away and try to find a better hospital.

  Though this romantic misadventure ended up being a bit of an embarrassment, the old boy had indulged me with countless bouquets of flowers and syrupy love letters. And for a few fleeting weeks, I got my mojo back. Now that the ice was broken, I was ripe for my next big relationship—the one that would truly get me back on track, help heal me, teach me to trust in others and believe in myself once again.

  My mother and my girls and I were out having Sunday brunch when we ran into Jack Steckel, a strapping fifty-something guy who was an old family friend. Jack and his dear mother, Sophie, had been in our lives ever since I could remember. He was an only child, about the same age as my sister, and Sophie had raised him as a single mum. My parents had befriended Sophie in Lodz, Poland, just after the war and shortly before Jack was born. Eventually, my parents lost touch with the Steckels. But they all ended up immigrating to Canada in the late 1940s, and by the early 1950s, they’d managed to reconnect. Sophie and Jack immediately became part of our extended family.

  Jack was very good-looking—tall, dark, and handsome—and the light of his mother’s life. As we got older, Jack grew into a real ladies’ man, and I would sometimes hear of his playboy exploits from my sister. But Jack was six years older than me, and although I worked for him one summer selling waffles at the Canadian National Exhibition when I was sixteen and he was a twenty-two-year-old university student with his own little seasonal business, I didn’t have much in common with him. Jack went on to become a successful advertising and marketing executive, and the proud poppa of five kids. In the late 1980s, before my dad died, Jack and his second wife bought my dad’s slipper business. My family was forever grateful to Jack for “saving the day,” since my father was quite distraught at the thought of having to dissolve the company he had worked so hard to build. Jack became a bit of a hero in our eyes. The last time I had seen him was at his mother’s shiva in the early 1990s.

  That Sunday at brunch, Jack approached our table, excited to see us after so many years. He asked how I was doing, and I told him that I was all right, even though my marriage had broken up earlier that year. He was sympathetic, and told me he and his second wife had split a couple of years earlier. He suggested that we get together and commiserate over lunch sometime. I readily gave him my number, pleased by the prospect of spending some time in the company of such a handsome guy—someone who, because of our pasts, knew where I was coming from, and even felt like a relative of sorts.

  Within a week or so, Jack called asking if I’d like to go for lunch. I donned a little black dress and a pair of leopard stilettos. I had rediscovered myself, and was feeling upbeat and relatively attractive again. We went to a lovely French restaurant, Bistro 990, and had a wonderful time catching up and reminiscing about our various experiences. But I remember looking across the table at him and thinking that this guy was so “not me.” He was wearing a beautifully tailored pinstriped Ralph Lauren suit and a Hermès tie, but I just kept thinking that I’d never gone out with a conservative businessman before. And then I’d think about all that baggage: the two ex-wives and a whopping five kids. Nah, not for me, I mused. He had also suffered some business setbacks a couple of years earlier and was just slowly building his professional life back up to what it had once been.

  After lunch, Jack walked me to the parking lot. I guess we were both trying to leave the ball in each other’s court, because we simultaneously blurted out something like “Call me!” as we were saying goodbye. I didn’t think I would ever hear from him again. And maybe I wouldn’t have. But a couple of weeks later, I was feeling a little lonely and decided that a dinner out with a good-looking “straight” man would be just the fix I needed. So I got up my nerve and dialled Jack’s number. He seemed happy to hear from me, and when I told him I was feeling a bit down, he immediately suggested that he take me to dinner.

  This time we went to an Italian restaurant, Giancarlo’s, and once again, I had a lovely time, though I still felt as if we were both just treading water and not really going anywhere. Still, at the end of the evening, I asked him if he would mind accompanying me to a benefit I was hosting at the museum later that week. He said he would be delighted.

  At the museum event, I was pleasantly surprised by how self-sufficient Jack was, encouraging me to go off and do my thing as he worked the room for his own purposes. The evening wrapped up with us going out for a nightcap. And then he drove me home, walked me to the door, and gave me the dreamiest goodnight kiss I could ever imagine. I hadn’t been kissed that way since I was a teenager! We looked at each other, surprised by the magic that had just transpired. “Old family friends, eh?” he said softly. Maybe so. But who said friends can’t become lovers?

  And so, my relationship with Jack shifted into high gear. I was swept away. I had been feeling so lonely for so long, and had been craving a meaningful connection with someone so badly, that I plunged headlong into this new relationship, not caring whether Jack was totally right for me. We were both ambitious, had adventurous spirits, and shared the same family values. So what if we didn’t really see the world in the same way? Suddenly, I had this big macho guy telling me how much he loved me, assuring me that he would always watch out for me and take care of me and make sure nothing bad would ever happen to me again. I believed him with every bit of my heart.

  Jack and I went away on romantic weekends together. He regularly brought me bouquets of red roses and showered me with the most beautiful baubles I’d ever received. The best part was bringing our families together. We revelled in how well everybody got along, in a “Brady Bunch” kind of way. I could see that my kids were happy, not because I had someone new in my life, but because we all felt part of something bigger—this raucous, joyful family. Suddenly, there were people there to celebrate holidays with. Jack was adamant about being a great father, and because he was so experienced and had been through so much with his kids already, I knew I could turn to him for wise child-rearing advice. He encouraged me to get a big dog, buy my country place, and send my career in myriad directions. Jack adored travelling, and we went on lots of exotic, fun vacations together, to Bali, Israel, and Las Vegas. We piled all the kids into a van and drove to Montreal. We skied in Colorado and swooned through Provence. And he was always more than happy to accompany me on work trips, to New York or Paris, the Bahamas or Hong Kong. Jack was determined to squeeze every last drop out of life, and he inspired me to do the same. He was my biggest cheerleader. He thrived on the glamour of my world and constantly urged me on, thinking up new marketing ideas that would garner me a higher profile and hopefully make me more money. He began to negotiate my contracts, and I depended on him for business advice. I felt cherished for the first time in many, many years. Jack was just what the
doctor had ordered. I couldn’t help loving him.

  I had for a while been toying with the idea of creating a simple line of travel basics—a no-nonsense, practical approach to dressing that would be easy and carefree. I wanted to give women some focus in the blur of options that came with the end of 1990s minimalism. When Eaton’s, the legendary Canadian department store chain, expressed an interest in teaming up with me for just such a project in 2001, it all made perfect sense.

  The partnership with Eaton’s was especially appealing, since the company had played an important part in my past. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the biggest and most glamorous client of my father’s small manufacturing company was Eaton’s. Every time he got a big order from the revered retailer, he would treat himself to a celebratory shot of his special Crown Royal whisky. And I can remember working with my mother to type his shipping labels at home on our tiny portable typewriter, so proud to be addressing our packages to the mighty “T. Eaton Co.” in such far-flung places as Moose Jaw and Fredericton. I was impressed that my hard-working dad had placed our humble product in all those fancy, important stores across Canada. Now, the grand old chain, which had risen from the ashes under new Sears ownership, was asking me to edit an exclusive collection for them. Talk about a fantasy! But even more thrilling than the prestige of working with Eaton’s was the opportunity to share my style sensibility and the wardrobe solutions I had discovered over the years. How do you go from morning to night when there’s no time to go home and change? What do you pack for a three-day business trip when you just want to take one carry-on bag? How do you sit on a plane for hours, then go directly to a meeting as soon as you land, without your clothes looking like a wrinkled mess? What were the basics, the staples—the perfect T’s and sweaters and pants and skirts and jackets—that we would keep coming back to, that we could mix with our fabulous designer pieces, that would make us feel chic and confident and together? To add to the challenge of bringing these items together in one comprehensive collection, we would also have to deliver these high-quality, timeless pieces at an affordable price.

  It was important to bring an objective eye to our work, an experienced party that could help shape my brand, understood what I was all about, and knew how to make image jibe with product. I hooked up with the Mimran Group, the remarkable team that had given us the successful Alfred Sung and Club Monaco brands. Again, my past was coming into play: I had known Joe and Saul, the Mimran brothers, since high school. Again, it felt right.

  From the get-go, I was adamant that I was to be an editor, not a designer. I may have learned a lot about fashion through sheer osmosis over the years, but I had too much respect for designers and the complexity of their craft to ever fancy myself one. I saw myself as a real woman who happened to have this amazing career that allowed her to hobnob with some of the greatest style-meisters on the planet. I was a single mother of two leading a hectic, multi-faceted life. I worked and played extremely hard. Most of us did. We had enough to worry about. I wanted to make dressing fun and easy.

  Eaton’s assembled a brilliant team from the merchandising and marketing departments, under the guidance of the merchandising whiz Ed Matier. With the help of a talented fashion co-coordinator named Cyndi Howard, we spent weeks gathering fabric swatches and clothing samples from a wide variety of manufacturers. I tried on everything that appealed to me, deciding first if I loved it enough to have it in my wardrobe and then how I would change or adapt it. Of course, every garment also had to make sense for the collection. How would it work with the other pieces I had chosen? Was it redundant? Was it timeless? How did it feel? Would the style be appropriate for a variety of body types? Would it work for travel? Was the quality high enough? Would the retail price be fair? What about the fabric, the colour, the buttons, the zippers, the pockets, the collars, the slits, the seams? I never realized how much a designer agonizes over every little detail. Once a garment has been made and gets out there, it’s at the customer’s mercy. She will be the acid test of its beauty, desirability, and validity. I had to justify each item in my collection. And since my name would appear on the label of every piece, the task was especially daunting. I even had to worry about what the label and the hang tag looked like.

  Then there were all those other elements to consider—the advertising, merchandising, promotion, and publicity. The whole process was both edifying and exhilarating. And I was scared. As confident as I was about the collection we had come up with, I knew I might be judged harshly. I was also afraid that some might feel I had deserted other Canadian designers by developing my own line. Of course, I would never abandon fabulous designer clothes—especially those by Canada’s own bright talents. Designer collections always will be in a league of their own. I was simply offering some of the nuts and bolts that were needed to fill in the gaps, the basics that wouldn’t break the bank. The world’s couturiers had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t giving up my day job.

  Happily, the Jeanne Beker Collection was well received, and the first season was a great success. I toured the country, visiting the seven Eaton’s stores and meeting fans. My perspective on fashion, made real in this easy-to-wear line, resonated with all kinds of women who were looking for practical wardrobe solutions. We enthusiastically launched into the next season, putting together an appealing spring collection that also proved to be a hit. But by mid-February 2002, the dream was over: Sears, Eaton’s parent company, announced that it would be converting all seven Eaton’s stores to the Sears brand. The 133-yearold retail icon was being eliminated from the Canadian marketplace.

  As successful as my clothing line had been, and as much promise as it had shown, it was deemed too pricey for the more downscale Sears market. And since it had essentially been created as a private label for Eaton’s, it was over. I considered coming up with a new line, at a lower price point, with Sears in mind—but the idea just didn’t appeal to me.

  Still, I had learned quite a bit about the retailing business, and I wasn’t ready to abandon the notion of having some sort of label. Besides, I had just started getting my feet wet. And since I have learned that the best way to deal with disappointment is to throw myself into a new project, that’s just what I did. Wertex, a Toronto-based hosiery company that had been around since the 1940s and had an impressive factory in Montreal, approached me about doing a line of stockings. I mentioned it to Jack, and the cogs started turning. We met with the Wertex owners—the charming Werner family—and started bouncing ideas around.

  The Werners, a father-and-son team, were Orthodox Jews. They may not have been progressive in terms of their marketing skills, but they did have a factory filled with impressive state-of-the-art equipment that could spin out wonderful, good-quality seamless garments. Since working out and yoga had become such a big part of so many women’s lives, and Wertex had the ability to manufacture this kind of line, I started toying with the idea of doing a hip, colourful, no-nonsense “underwear as outerwear” collection: simple garments you could wear to the gym or the yoga studio or as underpinnings. There would even be some seamless underwear in the mix—all with great cuts and in fashion-forward colours. We decided to call the collection “Inside Out by Jeanne Beker.”

  Jack was instrumental in my deal with the Werners. Sears agreed to carry the collection, and for a couple of seasons, everything went along fine. Of course, this type of humble collection paled in comparison to the major line I had done with Eaton’s. And as much as I enjoyed my dealings with the Werners (just imagine talking thong underwear with a Hasidic Jew!), I didn’t feel the company had the marketing vision, savvy, or funds to promote the line the way it needed to be promoted. No matter how good the product was, how reasonably it was priced, and how timely it was, Jack and I instinctively knew this company would not be able to take it to the next level. So we amicably dissolved the partnership with Wertex and abandoned the notion of another collection—for the time being.

  I never for a moment thought of either of my clothing lines a
s a failure. Both were successful while they lasted. I was lucky to have all that hands-on experience, to get an up-close look at the shmatte business, warts and all. It was only a taste of the daunting challenges so many designers and fashion houses have to go through to get their products out there. But for me it was a real eye-opener, a personally enriching experience, and good fun to boot. Some things just aren’t meant to last.

  My relationship with Jack ended in May 2006. We spent seven and a half years together, and it was a wonderful ride. But as much as Jack had been there to help to heal my broken heart and support my independence as a single working mum, there was still a big hole in my life. I wasn’t ready to settle, and I longed for a different kind of love.

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING MOON BOOTS

  OF ALL THE JOYS and challenges that have come my way, few can compare with those I’ve encountered raising my girls. Bringing them up to be kind, compassionate, and creative young women has been one of my life’s sweetest and most trying adventures, as well as my most blessed accomplishment. Bekky was ten and Joey was eight when Denny left in 1998. I was in the throes of this monstrous career of mine when our world was blown apart. While I can’t say I would have opted to raise them as a single parent if given the choice, I got through a lot of tough stuff these past thirteen years, and I’m proud to still be standing alongside my two remarkable beauties, who are poised to take on the world.

  Any working mother—especially one obligated to travel so much for her job—will tell you that there can be a tendency to overcompensate for the pangs of guilt brought on by separation. My heart always went out to the girls when I had to be away, and I often tried to make up for my absences with little gifts. Sometimes, when I had the time to shop, these were exotic treasures. But usually, the presents were nothing more than token Beanie Babies picked up at an airport terminal. However humble these wee gifts were, the girls were eternally appreciative that I’d brought back a bit of “the road” for them. Denny thought I was spoiling them terribly. “Look at how many Beanie Babies these girls have!” he said disdainfully shortly before he moved out. I had to admit that their burgeoning collections were impressive. But how could I deny my children something they took such delight in? How much longer would I be able to win their hearts with such meagre purchases? I didn’t think for a moment that I was spoiling them.