Princess of Monaco

Club Monaco is closed and I’m sad.

The sadness might be a bit misplaced, since I haven’t shopped there much lately. But there was a time when Club Monaco felt like an elegant salon to which I had unlimited access. I’d just started to make a bit of money in advertising (emphasis on “a bit”) and with my elevated financial status came a graduation from Banana Republic (to which I’d graduated from The Gap, Summa Cum Laude.)

Before that, I’d gone into Club Monaco occasionally, but only to look. After all, I could buy a little black shift at Banana or JCrew for less than $100. At Club Monaco, a similar-looking dress was double that price. But I pined for Club Monaco - the cut was always a bit better, the finishes a little sleeker, the buttons more discreet.

And the store! I could have spent all day in that store.

If I could have spun in circles and hugged myself without looking ridiculous, I would have. Camellia-scented candles filled the space with a fragrance that made me feel rich and spoiled. Its ceilings were high and grand. Even its mannequins, with their heeled booties and swing dresses, had a louche sense of style I envied.

Club Monaco housed, not only women’s clothing and a shoe salon, but also, a book shop with fresh flowers, giant photography books and memoirs by the kinds of New Yorkers I wanted to be. I loved the men’s shop which was down a wide polished dark-wood staircase. It smacked of the kind of Ralph Lauren sensibility that felt equal parts macho and gay. There was a square, crystal bottle of bourbon behind the register and one December, when I bought a pair of cashmere track pants for my husband, the handsome sales guy offered me a little tumbler of it, which I drank, not because I liked bourbon, but because it was so much fun.

Club Monaco made me feel more glamorous than I was.

A sweet, young sales associate named Kevin, who worked on Saturdays, amplified that feeling.

“Uh oh, Miss Advertising is here,” he’d sing-song as I waltzed in and it was all I could do not to curtsy. I’d saunter around, plucking dresses and tops from rods, hooking hangers onto my forefinger like a debutante.

“Let me grab those,” Kevin would say, before sweeping them off to the fitting room. By the time he got back, I’d have accumulated a few more “because I just can’t resist.”

“And why should you?” he’d say.

Indeed! Why should I? I worked hard. I spent hours agonizing over campaigns before presenting them to marketing teams, and ultimately, and most inimidatingly, CMO’s and CEO’s. At the time, I was working on a luxury brand and my clients looked the part, entering fresh and pressed, in Prada, Gucci, Chanel and Balenciaga. They placed their handbags on side tables, gently, like mothers putting their babies down for naps. I plopped mine on the floor at my feet. I didn’t understand how they afforded what they wore and assumed they made fortunes. It never occurred to me that they might be savvy with consignment shops or lucky enough to have inherited pieces from well-dressed mothers and aunts.

All I knew was that I wasn’t a member of their club. But I was a member of my Club. Club Monaco gave me all the swank I could afford. I went there when I needed a dress, a top or the sweet, silly joy of Kevin treating me like Carrie Bradshaw.

One June, I rushed in the night before a big shoot.

“Ok,” I said, getting down to business. “It’s going to be 97 degrees and we’ll be outside all day.”

Kevin was aghast. “Tell them you can’t!”

“I have to,” I said, hating to have to break it to him that I was less of a big shot than he thought. I told him about the model, the photographer, the wardrobe, the stylist - all legends in the fashion world.

“So I can’t look all sweaty and messy,” I said.

“Ok, so we’re going for cool, collected, calm,” he said counting the desired qualities onto his palm with the fingers of his other hand. “Wait here.”

He returned with a whisper-light dress that floated from its hanger, as if it was sailing off to a cocktail party in Mustique. “It doesn’t look like much on the hanger, but put it on. It’s black, it’s simple, it says, ‘I’m confident as hell, bitches!’”

I slipped it over my head and its silk drifted to my ankles. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Kevin clapped and I couldn’t help but join him. “It’s perfect!” we said together.

The next day, I wasn’t so sure.

As Kevin said, it didn’t look like much on the hanger.

A stylist’s assistant walked by in overall shorts, a tank top and Birkenstocks, looking cool in the way young willowy girls will always look cool. Her hair hung in loose braids and the peace-sign tattoo on the back of her neck made me feel like I hadn’t read the brief. One of the clients wore a white linen caftan with a vintage Gucci scarf (I overheard her tell someone it had been her mother’s) and expensive-looking camel-colored sandals. Suddenly, my kitten-heeled mules - the ones I’d discussed with Kevin - seemed ridiculous. I fished the Birkenstocks from my tote and slipped them on.

We were waiting for hair and makeup to be finished. Waiting for hair and makeup, or wardrobe, or for camera angles to be worked out, comprised what seemed to be at least 75% of most shoots. Clients and account people sat at a table with sparkling water, lovely snacks and open laptops. My art-director partner stood with the director.

They glanced at me and I walked over because I felt like I had to.

“Hey. We’re just talking about the next shot. Peter’s gonna shoot at 24, but when she does that twirl, he’ll go to 60.”

I nodded and said “I love that,” hoping I looked convincing.

I could talk about the way I wanted a shot to look, but when it came to angles, camera speed or cameras themselves, I was lost.

There were many basic things about shoots I didn’t understand - questions I’d felt silly asking when I was young, and then felt like I should know the answers to (because I should have) when I became more experienced. So I did what came naturally - I pretended.

“I mean, I was thinking maybe even 90, so we really push that dreamy effect,” my partner said. “Would that be crazy?”

“It could be really cool,” I said, in the noncommittal way of the uninformed.

We looked at the director, who needed neither of us, but was kind.

“Let’s try!” he said with a happy shrug.

I almost said “we can always slow it down in post” but I wasn’t sure if we could, so I smiled and did a thumbs up. I edged away, wondering why everyone seemed to know how to fill this endless expanse of time but me.

I went over to Craft Services where a few crew members dipped carrot sticks into ranch dressing and filled little cups with pretzels and almonds. I ate an apple slice with almond butter, which killed 30 seconds. And then found a place with a little shade and looked at my phone.

I sighed because even here, out of the sun, at 9AM, the heat was unbearable.

I heard a sigh that seemed to be communicating exactly what I felt and glanced over. It was our stylist. Well, not just “our” stylist, THE stylist. Edward Enninful was as good as you could get. He’d been the youngest-ever fashion editor at i-D Magazine. He’d been Fashion Director at both Italian and American Vogue and was about to become Editor-in-Chief of British Vogue. He wasn’t only well-known, he was worshipped. I smiled as he lit a cigarette, wishing I still smoked.

“It’s so hot,” I said, wincing inwardly at the banality of my comment.

“So hot,” he replied, and his accent made it sound important.

I wished I could think of something else to say or find a reason to leave, but there I was. And there he was.

“I like your dress,” he said quietly.

“Y-y-you like my dress?” I said, then glanced around, sure I’d see a fabulous someone whose dress he actually liked.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes,” he said, taking a long, delicious-looking drag of his cigarette. “I love a slip dress. So simple. So elegant.”

The stiff smile that had been frozen on my face widened and became real. I thanked him, no longer wanting to pretend.

“You just made me feel so good,” I said, and his smile became real too. “I don’t always feel like I fit into these kinds of shoots,”I added, and instantly regretted it because his face showed no emotion. He stared straight ahead.

I was about to slink off.

“I don’t always feel like I fit either,” he said so softly I thought I may have heard wrong. And then he laughed. I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or funny, since clearly, if anyone belonged here, it was him.

I smiled and wandered off, feeling a lightness in my Birkenstocked-step for the first time all day. I took a seat at the table, feeling perfectly elegant in my slip dress.

And with a a world more confidence (bitches) than I’d felt before, I got through the shoot. And many after it - without ever once being sure what 24 frames per second meant.

Emptiness where there used to be joy.

Now, I stand in front of the empty store that was once my playground.

I smile at the camellia-scented innocence of a girl who tried on dress after dress and gleefully turned this way and that for Kevin.

Thank God for the Kevins amongst us.

And for the Edwards.

And for the clubs that could make us feel like outsiders.

But instead, make us feel like members.

I’ll miss you too, friend.

As I was writing this, I read that Edward Enninful had left British Vogue and was about to launch a magazine called 72. I popped into Casa Magazines on 8th Avenue yesterday and bought it. The little shop was packed with fashionable-looking people buying international magazines. They all seemed to know each other and were a little intimidating, or would have been, had I not been a close, personal friend of Edward Enninful’s. Ok, not close or personal. Or a friend. But I love him just the same.