Chapter Four: Preview to Disaster

Off the Record: Secrets of a 90s Fashion Insider in New York — a Live Manuscript by Aliza Licht, every Wednesday on Substack. You're not waiting for the book, you're in the room as it's written.

Last week, Jessica, writing anonymously as Samantha on Off the Record, returned home after one of the worst days she’s had at La Mode, hoping to unwind. Instead, the conversation with her roommate, Julia, takes an unexpected turn and pulls Samantha back into a memory she hasn’t thought about in years... and one that might explain more than she realizes. Need a refresher? Go back here. New to the novel? Start here.

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House of Harlan PR Office: Tuesday, August 9, 2011

“Don’t forget, you have that 2:00 p.m. show meeting in the other building,” Lucy reminds me.

It’s 1:45. My tweet from yesterday is blowing up, and Off the Record on Tumblr is gaining subscribers by the minute. Scrolling through the replies, I suddenly realize that responding to anyone is not an option. I need to protect my anonymity at all costs.

All I want to do is tell Marissa how right she is, but even without engaging, it’s still fun to watch people dissect “The Runthrough” post. Another girl on Twitter, @haleypeterson_, is freaking out over the diet pills. LOL. “Fen-phen??? From your boss??? I know fashion was wild back then, but that feels straight-up criminal.”

Honestly, I get it. If anyone at work pulled that in 2011, they’d be hauled off to HR and fired.

Back then, you just added it to the list of insane things that went on. Whatever you were told to do, you did. There were no limits.

The other interesting part? You can already tell who’s picking up what I’m putting down. The side-eyes toward Ali are subtle now, but they’re growing.

That’s the plan.

And I think it’s working.

It’s wild how once you start writing, the memories flood back. I need to draft another blog post soon, but right now, show prep is more important than any of this. I can’t sacrifice my real job for the sake of my fake one.

I also can’t be late to the meeting I’m running.

“Carla!” I yell across the room. “You ready?” I grab my phone off the charger.

Carla appears from the back of the office, binder in hand. Of course she’s ready. Carla is probably the most organized person on the planet. Nearly black, silky-straight hair, not a single split end, heavy bangs, always perfectly pulled together. Born in Milan but fully Americanized now, Carla is striking and chic. The editors love her for her easy disposition and genuine character. I love her because she’s a machine, and during Fashion Week, that’s exactly what I need.

We head to the lobby and kill a few seconds at reception waiting for the elevator.

“Wanna stop at Nut Castle?” I ask, already tasting my candy mix.

“Ehh, trying to avoid sugar,” Carla says, wrinkling her nose. “But we can go if you need it.”

“Good,” I grin. “Because I do.”

Nut Castle is your classic NYC candy shop where you can buy nuts and candy by the pound. It was shut down for a while when someone found a maggot in the jellybeans, but it’s under new ownership and I’ve decided it’s safe again.

I walk up to the counter and flash the guy a smile. “Hi! Can I get a mix of yogurt pretzels, candy corn, and those cherry licorice bites, please?”

Carla looks at me like I just committed a crime against taste buds. “I honestly don’t know how you eat that. You’re the only person I know who eats candy corn year-round.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I wink.

With my bag of candy in hand, we head into the building and take the elevator up to the 10th floor. The doors open into a massive white showroom with raw, concrete floors and a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. In a month’s time, the Spring 2012 collection will fill this room, ready for our sales team to start selling to department stores and boutiques around the world.

We join the rest of our PR team in the tight conference room. First order of business: the “show list.” The coveted, exclusive roster of who’s worthy enough to get an invite.

The list is strictly limited to important press, buyers, and “friends of the house.” We never have enough space, especially in the front row, so the show list is a battle every season. From a PR standpoint, we try to be disciplined about who makes the cut. But the sales team? Total nightmare. They think every account is important. Spoiler alert: they’re not.

Both magazines and stores want their whole teams to attend. It’s a cutthroat, see-and-be-seen game, and not everyone is going to win. Who gets blessed with a seat is 100% biased. We’re not fair or equitable. In fact, quite the opposite. It’s the power we wield, and no, we’re not apologizing for it.

The less important the magazine or retail account, the farther back they go, or they get cut altogether. The lowest-priority guests might even end up standing. Honestly, they’re lucky to even get a standing ticket.

Last season, Lorenzo had a “brilliant” idea to reverse the model entrance so instead of coming out backstage, they’d walk in straight off the street.

Changing the model entrance completely upended our 840-person seating plan.

On a classic single runway, the goal is to give the most important editors the longest first view of the models. Old-school editors sketch, newer ones snap pics, others just watch. The longer they have to take it all in, the better. The VIPs still have to be front row no matter how crazy the runway route gets. In PR, that’s non-negotiable.

No matter how complicated it is, we figure it out. We always do.

Lorenzo doesn’t care about pesky details or the actual function of PR. We’re there to serve and execute his every whim, no matter how ridiculous or insane it may be. He’s known to change his mind in the middle of the night and ask for the impossible.

But let me be clear: Lorenzo is not the problem.

He’s a creative. This is what creatives do. They dream big. They demand the moon.

We’re the problem. We’re the ones who make the impossible happen, which is exactly why people like Lorenzo keep asking for the moon.

I have no idea what tricks he has in store for us this season. The seating chart is just the beginning.

But this is no ordinary show.

Not only does 2011 mark the tenth anniversary of 9/11, our show is scheduled on September 11, 2011.

It doesn’t get more somber than that.

Every season, it’s my job to finalize the press release and produce the press kit that gets placed on every guest’s seat.

It includes the collection’s inspiration, the pacing of the show, what we call the “run of show,” design details of each look, and which model is wearing what.

Crammed into a small conference room with at least five people too many, I clear my throat and begin the meeting.

“Hi, everyone. My first point on today’s agenda is related to something really important.

“Does everyone know that 9/11 happened ten years ago on the day of our fashion show, September 11, 2001?”

I scan the room. A few people nod. Others just stare, expressionless.

I decide to keep going.

“I know for some of you this is before your time, but for me it feels like yesterday,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“We were scheduled to show the Spring 2002 collection at the Armory in NYC, but that is the show that would never be.

“We need to acknowledge the 10-year anniversary of September 11th. We can’t just have a fashion show and pretend like nothing happened.”

I search for a sign of understanding.

Carla is the only one in the room who was already working in New York back then, even if it was for another designer.

“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” she says softly, her eyes briefly drifting as if replaying it all in her mind.

“Me too, Carla,” I say. “I’m pretty sure we were scheduled as the first show of the day.” I pause, the memory still vivid.

Snapping back to the present, I gather my thoughts.

“OK, everyone, let’s start working on both the guest and photographer lists. Maybe this season, for once, we can get them done early so everything isn’t rushed,” I say.

For the remainder of the meeting, we divide up the responsibilities and review next steps. When we conclude the meeting, I feel like we’re in a good place.

Heading into show season is always frantic, but it’s also our Super Bowl. There’s never a shortage of surprises and chaos. We work miracles on zero sleep and still manage to look good. We run on caffeine, adrenaline, and pure delusion. And somehow? We always pull it off.

It’s a game only the insiders get to play, and trust me, everyone on the outside wants in.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at my desk, horrified by how many emails have flooded my inbox.

Scanning through the sea of subject lines, there are at least a dozen show requests, an all-caps “CALL ME” from Lorenzo, and countless other random people who need something from me.

I refresh the page and a new email appears from The Daily Front Row with the subject line:

“Alexandra Baron Announces NYFW Pop-Up ‘House of Baron’ at Bowery Hotel”

She did NOT just rip off House of Harlan. Wow, that’s low, even for her. The woman has zero original ideas. House of Baron? Who the hell does she think she is?

The pop-up is invite-only, naturally, but she’s also teasing an “intimate press dinner” the night before, hosted by herself to celebrate herself.

I can’t wait to show this to Lorenzo. He nauseatingly adores her, but this? This will piss him off.

How can it not?

Lorenzo may like Alexandra, but if there’s one thing I know about Lorenzo, it’s that he likes himself more.

One day, he’ll learn the truth.

I draft the next post without overthinking it.

This memory still cuts deep.

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OFF THE RECORD
Preview to Disaster
July 15, 1997

Julia’s ominous words, “watch your back,” feel like a hangover this morning. Part of me hopes she’s overreacting. But another part wonders if she’s the only one willing to say it out loud.

Needless to say, I’m happy to be starting my next workday out of the office and away from Ali.

Avery and I are meeting bright and early for a 9:30 a.m. Resort collection appointment at Michael Kors. Michael is a big La Mode advertiser, so we need to make sure to visit the showroom often and shoot the brand regularly.

The sky is a bright, crystal-clear blue, one of those perfect summer mornings in New York City. I’m sipping my usual hazelnut iced coffee from Clover Deli, right across the street from my apartment. They always get the color just right.

I may or may not have introduced the owner’s sons to Pantone by bringing in a 465 C chip, just so they’d understand my ideal coffee shade.

That’s the kind of thing you pick up working in fashion. The right shade of caramel matters, even in iced coffee.

Avery picked me up on our way downtown, and so far I’m relieved she hasn’t mentioned Chanel bootie-gate. Yet.

Traffic is bumper to bumper, so at West 16th Street, Avery asks the cab driver to let us out.

Walking along the uneven sidewalk, I tread carefully in my Robert Clergerie platforms. It’s way too easy to twist an ankle in these.

As we turn onto West 15th Street, Avery suddenly stops and juts her foot out in front of me.

I halt, confused. Is she showing off her shoes? Having a foot cramp?

“Samantha,” she says, pointing dramatically at her Prada sandals.

“What?” I ask, genuinely baffled.

“My laces are untied,” Avery says with a straight face.

My eyes widen. My jaw drops. Is she seriously commanding me to tie her shoes? First the diet pills, and now I’m her servant? Has she completely lost it?

I want to say no, but I also don’t want to get a second strike. I flash to my grandma’s sage advice. She used to say, “Sam, do you want to be smart, or do you want to be right?”

Being right would mean quitting on the spot.

Being smart means remembering how coveted my job is.

I swallow my pride and bend down to tie her shoes. Thankfully, no one is around to see this.

As I rise from squatting on the pavement, our eyes meet, and Avery gives me a satisfied smile. I return it even though, in my mind, I’m cursing her.

We take the elevator up to Michael Kors’s showroom, and I keep reminding myself that thousands of girls would kill for my job. Avery knows this, too. I am totally replaceable.

I am going to focus on the positive. This is my first Resort preview, and I get to meet Michael himself.

We are greeted by a gorgeous, tall, lanky guy with platinum-blond hair who ushers us into the showroom.

“Michael will be in shortly,” he says with a wide smile, motioning for us to sit at a long teak table surrounded by gold metal King Louis XVI chairs.

Looking around, I still can’t believe I’m here and about to meet a fashion legend.

Natural wooden hangers dangle from wire-suspended bars lining the room, making the collection appear as though it is floating in air. The pieces are white, beige, khaki, and black, with pops of red and navy. From blazers to shorts and jumpsuits to dresses, the clothes are tailored and wearable.

I want everything.

Avery and I cover the accessories market, so we’re just here to get a sense of the ready-to-wear collection. That’s Gwen’s turf, and she’s running late. I’m lucky Avery invited me to this because Gwen didn’t include Ali. Typical Gwen, showing her who’s boss.

Michael walks in with a happy-go-lucky smile. Avery and I stand as he gives us an enthusiastic double-cheek kiss. He’s never met me before, but that doesn’t matter. In fashion, everyone kisses everyone, and it’s always two kisses like they do in Europe that don’t actually hit the cheek. Apparently, one kiss is not chic enough, even if you’re American.

While we wait for Gwen, Michael entertains us with an escapade from his weekend. As I sit there and listen to the charming details of his life, I can’t help but wonder how I’m getting paid a salary of $23,000 for this. It doesn’t remotely feel like work.

We’re all laughing when Gwen arrives.

“What’s so funny?” Gwen asks, sliding the glass door closed behind her.

“Oh, Michael was just telling everyone about his fun weekend,” Avery answers.

Gwen smiles and starts strolling along the bars, touching the clothes and examining the fabrics. Michael immediately snaps back into designer-mode and starts sharing his inspiration for the collection.

“This season, it’s all about the luxurious life of the traveler. Think Monaco, Capri, St. Barths. She’s effortless and sophisticated.”

We all smile and nod, playing along with Michael’s clear sense of pride. I buy into every word, imagining these women living a life I dream of having one day.

It is all a surreal, pinch-me moment.

I am in the room with Michael Kors and he is presenting his collection to me.

ME.

Well, OK, us.

But still...

My dreamy world is suddenly interrupted by the assistant’s abrupt re-entry into the showroom. His face looks ghostly, and his mood has shifted from happy to serious.

I sense something has happened.

“Michael, can I please talk to you privately?” he asks, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

I study his expression carefully. I can’t imagine what this is about, but I know it’s not good news.

The showroom has become eerily silent. We watch intently as the assistant grabs the crook of Michael’s arm and walks him over to the corner of the showroom. Though his back is toward us, I can see him pull out his Motorola StarTAC and show it to Michael.

Michael stares down at the device.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” he screams, his entire body trembling.

The tears come fast. Urgent and unstoppable.

My heart is pounding now, heat surging to my face. I whip my head toward Avery and Gwen, desperate for some kind of clue, but they look just as stunned.

Gwen bolts from her chair and rushes over to them. She throws her arms around Michael as he collapses into her, sobbing uncontrollably.

“He’s gone. GONE!” he wails through his tears.

“Who is?” Gwen pleads, her own tears now streaming down her face.

“Please,” Avery says, her voice breaking as she rises to join them. “Tell us what happened.”

Michael’s assistant looks at her and takes a long, shaky breath.

“Gianni Versace was shot on the front steps of his home in Miami.

He’s dead.”

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Off the Record is fiction inspired by the fashion industry and real historical events. Certain real names, brands, publications, and public figures appear for context and authenticity, but all characters, interactions, and events are fictionalized and should not be understood as factual portrayals.