Chapter Two: Stealing From the Fashion Closet
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, our protagonist, Jessica Altman, learned that her nemesis, Alexandra Baron, will soon release a memoir that could turn her into a legend. Furious at the thought of Alexandra rewriting history, Jessica decided it was time to tell the real story via an anonymous online account, called Off the Record. Her first post sent the Twitterverse spinning. Need a refresher on Chapter One? Go back here.
With my first tweet on fire, it’s time to take readers back to July 1997, where it all began. In the closet. I start writing the first blog post under my shiny new alias, Samantha. A few hours later, Off the Record is live on Tumblr. My fingers hover over “tweet” before I let it fly.
OFF THE RECORD
Stealing from the fashion closet
July 1997
The “five-finger discount” is a civil right in fashion. For an editor, it’s not really stealing, not like go-to-jail stealing. It’s more like an unspoken perk. No one officially says it’s allowed, but everyone does it anyway. After all, how else are they supposed to “look the part”? These salaries aren’t buying Prada, let alone Payless. Interestingly, even the wealthy editors love a five-finger discount. For them, it’s not about the money. It’s about the thrill of early access. Me? I’m an assistant. I wouldn’t dare.
You see, these styles aren’t even available for sale yet. It’ll be months before the public lays eyes on these pieces, aside from a sneak peek from maybe a New York Times fashion critic, but that’s it. The first reveal happens in the pages of fashion magazines like La Mode, where I work. Which also means if you’re caught wearing something too soon, everyone knows exactly where it came from.
La Mode doesn’t have the status of Vogue, but we’re still one of the top five most influential voices telling American women what to wear every season. We are an authority.
Well. Not me.
I’m a glorified messenger.
But the royal we.
Editors live on a nutritious diet of the five-finger discount and ultra-exclusive press-only sample sales, constant gifts from designers, and borrowing clothing and accessories from the “closet” as needed. Well, of course, only if you’re sample size two or less, but nearly everyone is.
In fashion, it’s understood that you eat to live, not live to eat. Cigarettes, drugs, and starving yourself help a lot. No one will tell you not to eat, of course, but if you want to fit into samples, you can guess what is required.
At the most prestigious magazines, I’ve heard they’re not even allowed to eat lunch at their desks. Eating is not elegant. Neither is the smell or mess of other people’s food in an office.
I don’t feel this way, though. I love food too much. In case you’re wondering, I’m a size 6. Luckily, I work in accessories. Shoes and handbags don’t care how much you weigh.
I’ve been at La Mode for a little over a year. It’s my first job after college, and I still can’t believe this gig exists at all.
Never mind the fact that I grew up obsessed with fashion, taping pages from magazine spreads to my bedroom walls in high school in Philly. My friends and I even cut school once and took the train to New York City just to go to Chinatown and buy fake Chanel backpacks. In my defense, I had three free periods that day.
But I didn’t just follow the trends. I pored over every photo shoot and knew every major models’, stylists’, and photographers’ names. Arthur Elgort’s Models Manual is still one of my favorite books. I had my finger on the pulse of fashion, and Vogue was my bible. But back in those days, fashion wasn’t a career I knew much about.
To my first-generation American parents, the only acceptable path was for me to become what they called a “professional,” which meant either a doctor or a lawyer. I opted for law because I’m scared of blood.
I played along with the whole pre-law charade for them. Got into Penn (not a legacy, by the way, which is kind of a big deal). Took the dreaded LSAT. Scored a 170, thank you very much. I even applied to law school in the fall of my senior year… but secretly prayed I wouldn’t get in.
A few weeks later, over Christmas break, I went into the city with my college roommate Julia to visit her older sister Robin’s new apartment before heading out to Palladium.
I’ll never forget walking into Robin’s apartment and seeing issues of Sassy magazine scattered across her coffee table. She told us she was an editor, which, back then, didn’t mean much to me—until she showed us something that would change the course of my life.
In her bedroom, she proudly unveiled her beauty closet: a floor-to-ceiling, shelved display of makeup and skincare products that she got for free at her job. It was like having The Body Shop in your apartment, but better. I could not believe she had access to all that stuff. Did I say for free? She told us that companies send her products to try, and it’s up to her if they end up featured in the magazine.
Once I learned about this job, it was game over for law. In fairness to my parents, they’re still confused as to why they paid for a college education when their daughter now spends her days packing up accessories samples in a closet. They must be so proud. Honestly, they should be, because I was lucky to land this role with absolutely no relevant experience or connections.
I’m still shocked that my sappy cover letter explaining how I was on the wrong career path actually worked. But here we are. My parents disagreed, but I’m hoping to prove them wrong.
La Mode’s beauty closet makes Robin’s at-home beauty closet look like a joke. But its fashion closet is truly where dreams are made. It’s a room the size of a large living room with no windows. It has built-in shelves on three walls, complete with a sliding ladder, while the fourth wall features a floor-to-ceiling mirror. In the center of the room there are about 25 silver metal racks holding hundreds of pieces of designer clothing from the season of the moment.
Each rack holds the clothing options for an upcoming photo shoot, “Fall Florals,” “The New Plaid,” and so on. We shoot about three months in advance of publication. Right now, we are working on the October issue.
Every piece of clothing hangs on clear plastic hangers, all facing the same direction. It’s worth noting that the samples are not delivered from the brands on these hangers; the fashion assistant needs to transfer them to clear plastic because our market director, Gwendoline aka Gwen, only wants to see clothes on clear hangers. If she doesn’t, it’s full Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest — wire hanger-level rage.
Gwen, who is British and 5’9”, does not wear anything but 4-inch heels. I believe she does this so she can always be looking down on us.
She styles her thin, straight brown hair in a long blunt cut which, to be honest, always looks greasy. She’s got sharp features and beady brown eyes that definitely don’t give you a warm, fuzzy feeling. And trust me, she’s not trying to.
She’s somewhat flat-chested and doesn’t believe in bras. She also skips makeup entirely, because apparently in fashion, wearing makeup means you’re trying too hard.
Gwen is demanding, doesn’t smile, and often asks why things weren’t done — which she swears she told you to do but never actually did.
I’m truly grateful that I don’t work for her.
My boss, Avery, is the daughter of a Hollywood producer. She’s stunning and could easily star in one of her father’s Oscar-winning films. If I could look like anyone, it would be Avery.
I’ve spent my whole life battling my thick, curly brown hair. But her curls? They’re straight out of a Pantene commercial. Loose waves that air dry without frizz. Her hair falls all the way to her butt, and I judge her only slightly for having bangs at her age. It’s a brave move, and she pulls it off. Thick black lashes frame her pale blue eyes, and she has the best little button nose and creamy white skin. Absolutely no sun for her.
Avery is petite but has a big personality when she wants to. She’s also calm and even-keeled. I believe this is the result of (1) being from LA and (2) doing a lot of drugs, but I’m not complaining.
As accessories director, she rolls in after 11 a.m. most days, gives me a few things to do, and leaves around four. I don’t think those are her official hours. They’re just the ones she’s chosen to keep.
That’s why at 5 p.m. on a Friday night, I feel good about getting ready to leave so I can meet some friends for drinks at Spy Bar.
Unexpectedly, however, I see Avery walking toward me.
Cue the theme of Jaws.
This can’t be good.
Shit.
I really thought she had left already for the Hamptons.
“Samantha, can we sort the shoe returns for Monday? We really need to clean out the closet before next week’s runthrough,” Avery says, already turning to leave. She doesn’t wait for an answer.
It is important to note that she only ever calls me Samantha, like my mother, when she’s trying to show who’s boss. When she says “we,” she really means “I”, and though she phrased that as a question, she wasn’t really asking me, she was telling me.
Here is the moment when you ask yourself, can Samantha complete that task in one hour by the standard end of the workday? The answer is no. Avery knows this and doesn’t care.
Horrified by my new fate, I reluctantly cancel my plans and walk into the closet.
There are about 250 pairs of shoes that need to be sorted and returned. Some have already been photographed for the magazine. Others have been sitting in the closet like dead bodies for months because the designer’s PR people have neglected to “call” them back in after the designated shoot is complete. Those samples become easy targets for the taking at the end of the season.
Good PR people are on top of those return dates. Lazy ones are not. I could probably do their job with my eyes closed.
If you work for Vogue, then you basically get your first choice on everything. The designers revere Anna Wintour, and in turn, their PR people bend over backward to make sure any samples requested for shoots are secured. After Vogue, the fashion elite includes Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, and W.
At La Mode, we typically get fashion leftovers. The magazine may not have the power, but our fashion director, Celine, does, and that’s why the clothes still show up.
Right now, I pray that she doesn’t come into the closet.
Gathering my supplies, I start lining up brown kraft paper shopping bags next to a Polaroid camera, 20 packs of film, sticker labels, a few black Sharpies, and white tissue paper.
A sea of designer shoes surrounds me, organized on the shelves by color.
However, since I need to sort them by designer, I’ll have to inspect each pair one by one, separating them into the brand’s designated shopping bag.
Twenty minutes later, I finally get into a rhythm when the crunch of shoes landing in paper bags is interrupted by an unfamiliar voice behind me.
“Need some help?” a girl says brightly, like she already knows the answer.
I turn around. A tall, skinny blonde is looking at me expectantly, dressed in beige GAP cargo pants, a white ribbed racerback tank, and a black leather choker. There’s a distinct Long Island accent in her voice.
“That would be amazing. I have to pack up all these shoes,” I say, already feeling a tiny bit less overwhelmed.
I gesture toward the red section of the wall, and she follows my gaze.
“We can get it done,” she says, already grabbing a Sharpie and a Polaroid. “Where did you leave off?”
“I haven’t gotten very far. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?” I shift a little, adjusting my posture to face her.
“It’s Ali! I just started assisting Gwen, but Avery asked me to help you,” she says with a smooth, practiced smile.
Working for Gwen is no picnic. I wonder how long she’ll last. I haven’t seen her around the office, which surprises me. Maybe she’s been out in the ‘market’ visiting designer showrooms?
“I’m Sam,” I say, with an easy smile.
Ali picks up a pair of nude Miu Miu chunky heels and slips them on like she owns them.
“How have you been?” she says, admiring the shoes in the mirror.
I blink.
How have I been?
What a weird question. We just met.
I study her more closely. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t place it.
“Have we met before?” I ask, still trying to place her.
Her eyes light up. One corner of her mouth lifts higher than the other. It’s a little unsettling.
“You really don’t recognize me?” she asks, watching me carefully.
I look at her more carefully now.
Green eyes. Sculpted nose. Tanned skin.
“I’m sorry… I’m not sure.”
“Sam, hellooooo. It’s Ali Weiss. From Camp Greenlake.”
My brain stalls.
Camp Greenlake.
Holy shit.
Ali Weiss.
Ali Weiss from Bunk 23.
Talk about a makeover.
The Ali Weiss I knew did not look like this.
For starters, she had mousy brown, short hair, a long hook nose, and was at least 25 pounds overweight. She had all the “right” trendy clothes we all did, but she always looked off somehow. Coming from a super wealthy family in Woodbury, I could never understand why her parents didn’t do something to help her.
The girl standing before me has perfectly blonde, highlighted, long shiny hair. She’s no bigger than a size 2 and has what my mom would call a “Brooke Shields” nose. If she hadn’t told me her name, I never would have recognized her.
On top of that, Ali was a quiet, weird girl back then. She never sat at our table for meals in the dining hall. She wasn’t really friends with anyone in our bunk and spent most of her time latching onto the counselors.
At canteen, she didn’t flirt with the boys like we all did. She would eat her cherry Twizzlers or Nerds on the log bench and just watch.
I remember this only because every once in a while, I would catch her staring at me.
She was a loser.
And kind of gave me the creeps.
If there was a yearbook for sleepaway camp, on the superlatives page, I would have been named “Queen of Camp.” That’s not bragging, that’s just a fact. I was lead singles for our inter-camp tennis team, an Apache Relay star, and the kind of girl who had 50 camp friends attend her Bat Mitzvah. Needless to say, Ali was not on the list. Nor would I think she expected to be.
“WOW, Ali! It’s been years. I didn’t recognize you,” I say, readjusting my jean skirt, which suddenly feels way more uncomfortable.
“Yes, well, I started doing step aerobics, got a nose job, and highlighted my hair,” she says emphatically.
“Well, you look amazing!” I say, genuinely impressed.
“Thank you. I do, don’t I?”
Ali tosses her hair with a little laugh.
I smile back, not sure if we’re joking or if she really means it.
Who says that about themselves? This is definitely not the Ali I knew. I am truly shocked at this random coincidence. Of all the places for her to work, La Mode Magazine would not be where I would think she would land. Not that I have thought about her for one minute since we were teens.
For the next few hours, we continue to unpack our past while packing up the shoes. It’s almost midnight, and I am exhausted. I also know full well that I will be back here tomorrow. I feel okay about ending this night.
“I think we did a great job for the day. Let’s call it quits,” I say, starting to organize the shopping bags.
“Honestly, Sam, what would you have done without me?”
Ali flashes a triumphant smile.
She really thinks highly about herself, doesn’t she? I decided to let this comment slide.
As I stand up from the floor and stretch my legs, I see Ali grab a pair of black suede platform Ann Demeulemeester ankle boots, and slip them into her tote like it’s no big deal. No looking around, no “should I or shouldn’t I.” Just straight in.
I am absolutely stunned by what I’m witnessing. She’s an assistant. Never mind that she just started. Like five minutes ago.
“Umm, what are you doing?” I ask, my eyes failing to hide my judgment.
“What everyone else does,” she says, matter-of-factly.
Not sure what to do and not wanting to argue, I shrug, even though every part of me knows I should speak up. As we walk out of the closet, I look around nervously. The office is clearly empty. I glance around and see the designer lookbooks piled on desks next to corkboards leaning against them, filled with models’ Polaroid runway images pinned to them. Then, I stop at my desk to grab my bag. Ali doesn’t wait for me to walk to the elevator, and by the time I reach it, she’s already gone, like she was never there at all.
While I know Ali is technically right, and it’s what ‘everyone’ else does, we are not ‘everyone.’ We are assistants. I can’t imagine risking my job for a free pair of shoes. The Ali I knew from Camp Greenlake was scared to steal chocolate chip cookies from the mess hall after hours. She would have never had the guts to do this. It’s crazy how people change.
I press the brass elevator button and in the silence of the empty office, its subsequent ding startles me. I can’t get over all of this. Working with an old camp friend who just stole shoes. Well, not a friend. A person who went to the same camp as me.
I exit the lobby and walk out the turnstile doors of the building onto Broadway. The street is still buzzing with people, and the night air feels warm. The city is alive with the promise that Friday night always holds, but tonight, it’s only bed for me.
I reflect on what’s left to do in the closet and wonder if Ali will return tomorrow. Doubtful.
Ali has always just done Ali.
I didn’t like her back then, and I’m definitely not happy to see her now.
Ready for more? Continue to Chapter Three.
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.”
Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough 🥲!!!!
I can’t wait to hear more about the Ali she knew back then because there’s DEFINITELY lore there. Also I heard the no makeup in fashion rule from the 90s - I thought it was a Calvin Klein thing but seems way more industry standard.