Chapter Three: The Runthrough

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, took readers back to July 1997 — her first year as an assistant at La Mode magazine, navigating designer samples, impossible bosses, and unspoken rules. And she came face to face with Alexandra Baron — back when everyone still called her Ali.

Need a refresher on Chapters One and Two? Catch up here.

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House of Harlan PR Office: Friday, August 5, 2011

“What have I done?” I stare at the Twitter replies from yesterday in disbelief. There must be over a hundred. Half of me is terrified, but the other half is giddy. Being anonymous on Twitter feels dangerous but also exciting. The engagement alone proves there’s an appetite for this.

Have I just become a real-life Gossip Girl?

I laugh to myself, but the thought is short-lived. Lucy appears at my office door.

By the blank look on her face, I know she didn’t catch me smiling.

“Elisabeth’s gown and accessories are ready for you in the dressing room,” she says, smiling proudly. “Her assistant texted that she should be here in ten minutes.”

Elisabeth is coming in for her Emmys fitting. Her stylist is in LA, so I’ll take the appointment on my own. She’s not officially confirmed to wear House of Harlan yet, but I feel good about it. I just need to make sure I have my A-team for the fitting.

“Do I have Nina or Carlo for alterations?” I ask, squinting at my inbox, scrolling frantically for the email confirmation.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Hold on.” Lucy thumbs through her phone quickly, eyes darting across the screen.

“Nina,” she says, glancing up.

Great. Nina is the best.

I walk into the white dressing room with a floor-to-ceiling three-way mirror, bright lights, and the emerald green duchess satin gown hanging on a silver metal rack.

Next to the one-shouldered, draped gown, a small table holds three black velvet trays, each containing precisely $1,762,000 worth of emerald and diamond jewelry. I know this number by heart because I went to Fred Leighton to make the selections myself and almost had a heart attack while I personally took responsibility and signed the loan form insuring the jewelry for that amount.

After the fitting, Lucy will take a Casablanca car uptown to return the pieces we’ve edited out. I can only trust Tony for this job. He’s a VIP driver but also sort of doubles as a bodyguard. It’s scary to think that back in the day, I used to carry this much fine jewelry on the subway alone and didn’t even think twice.

On the floor beneath the gown are eight pairs of shoes: black and green satin, nude silk, and gold metallic leather. They’re scattered, and this immediately bothers me.

Lucy should know better. She didn’t line them up properly.

I’ll have to talk to her about it after the fitting.

As I bend down to arrange the shoes, I’m interrupted by the distant sound of Lucy greeting Elisabeth down the hallway. I finish just in time as Elisabeth walks into the room carrying a 12-pack of Red Bull. She drops the case on the table and proceeds to strip naked.

Never mind the fact that we have a proper dressing room.

I’m always amazed at how shameless celebrities are. Standing naked in front of me, Elisabeth turns toward the three-way mirror, admiring herself from every angle.

“Do you think I should do my knees?” she asks, frowning at her reflection as she pinches the skin around them tightly.

“Your knees?” I squint at her in disbelief. “No, they look good to me.”

Elisabeth presses her fingers harder into her barely-there skin. “I think the skin’s getting a little loose, though.”

“No, really, you look great, Elisabeth,” I say quickly, grabbing the gown off the rack, desperate to get her distracted and dressed.

She points at the dress in my hands. “That was supposed to be blue,” she says flatly, staring at the green gown like it’s personally offended her.

Oh great. Here we go.

“I won’t wear green. Salma wore green last year. I won’t follow her,” Elisabeth says, folding her arms across her chest.

I am going to lose my mind. We literally never discussed blue.

“Elisabeth, I really don’t remember us talking about anything but green,” I say carefully, trying not to sound defensive.

I mean, we had a full-fledged conversation about Emerald City, laughing about the Wizard of Oz theme. But sure, now she wants to pretend it never happened.

“We absolutely discussed blue,” she says through clenched teeth. “I don’t forget these things. So... can your team remake it?”

The pattern maker is going to murder me. Absolutely murder me.

“I’m not sure we have enough time, Elisabeth,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “The pattern room is already swamped, finishing samples for the runway show.”

She shrugs like it’s my problem, not hers.

“Well then, I guess I won’t be wearing House of Harlan to the Emmys.”

And with that, she grabs her case of Red Bull off the table and walks out without another word.

What the hell just happened? The selective memory, combined with an ego the size of Texas, is just too much.

I sit down on the couch in the dressing room and kick off my shoes.

Ugh, this is not good. How am I going to explain that our one chance of dressing someone for the Emmys is now null and void? My boss, Monica, is the kind of person who always finds a way to smile through chaos because she hates confrontation, but make no mistake: if something needs fixing, she’ll expect me to figure it out without drama.

I can already picture her perfectly penciled brow lifting and her deep brown eyes silently telling me to pull it together and solve it. And this? This needs to be solved. Lorenzo is going to be furious. This gown is his pride and joy.

Shit.

I unlock my phone and open Twitter, as if it will somehow solve this. The first headline I see makes me want to vomit.

@Fashionista_com reports, “Alexandra Baron’s upcoming memoir is already headed for bestseller status as Soho House announces her all-house VIP reading tour.”

Of course, she got Soho House to sponsor this. She’ll be jet-setting from LA to New York, London, and Berlin, reading her lies to a handpicked crowd of fans who will think she invented style. I can picture it now: the wine, the books, the smug little smirk. And the worst part?

They’ll eat it up.

One headline was all it took. I spent the weekend writing, and by Monday morning, the next post was live.

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OFF THE RECORD
The Runthrough
July 1997

Our new fashion director, Celine Laurent, has a reputation for being difficult and barking orders in French. Rumor has it that in her past roles, every time she saw shoes she didn’t like, she threw them. I have yet to see this behavior, but regardless, “ducked flying shoes” is not a bullet point I want on my resume.

My boss, Avery, makes me call in way more accessories than we ever need, so Celine has enough of a selection to review during our pre-photo shoot runthrough.

To be fair, Celine is a legend. She’s worked at the world’s best magazines and has styled the most incredible covers and shoots. She probably doesn’t love working at La Mode, but kudos to her. That doesn’t stop her from doing her best.

The problem for us is that brands don’t really care about being featured in La Mode, which makes it very hard for us to secure the most coveted runway looks. There are rarely duplicate samples, so securing the looks you want for a shoot depends on your status as a magazine or editor.

“Samantha, this is a very important runthrough,” Avery says, standing next to my cubicle, her voice low but firm. “You need to make sure the shoes are perfectly lined up along the rack. You can create multiple rows depending on how many pairs you have, but the styles Celine specifically requested should be sitting on the bottom rail, closest to the looks. They should also be in order of the looks. So if it’s Prada’s second look that has matching shoes, make sure those shoes are placed right beneath it. Got it?”

“Got it! Beyond that, should they still be in color order, too?” I ask, grabbing a pen to jot it down.

“They should be by designer, and then within each designer by color,” Avery clarifies. “For example, if you have three pairs of blue heels, group them together so Celine can see the range of shades from darkest to lightest.”

“Remember, Celine is extremely particular. If it’s not set up the way she likes it, you’ll know. But don’t ask questions, just listen, okay?”

She pauses to look at me. “And this is crucial... make sure those white Chanel booties with the silver metallic cap-toe are here.”

“Perfect! Actually, the Chanel booties are already here,” I say, offering a proud smile. “I sent a rush messenger for them this morning.”

It’s sweet that Avery still feels the need to prep me for Celine’s runthrough. I don’t mind the reminders, though, because lord knows I don’t want to mess this up, and we’ve only had a few shoots together since she started at La Mode.

“Great. One less thing to worry about. Oh, wait, there’s something else I need.” Avery returns to her desk to grab something.

“I heard these diet pills are really effective. They’re called Fen-Phen,” she says, holding up a small white pill bottle. “I would like you to try them for a week and let me know how you feel. My body is really sensitive.”

She presses the bottle into my hand like she’s handing over a pack of gum.

My eyebrows shoot up. My mouth drops open, frozen in silence.

I glance down at the label: Fenfluramine (Pondimin) and Phentermine.

Did I hear her correctly? Is she insane? Is she seriously asking me to use my body as a science experiment? For her?

I mean, sure, I’m not exactly sample size... but does she really care that much?

Is this even legal? Should I go to HR?

Ugh. If I do, she might get fired, and then I could end up reporting to Gwen.

That would be way worse than trying these for a week.

What’s the worst thing that could happen? I lose a few pounds?

I can’t even worry about this right now. Time is ticking.

“Okay,” I say, taking the bottle from her and dropping it into my tote.

“Good, that’s settled then.” Avery smiles and walks away.

It’s almost 3:00 PM, and Celine’s runthrough is scheduled for 4:00 PM. I go into the closet to set it up. The clothing is already lined up on the rack, all on clear hangers and perfectly finger-spaced. Believe it or not, that’s literally what it is. You put your finger between the two hanger hooks to estimate the distance between them. That is, thankfully, Ali’s job. Not mine.

The shoe samples are all here in shopping bags from their respective designers. I check them in and document the full inventory by designer and size. Thirty pairs in total. I start organizing them exactly how Avery asked me to. This is not the hard part. As a reminder, the hard part is securing these samples in the first place.

I glance at my work and feel proud. The runthrough is set up perfectly, and I’m even done early. I decide to grab a well-deserved frozen yogurt from Tasti D-Lite.

Shortly after, as I walk back into the building, I check my watch. It’s 3:50 PM. I have ten minutes before Celine’s runthrough, and I’m already nervous. Avery and Gwen will be managing Celine’s editing process. Ali and I will be in our cubicles if anything is needed.

I sit down at my desk, the last bites of frozen yogurt already melting into cookies-and-cream soup. Scanning my to-do list, I check what’s left for the day. I cross-check the return dates for each shoe style to ensure nothing urgently needs to be returned to the designers. Staying on top of returns is how I build trust with these PR people. They need to know they can count on me to treat these precious samples with respect.

I’m sliding the inventory into a folder labeled Celine Runthrough 7/14 when I think I hear a sharp scream with my name, shouted in unrecognizable French words.

“SAMANTHAAAAAA!!!!!!! Mais qu’est-ce qui ne va pas chez toi, bordel!”

Oh my G-d. That is definitely my name... plus something very bad in French.

I jump up from my chair and run into the closet.

Celine stands with her back toward me. Avery and Gwen are glaring at me.

I want to die when Avery, very sternly, says, “Samantha, didn’t I tell you to make sure the Chanel booties are here?”

My heart drops so fast I feel dizzy. For a second, I genuinely can’t breathe. I retrace everything in my head, the delivery, the unpacking, the spot I placed them. I know I didn’t screw this up. I know I didn’t.

“Avery, I swear I did. They were delivered this morning. I placed them right here,” I say, pointing frantically to the first row on the rail.

My eyes scan the sea of shoes.

Maybe someone moved them?

Maybe I’m losing my mind?

My heart is racing, sweat beading down my back.

The Chanel booties are definitely not here.

Tears flood my eyes before I can stop them.

“I promise you they were here. I don’t know where they could have gone. I am so sorry,” I manage to say, as tears stream down my face.

“Va-t’en!” Celine yells, pointing to the door.

Grateful for the exit gesture, I run straight to the bathroom.

How could this have happened? HOW?

I was prepared. I had those Chanel booties delivered early.

I am not hallucinating.

Someone moved them.

That’s the only answer.

But who... and why?

I try to pull myself together.

Not only did I fail Celine, but if I don’t find those samples, I am screwed.

Luxury houses like Chanel and Hermès charge triple the retail cost if original samples are damaged or lost. That’s the deal you agree to when you sign the sample loan paperwork. They do it to keep everything tightly controlled. To prevent careless mistakes and, of course, to discourage theft.

I splash cold water on my face and look up.

Through the mirror, I catch a glimpse of Ali walking in.

Great. The last thing I want right now is to talk to anyone.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Ali says gently, stepping beside me. She rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. Her voice is soft and comforting.

I barely recognize myself in the reflection. My face is puffy and blotchy, and my black mascara is smudged everywhere. I am a disaster.

I don’t even turn toward Ali. I just speak to the mirror.

“I set up Celine’s runthrough perfectly. Everything was there when I left the closet. The Chanel booties, the pair she specifically asked for, were there at 3:50 PM. And now they’re gone.”

I splash more cold water on my face, trying to erase the splotchy redness and smudged mascara.

“Sam, you’ve been under so much pressure,” she says. “You probably just thought you saw the booties. Shoes don’t just disappear.”

The kindness in her voice is almost enough to make me believe her.

Almost.

Because then, like a bolt, I remember:

Ali slipping those Ann Demeulemeester ankle boots into her tote.

No.

Shoes don’t just vanish.

People take them.

“I have to go,” I say, brushing past her.

I walk back to my desk, feeling more disappointed in myself with every step.

Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I call her out?

Because I have no proof, that’s why.

And what would her motive even be? It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

I need to end this horrible day. Avery has already left. She made a strategic 5:00 PM market appointment at Fendi so she wouldn’t have to return to the office. I grab my handbag and walk quickly down the hallway, looking at no one, and leave the building in an exhausted haze.

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Ready for more? Continue on.

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Off the Record is a work of fiction inspired by real experiences inside the fashion industry, back when power lived behind closed doors and access was everything. Certain details have been created or altered for storytelling purposes.

For full context, read “Before You Read — A Note from Me.”