Born to Be Brad (21 page)

Comfortable doesn’t mean lazy. It never does. A cute sundress can be just as effective as an evening gown. Pair it with a flat, and since you’re on vacation, buy a pair of earrings to go with it.

When I go to the beach, I bring one jacket, just in case. I bring one or two pairs of light cotton pants—in a color if you’re daring, khaki if not—though a pair of jeans is usually good enough. I bring two or three polo shirts and four T-shirts. I like to wear button-down shirts on the beach. They look cute with a swimsuit, blowing in the wind, pressing against your skin, teasing all of the boys.

The ultimate challenge: Try to limit yourself to just a carry-on bag. That’s it. I don’t roll my clothing. That doesn’t work for me. I learned to fold during my days at the Gap. I fold it, then fold it in half. For years, I carried Prada luggage. Or, for a really quick trip, a Louis Vuitton bag or this bright red Bulgari. Now I’m into a roller carry-on from a German company called Rimowa. It’s an investment. The bags are made from recycled World War II airplane parts, and they’re indestructible. And the wheels rotate in different ways, so you can wheel it behind you or beside you.

If you’re traveling in the summer and you can’t fit everything into one nylon bag, you have a problem. I recently went on vacation to Europe for almost four weeks, and I traveled with one carry-on. I went on a cruise with my boyfriend that required formal wear—with only a carry-on. It can be done. You don’t have to worry about your bag getting lost or waiting at the carousel. You can start your vacation thirty minutes earlier.

To allay my fears, Rachel set up a dinner for me and the producers of her nascent show. We went to Il Sole, a cozy Italian restaurant in West Hollywood, and Rachel was dripping in jewelry, dressed in some long-sleeved T-shirt thing down to her calves with a big fur vest over it. Her hair and makeup were flawless, and she had huge platform shoes and bell-bottoms on. The dinner was me, Rachel, Taylor, and Charlie Corwin, the executive producer of the show and the cofounder of Original Media. And, as if this whole thing wasn’t awkward enough, sitting at the table next to us was one of Gary’s best friends, who happened to be dining with Jodie Foster. Not only was I having dinner with Rachel Zoe, talking about a reality show we might do together and whether I should leave
Vogue,
I was trying not to stare at Clarice Starling.

I felt better but there was still a nagging feeling I couldn’t shake. I needed a little more time to make a decision. Plus, I was preoccupied with two upcoming
Vogue
shoots, including one in Alaska that I’d leave for in two days.

“Go away on your shoots,” Rachel said. “Take your time. But when you come back you should let me know your answer.”

The night after dinner with Rachel, I found myself on the last flight to Kansas City and then on to Anchorage, courtesy of
Vogue
. We were hard at work on the magazine’s upcoming Power Issue and a team had been dispatched from Los Angeles to the snowy reaches of the north to capture a then-unknown governor of Alaska at her home in Wasilla. This was my first major trip for the style bible I read as a kid growing up in Canada. While I was under immense pressure, I realized this was one of those rare moments in life when one is exactly where one wants to be. Except in my fashion daydreams I never once imagined I might die a frozen death on the side of a highway—in a red state, no less.

The conditions there were treacherous. And I’m just talking about the roads. We hadn’t even
met
the governor’s team yet, though they’d been quite vocal in phone calls. (“Sarah Palin will not be photographed without her glasses,” they’d repeated.) I was in the backseat of a black SUV surrounded by photo equipment and garment bags on a two-hour drive from Anchorage to the mountainside, log-cabin bed-and-breakfast where we’d set up our fashion base camp. There were no lights on the highway and the driver was swerving wildly. On three distinct occasions I was sure we were about to tumble off the road. I am not a professional driver, but having grown up in wintry Ontario I know for certain that slamming on the brakes in a skid is a big no-no. This is the life of a fashion assistant, and it was something I’d need to get used to if I was going to work for Rachel.

Somehow, we made it to Wasilla in time for a late-night dinner at what we’d been assured was the best restaurant in town. Because we were in Alaska, I was expecting fresh king crab legs and wild king salmon. Instead, we were served thawed flounder on a bed of frozen peas and rice pilaf; the salad was three leaves of iceberg lettuce with shredded carrot on top. I’m sad to report the provisions were not much better the next morning in Sarah Palin’s living room, where we were served homemade moose-meat sausage. I know we were in Wasilla and all. But seriously: Who serves homemade moose sausage to a crew from
Vogue
?

As an assistant, it was my job to unpack all of the trunks and set up the racks of clothing so the editor could have it all laid out before her. Though we were traveling with twelve trunks, on a shoot like this, inevitably the fashion editor will decide something is missing and the whole operation will fall apart if we can’t immediately find this one particular pair of shoes. This shoot was, of course, no exception. I’d arranged something like a hundred pairs of shoes and boots in the Palin family room when my editor asked, “Where are the Sorel boots?”

Uh-oh.

It’s one thing if you’re at a photo studio in Los Angeles when you discover a particular brand of furry boot is missing. Even if it’s a particular model of furry boot not yet in the stores, that’s still a problem that’s easily solved. It’s only slightly more complicated when you’re in the backwoods of Wasilla. Still, I sprang into action and got on the phone with an assistant in our New York office.

“Do you have the Sorel boots?”

“Yes,” the frightened voice said.

Great. But how to get them to Alaska, gulp,
today
? I made a phone call to the Worldnet courier service. And after being placed on hold, I found out that—for more money than Todd Palin probably spent on the snowmobile parked in the driveway—we could have these magic boots airlifted directly to the Palin residence by same-day express.

“Should we spend the money?” I asked the editor. Actually, that’s a joke. Of course we’d spend the money. Child, it’s
Vogue
!

Sarah Palin, meanwhile, was in hair and makeup, being painted by the professionals we’d brought in. Though I had never heard this woman’s name before this trip, it was clear even then that she had bigger aspirations. Because she was into the
Vogue
makeover, big-time. I was steaming dresses in earshot of the makeup chair when Palin’s mother appeared over her shoulder.

“You look beautiful,” she said.

Palin looked at herself in the mirror and had to agree with her mom, speaking like only an Alaskan can. “It’s better than having moose blood sprayed across my face!” Palin said.

By the way, miracles did happen. The glasses came off. We got our shot—and it was beautiful. She looked fantastic, and the Alaskan landscape did not disappoint. It is a beautiful place. And those Sorel boots finally arrived from New York in time, though once the fur-and-leather shoes were unpacked and seen in the flesh, the editor decided they weren’t necessary after all. Oh, well. We got our shot. And just as suddenly, I was on a flight out, exhausted but proud of myself and my work, feeling that I’d not only passed this test but earned some serious stripes. I proved to myself and my boss—and to Sarah Palin—that I belonged in this world.

“In a way, my training at
Vogue
was perfect preparation for life with Rachel: It was the beginning of my being whisked away to far-flung locations and praying that boxes show up.”

And to belong was all I ever wanted. It’s all anyone can ask for in this life, really. For me, it was fashion that first made me think this was possible. Or that
more
was possible.

And more was possible for me. I’d made my decision. In a way, my training at
Vogue
was perfect preparation for life with Rachel: It was the beginning of my being whisked away to far-flung locations and praying that boxes show up.

I sent Rachel an e-mail: “I’m in Alaska, standing on a frozen lake in a Balenciaga shearling aviator jacket, and I wanted to let you know that I’m going to take the job.”

7

It’s OK to cry. Just not on the red carpet.

WORKING FOR RACHEL ZOE
was dramatic from day one. Actually, it was dramatic from
before
day one. Let me explain: Gary and I were on vacation in St. Barts for New Year’s Eve. It was December 2007, and by chance, Rachel and her husband, Rodger, were also in St. Barts. Rachel invited us to have a drink at her hotel—a sort of welcome-to-the-team toast. But I realized there was more to this meeting than a simple celebratory clink when I sat down and Rachel mentioned a last-minute job she’d just accepted styling Brad Pitt for a Japanese cell phone company, SoftBank. She politely asked-slash-suggested I fly home early from my vacation to start pulling clothes for the job.

The weather in St. Barts was perfect. But the truth was, I was happy to go. This is what it means to be an assistant. Your life is not your own. That family vacation you think you’re taking? That trip with your boyfriend? Forget it. Everything is tentative. You’re subject to the whims of your boss’s schedule
and
the client’s schedule. Yes, these jobs promise a view into a glamorous world and you’ll be surrounded by beautiful people and more beautiful clothing, but it comes with a price, and that price is sacrificing your calendar and sometimes your relationships. You need to know that up front. I was happy to do it. I was there to learn. And it began.

This was my dream job, and I was all in. At the time, Rachel was working out of her home studio, a white-walled garage tacked at the front of her midcentury-modern house in the Hollywood Hills. The floors were concrete, and the room was full of rolling racks. I showed up on that first day and let myself in. Taylor had her back to me, and she barely turned around to acknowledge my existence.

“This is so pointless,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to be back here.” It was quite an introduction. My dream was to work for Rachel, but for the first few days, Taylor was my boss. I tried to remember this was a transition for her, too. She and my predecessor, Leah, had been best friends. Taylor wasn’t unkind to me. She wasn’t frustrated with me. She was frustrated to be back at work.

And I can’t exactly blame her. It was Wednesday, January 2, 2008—not quite a holiday in Los Angeles but the fashion showrooms and the PR agencies were all closed. We were supposed to be calling in clothing for Brad Pitt, but there was very little to do except make lists of people we planned on calling once the stores reopened. It was just Taylor and me in a garage with clothing racks. There was no new-job orientation. There was no employee training.

And by the way, I needed it! Very early on—like, on the first day—I realized that I had no business working for Rachel Zoe. She’d hired me, in large part, because I worked at
Vogue,
and I was sure she liked how that sounded. While I could call in clothing and I knew how to act on set, I had a lot to learn. I didn’t really know how to set up a fitting or how to get a tailor. I had the PR list from
Vogue,
but I was essentially cold-calling the fashion houses to request garments for Rachel’s clients. No one knew me. They had no reason to.

There were some early hiccups. Taylor asked me to send some clothing back to some designers, but she gave me the wrong FedEx number. She had inadvertently transposed two digits. I copied that number onto thirty FedEx slips, and all of these packages were charged to some random account. Once FedEx figured out the mistake, I spent a full day reversing the charges.

Somehow, by the time Rachel flew home from St. Barts, we’d pulled twelve racks of clothing together for the Brad Pitt shoot, including pieces from Tom Ford and Burberry, plus tons of vintage motorcycle jackets and vintage T-shirts from What Goes Around Comes Around, a great resource in New York and L.A. for hard-to-find pieces. We’d filled the studio, with four additional racks spilling over into the hallway, and Rachel seemed happy.

The Brad Pitt shoot was scheduled for Hollywood Studios on Gower, in the center of Hollywood. And the vibe fit Brad perfectly: He has that aura that certain super-famous people have, like a special force field is glowing around them. His perfection is mind-blowing. He doesn’t seem human, but yet seems so human at the same time. He was wonderfully polite, though, as he went through the racks, and he actually wanted to purchase a lot of the clothing for himself, which felt like a victory. Though for the mobile phone commercial itself—for the job we’d been hired to do—he wore his own boots and jeans, the ones he showed up in that morning. From the twelve racks of clothing we pulled, he ended up wearing one T-shirt and one vintage motorcycle jacket. That’s it.