Tongue in Chic

by Kirstie Clements

  Having already made two trips to the Prada store in the Duomo to admire, pat and talk to Foxy, I had reached the limits of my patience. I also didn’t totally approve of real fur, which was unusual for a fashion editor. Assuming my ‘keeping it real’ position, which partly hinged on the rather perilous state of magazine publishing, I threw in a couple of real downers when talking to Marie over breakfast the next day.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, honey, but I’m your boss; I know your salary. Do you think you can afford Foxy? I mean, it’s a folly, not a necessity.’

  Marie looked slightly upset, and began wondering out loud if kids really needed to go to private school.

  I tried one last time.

  ‘I know, I know, phooey to those private-school snobs, our children are far more artistic than them, but, apart from at show time, do you have the lifestyle that Foxy requires? I mean, will Foxy feel comfortable doing the school run, or shopping at Westfield?’ In some insane turnaround, Foxy had become a living thing I worried about.

  Marie and I discussed Foxy throughout our time in Milan, and for the next ten days in Paris, but the stole remained unpurchased. Then, after our return home, Marie sprang excitedly into my office.

  ‘Prada are having their press-rack sale and the blue and black Foxy is on it!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s half price!’

  It was half price. It didn’t matter if it was $50 000, if it was half price and Prada, you had to buy it. We believed that any fashion item costing less than $100 was essentially a gift, and my suspicion that Foxy had taken on a life of its own and followed us home was now confirmed. I’ve seen Foxy come out with Marie just once since then, at a casual dinner at my house.

  * * *

  I suffer, as did most of the fashion staff with whom I’ve worked, from a condition causing one to not feel the same way about a once-treasured piece if it loses a button or a sequin falls off. It’s a terribly cavalier way to treat expensive purchases, and another reason to resist being obsessive about fashion and shopping. The concept of mending and preserving things has largely been lost in the relentless turnover that is the fashion cycle, and of course this is especially the case with cheaper-priced chain-store fashion, which is intended to fall apart after a couple of wears. I once mentioned to the owner of a very pricey shoe store that I had taken a favourite pair of shoes to be re-soled. She looked at me with disgust.

  ‘You are putting Topy on the soles? Yuck. That will ruin the line of the shoe. Topy is too thick. Anyway, if a shoe is worn so much that it needs to be resoled, then it’s actually worn out and should be thrown away.’

  I suddenly felt like the most miserly and, arguably, slatternly person on earth. So much so that when she offered me a Giuseppe Zanotti Greek-style flat sandal with green stones set into a sliver of brown leather for $1600, I thought I’d scored the bargain of the century, even knowing that their shelf life was six months, tops.

  The season that Tom Ford produced his final collection for Gucci, I decided that I needed to own a piece, as a tribute to his importance. On a visit to the Gucci boutique in the Via Montenapoleone boutique in Milan, I scored the world’s best sales assistant, who decided I wasn’t leaving without a gorgeous midnight-blue velvet jacket. Because he was so good at his job, I also bought something that could probably best be described as an undergarment: a sort of sheer long-sleeve black T-shirt that worked best concealed under a sweater and cost $1000. The blazer being four times the price of the, let’s say, spencer, caused me to call not only Marie but the bank, my husband and also the meaning of life into question. But I bought it. I needed it; I was quite sure.

  If you are in a changing cabine in the Via Montenapoleone, feeling a bit fat, you can, all of a sudden, feel that your life isn’t what it could be. Blazer, like Foxy, was bought, and was so important to me that all of my existing clothing suddenly meant nothing. On my departure from Milan, I tossed them into my suitcase as if they were rags. Blue Velvet, which it had now become, was my new best friend. It was in its lovely posh calico hanging bag, and was coming with me, not in the cargo hold; it was flying business. We arrived home, and it went into the wardrobe. I rushed into the office and told everyone about it, and they hung on my every word. Who knew that shopping, at full retail, no discounts, spending money you couldn’t afford, could end so triumphantly?

  Then Bernard popped in. He and I had a red-carpet event to attend the next night, which was music to my ears, as my new jacket needed an outing. Bernard listened—I thought attentively, and rather excitedly—to my every word about my treasured Gucci jacket. The following evening, we alighted from our limousine and made our way towards the dreaded media wall. I nervously adjusted my jacket, and, as I did, its solitary black satin button popped off and bounced, naturally, into a grate. I turned, incredulous, to look at Bernard, who was wearing a white Yves Saint Laurent cashmere dinner jacket that had cost nearly $3000 and would the next day be ruined by a local drycleaner and end up the subject of a law suit.

  ‘I haven’t even worn this once, it cost a fortune, and the button has popped off!’ I spluttered. Now I come to think of it, I have uttered variations on that sentence all my life, probably at a ratio of one in three purchases.

  ‘Darling, don’t worry, just wear it unbuttoned; here, have a champagne,’ said Bernard, giving what was really the only appropriate answer. But I churlishly never wore the jacket again.

  * * *

  My wildy fluctuating and illogical attitude towards shopping was eventually brought home to me by my children. As the mother of twin boys, I imposed rules on their wardrobes before they were old enough to understand any of it. I banned characters, cartoons, and words or logos on their clothing; I would have spontaneously combusted if I had been forced to walk into a Disney store, or buy merchandised anything. Everything they wore was in a solid colour or a nautical stripe. They were dressed like conservative old men—when they were two, I bought them scratchy hand-knitted oatmeal wool cardigans from Scotland, and stiff designer jeans as soon as they could walk. I also bought some gorgeous agnès b bebe track pants; they were bright red with white piping down the side, and very pricey, so I decided to think of them as trousers. One day, when I was getting the boys dressed for day care, Sam turned to me and shook his head when I walked towards him with the jeans.

  ‘No, Mummy,’ he said very seriously. ‘I want to wear the soft pants.’ Come to think of it, don’t we all?

  When they turned fifteen, I decided they needed a sartorial lesson or two, and so we went to Paris for a vacation.

  ‘I want you to see how people dress here, just so you can understand how horribly casual you are,’ I said hopefully, as they looked at each other and made that ‘poor her’ face. I let them loose to go shopping for a few hours one morning, after which we met at a café on the rue Saint-Honoré for lunch.

  ‘OK, what have you found?’ I asked expectantly.

  ‘I bought some great, really cool T-shirts at colette,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, great. T-shirts. God. How dull. Show me,’ I said and he handed them over. They were plain cotton, very simple, and adorned with a small word, or tiny symbol, that I didn’t recognise. ‘How much?’ I asked, ordering their Cokes.

  ‘$160 each,’ said Joe. ‘Billionaire Boys Club.’

  ‘What!!!! Are you mad? They aren’t anything special. They’re rather nice-quality cotton, but you’re just paying for the cool factor of the label; there’s nothing amazing about them design wise.’

  And then I got the ‘poor her’ look again, for reasons we all understood.

  9

  The Real Deal

  When you’re the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, people imagine that you’re constantly judging what they’re wearing and whether or not they are on trend. This was generally the last thing I would be looking at.

  My mother had a lovely habit of noticing something attractive about a person and commenting on it, and this would be a compliment that had nothing to do with their clothes. One time
we were in a supermarket and the young girl—lank haired and extremely overweight—behind the cash register was ringing up our groceries with an air of sad resignation. As we waited for our docket, my mother said loudly to her: ‘You have the most beautiful complexion, you know, dear. You’re very pretty.’

  The girl looked, amazed, at my mother while her cheeks reddened and she smiled widely; her whole demeanour was transformed. I’m sure she had never been given a compliment like that, and my mother was right: she had radiant skin. I never forgot the effect her words had on that young woman and I have tried to follow this example ever since. I remember that in my first week at a new college when I was studying English literature, I glanced around the room and spotted a slender youth with floppy black hair and a long, thin face. After class, I walked over to him, introduced myself and declared, sincerely: ‘You have the most wonderful cheekbones; you look like a poet.’

  We’ve been best friends for the past twenty-five years.

  It is far more lasting, and meaningful, to say to someone, ‘You have beautiful hands,’ as opposed to ‘OMG, look at your Céline tote!’ To me, true style is a person’s attitude, intellect and manners. Your fashion sense is irrelevant if your aura is toxic.

  My introduction to the truly stylish began when I was promoted to junior fashion writer at Chic and found myself surrounded by some of the most elegant women in the industry. I studied everything the fashion editors wore and I learned some sartorial rules that are eternal. The first and most important lesson was in grooming: the importance of shiny hair; glowing, scrubbed skin; clean, polished nails. I remember that particular horror was reserved for those who were considered grubby or skanky. The absolute worst criticism of someone was ‘She needs a nailbrush’, or ‘She looks like she needs a good scrub’. I remember one beauty editor stating dramatically: ‘There are two types of people in the world. Those who have pedicures and those who don’t.’

  * * *

  Another lesson I learned was the importance of discreet perfume. It was considered terribly un-chic to wear an overwhelming fragrance, and this was in the era of uber-strong scents, such as Giorgio Beverly Hills and Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium. The Chic editors would literally screw up their noses if they could detect someone’s fragrance from afar. They favoured ultralight perfumes from houses such as Annick Goutal: barely there scents that smelled like lemons, or like freshly washed laundry. One of their favourites was the baby cologne from chichi French children’s wear store Bonpoint. The strongest fragrance a fashion editor would ever wear was Chanel No. 5. Any other perfumes the cosmetic houses sent to them they gave to their cleaners and nannies. This was one area where I rebelled. I loved all types of fragrances, especially if they had musky, spicy undertones, but I swiftly learned not to wear any of them to work, in case I was regarded as ‘common’. My fallbacks were Samsara by Guerlain and Paris by YSL. I thought they were rather low key, but an editor once told me, in no uncertain terms, that my fragrance had entered the room before I had and that it simply was not done.

  There were also some strict rules around makeup. We would, of course, produce countless shoots encouraging our readers to wear all sort of outrageous makeup looks, but we weren’t allowed to practise that ourselves. While we were always about the new when it came to our editorial, understatement was everything when it came to ourselves. Artifice was never in, and this included hair extensions, fake tan, acrylic nails, the showing of cleavage, short skirts and overly dyed hair. Good luck imposing those style rules in 2013.

  One should never be over made up; that was a given. Foundation, if worn at all, was discreet; the same with blush. And there were only two allowable shades of lipstick: no pinks, no oranges, no corals, and nothing frosted. The first allowable shade was a muddy browny taupe that I always thought made everyone look a bit bloodless. The editors normally bought these from Shu Uemura, MAC or Shiseido while they were away at the shows. The other permissible lipstick shade was red, which could be any luxury brand but was more than likely Chanel. Revlon passed muster, too, especially the classic shade called Revlon Red. Occasionally, a deep dark wine colour could be worn, but only at night. Lipliner was eschewed, unless it was used all over the lips, as a light-brown stain; it could never, ever be used as a liner. I found the perfect beige lipliner—Spice, from the Body Shop, but I had to be sure no one saw me use it and realise it was el cheapo.

  Eyeshadow was a veritable minefield. Colour was frowned upon: you could choose from only a very limited palette, of browns, taupes and greys, and they were to be applied with a feather-light touch. Nail polish had to be the same sickly prosthetic beige as your lipstick, or in ballet-slipper pink from Chanel, although red or darkest bat’s blood were also encouraged, even though French manicures were thought to be a little showy. If you were seen with a chip, you were sent home. As with perfume, I loved makeup with a passion, and had not been seen without eyeliner and mascara since 1975, so I felt immensely stifled by these limitations. In fact, I’m planning on wearing more makeup when I reach eighty than I did at eighteen.

  The correct makeup travel bag had also been carefully judged to be one from the signature brown and white stripe collection at Henri Bendel’s department store in New York. Hand cream, oddly enough, was also an issue. The choices you had were those from Clarins, Chanel or Santa Maria Novella (the lemon-scented one that came from a pharmacy in Florence, as well as in a very heavy pot that meant it weighed a ton in your handbag). Later, when Jo Malone launched, her hand cream was allowed—but only the very lightest ones, with notes of lime, basil and mandarin—as was a rose-scented version from Jurlique.

  Scented candles were also judged, and the Diptyque Baies candle was the undisputed winner. We began ordering Diptyque candles wholesale from France, we bought so many.

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Chic fashion editors stuck with some hard-and-fast fashion dictates too. It may have been due to the fact we were watching trends come and go at such lightning speed, and we knew it would be futile to keep up, but editors rarely adopted a completely new look for themselves, usually just adding one piece to update their wardrobe. So, despite the fact they promoted trends, generally the taste arbiters did not want to be perceived as ‘trendy’. What they were really after was to appear elegant, unruffled and absolutely sure of their choices. Their clothes or accessories did not have to be expensive, but they wanted them to look expensive.

  I saw quickly that there were a few basics that had to be purchased. This was in the late eighties, and I’m quite pleased to think that what was deemed a must-have then has not changed very much. Classics are classics for a reason, which is that they are forever chic. Over the years I have collected high-quality items that will last a lifetime, or longer. A well-cut tailored jacket, in navy or navy pinstripes. A black tuxedo pantsuit, preferably by Yves Saint Laurent. A white shirt. A trenchcoat. A black pump with a killer heel. Ballet flats. A black Chanel 2.55 quilted handbag with a gold chain. A Cartier Tank watch, or an Hermès watch with a strap that wraps around twice. Cashmere sweaters. An Hermès belt with an H buckle. Silver hoop earrings. Tod’s riding boots. A denim shirt. An Hermès Kelly or Birkin bag. An Elsa Peretti for Tiffany silver bangle. White T-shirts. Men’s-style cotton shirts from Comme des Garçons or Ralph Lauren. A simple black knee-length evening dress. A vintage brown crocodile handbag. A fox, mink or chinchilla muffler. A beautifully cut black cashmere coat. A Prada satin evening clutch. White jeans. A butter-soft leather blazer. A tweed Chanel jacket. An Eres swimsuit. K Jacques Saint Tropez handmade leather sandals.

  On top of these most-wanted staples, which were essentially a list of the world’s priciest basics, the trends-related items were added as desired. Some designers could be hot one season, not so much another; others such as Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent and Prada were perennial, even if only for shoes or bags. There were some items from particular collections that dominated our consciousness over the decades—pinstriped jackets from Jean Paul Gaultier, black minimalist piec
es from Yohji Yamamoto, bright print and eclectic shapes from Marni, velvet pants and satin shirts from Gucci, Tom Ford’s peasant collection for YSL, Prada anything, Chloé white cotton dresses, Helmut Lang overcoats, Fendi baguette bags, Valentino studded shoes, Balenciaga Lariat bags, white Céline shirts.

  Having to be dressed head to toe in the latest looks all the time would be relentlessly demanding and, naturally, ludicrously expensive. I admired women who instead added to their wardrobes one or two pieces from the latest season to communicate that, although they were aware of the trends, they were happy with their own style. My Brazilian friend Costanza was adept at this even in her seventies and, I suspect, had been her whole life. During RTW show time, she would rise early in the morning to have her dark hair styled and backcombed into a French roll. She always wore a thick line of liquid eyeliner, taupe lipstick and oversized black sunglasses. She would take the signature piece of the season—say, a green and black shrunken wool Prada jacket—and wear it with a simple pair of black pants (Stella McCartney for Zara). To this, she would add the Valentino studded shoe (a kitten heel—she gave up very high heels when she was in her late sixties), and her extensive jewellery collection, featuring brightly coloured semiprecious stones, a classic bag and perfectly polished nails.

  But what was chicest about Constanza was that she was funny, intelligent and classy. She’d been married four times, but when I knew her she was single. ‘Why is it always the nice husband that dies?’ she said once, making me laugh throughout the entire Fendi show. She would say outrageous things without even realising. ‘You have beautiful skin,’ she once said to me. ‘Have you had much work done?’ When I replied I’d not had much, just a bit of Botox and collagen, she said, ‘We have wonderful plastic surgeons in Brazil. When the time comes, please stay with me. I have staff who could change your surgical dressings.’ We used to scan the front row to see who had had work done since the last time we’d seen them and whether it was good or not. Constanza was a thousand times more stylish than any of them.