Chapter Three: The Runthrough Continued...
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 1997 and a high-pressure runthrough inside the fashion closet at La Mode. What happened next left Samantha in tears. Need a refresher? Go back here. New to the story? Start here.
OFF THE RECORD
The Runthrough Continued…
July 1997
Thirty minutes later, I am back in the safe haven of my apartment in Murray Hill, but the word safe feels like a stretch. My heart is still racing, my face still hot with humiliation.
In the kitchen, I grab the Brita from the fridge and pour myself some cold water, hoping it will steady me. It doesn’t.
The sink is filled with dishes my roommate Julia has conveniently left there. It makes me crazy that she refuses to put them in the dishwasher. That’s because she knows, from our college days, that I’ll just do it.
I reluctantly begin rinsing them one by one.
Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop replaying what just happened.
After loading the dishes into the dishwasher, I curl up on our Ikea couch and pull a chenille blanket up to my chin. What a mess. I am terrified to go back tomorrow and face all of them, especially Celine.
And what happens when Chanel calls for the return of those booties?
I need to get them back.
I hear the sound of keys rattling and the lock turning. Julia walks in, and I sit up a little straighter.
“You’re home early,” I say.
“We finally finished the deal, and they sent all the analysts home!” she says, kicking off her black pumps and looking relieved.
I follow her into our tiny living room, stepping over a pile of Wall Street Journals from the last few weeks. Julia’s version of unwinding looks very different from mine.
She plops down next to me on the couch and pulls her warm brown hair out of its signature low ponytail. She doesn’t have any makeup to take off because she doesn’t wear any, which, if you ask me, is a total waste of her amazing green eyes. Her navy Longchamp tote is lying next to her, so battered it deserves its own obituary.
Julia couldn’t care less about fashion. She is defiant whenever I try to dress her. Despite that, or maybe because of it, I love her. There are no secrets between us, and neither of us ever holds back our opinions.
Her career in finance would normally feel like a death sentence to me, but right about now, it actually sounds better than working at a fashion magazine.
“You look like shit, Sam. What happened?”
“Thanks a lot. Yes, work was absolutely awful. I got my ass kicked today, and I have no idea how or why.”
She pulls her legs up under her, settling in to listen. I launch into the whole story, from the missing Chanel booties to Ali stealing those Ann Demeulemeester shoes the very first night we worked together.
“I don’t think I’m being a conspiracy theorist. Ali stealing those Chanel booties is literally the only thing that makes sense. They didn’t just disappear into thin air,” I say, hugging the blanket to my chest and sinking deeper into the couch.
Julia shifts next to me and gives me a pensive look, not judgmental, just trying to figure it out.
“Didn’t she just start? Is there any way she’d have a reason to dislike you?” she asks, trying to keep it casual, but I can tell she’s more than curious.
“Not at all!” I blurt out a little too fast. “I barely know her. We weren’t even friends at camp.” I wave my hand like I’m swatting the idea away.
Julia’s eyes narrow, replaying my words. Her eyebrows inch up.
“Wait.” She pauses. “You went to camp with her?!”
“Yes, but why does that matter?” I say. “We weren’t friends. I don’t even know who she was friends with.”
“So... who were her friends?” Julia asks, connecting dots I haven’t even thought of yet.
“She hung out with the counselors. She was mature, I guess,” I say, trying to remember if that was actually true or just how it felt back then.
“It sounds more like she didn’t have a choice. Was anyone mean to her?” Julia asks, keeping her voice neutral, careful not to influence my answer.
“I honestly can’t remember anything about her. I don’t think so?” I say, even as something about this conversation starts to make me uneasy.
Julia grabs a bottle of Revlon’s “Cherries in the Snow” nail polish off the coffee table in front of us and the July issue of Vogue. She slides the magazine under her left hand, covering the “Summer Body Makeover: The 10-Week Turnaround!” cover line, and starts painting a fresh coat of red onto her nails.
I’m mesmerized by her movements. Staring intently, the smooth strokes of the nail polish suddenly trigger a memory.
“Okay, so I didn’t do this personally,” I say carefully. “But someone in our bunk once painted Ali’s face with red nail polish while she was sleeping.”
Julia’s eyes widen like she didn’t hear me right.
“SAMANTHA!”
She throws herself back against the couch, shocked.
“That’s horrible! Why would someone do that?!”
“We were kids. It was a stupid prank. It was funny! I mean, I guess not to the person who wakes up with red nail polish all over their face. It was hard to get off,” I say, running my hand across my forehead.
“How did she not wake up?!” Julia says, stunned. It’s like her question is aimed at the universe, not just me.
“I guess she’s a sound sleeper? I have no idea,” I say with a weak laugh, trying to play it off.
“Does Ali think you did this?” Julia turns to me, her eyes locked on mine. She’s not asking. She’s investigating.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, shaking my head. “The whole bunk got into trouble because no one would take responsibility for it. We lost Canteen for a week. Do you know what it’s like to have zero access to candy at that age?”
“I don’t know, Sam,” Julia says, leaning in slightly. “She may have something against you from your sleepaway camp days. Who knows? She could still be carrying that around.”
“I doubt it,” I say, brushing off the thought. Regardless, I have no proof, and I need to find those damn shoes before Chanel’s return date.
Julia tosses the copy of Vogue back onto the coffee table.
“No, you need to do more than that, Sam. You need to watch your back.”
Let’s get those Chanel booties back!
Can’t wait to read