The Vogue Factor: The Inside Story of Fashion's Most Illustrious Magazine by Kirstie Clements
Authors: Kirstie Clements
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Deborah Thomas was being flown in from Australia, and Lee Tulloch was also attending.
The scale of this launch was unprecedented. Journalists from around the world were flying in first-class to Cannes and then helicoptered into Monte Carlo. We were booked at the magnificent Hôtelde Paris, one of the finest hotels in the world. Lee, Deb and I checked in, pinching ourselves, while the whiny American editors went ballistic when they were informed that the rooms would not be ready for another half an hour. They were “exhausted” from their Concorde flights. Deborah had come from Sydney and she was ready to run a marathon.
In my experience on press trips, American journalists are incredibly high maintenance. Italians have very lofty standards, but instead of complaining they just show up whenever they like—or not at all— which is maybe preferable to kvetching. The English mainly whine. I have no opinion on the French because they rarely mingle.
We were then given mock credit cards which we were able to use for anything we required—in the hotel, at the casino, at the Beach Club—and which would then be billed back to Arden. Dinner that evening was at Le Grill on the eighth floor of the Hôtel de Paris, where the roof slid back to reveal a starry night sky, a clever gesture to kick off the lavish PR exercise.
The next day was free. Deborah, Lee and I had the most indulgent day lounging around at the Monte Carlo Beach Club, where hiring a towel is the equivalent of about one week’s rent. Thankfully we had our Elizabeth Arden play money. I spent most of the afternoon fixated by the glamorous jetset Euro mothers and their children, wondering why one toddler required two nannies. It became perfectly obvious at sunset, while the mother was slipping out of her Eres bikini, that one nanny is needed to put Junior into his cashmere swimrobe while the other packs up the Chanel tote.
Our hectic schedule included tours of Saint Paul de Vence, long lunches at the world’s most famous restaurants and a stroll around the magical medieval village of Eze. But no work as such. We were shown a bottle of the fragrance, saw the advertising images featuringthe American actress Daryl Hannah, and told that she would be joining us for a special dinner at the home of Karl Lagerfeld. It was like a dream holiday.
One balmy afternoon, I wandered through the streets surrounding the hotel and came across a store selling vintage postcards. My mother had traveled to Monaco in the late fifties and during her trip sent a card home to her father, a black-and-white vista of Monte Carlo that I had found and placed in an old wooden photo frame. Here, in this poky shop, was exactly the same postcard. I was thrilled. I would post the identical card to my mother, nearly forty years later. I returned to the Hôtel de Paris and rushed excitedly up to the concierge’s desk to buy a stamp.
The concierge was chatting with an American man when I interrupted them, but they both turned to me amiably. “Where did you find this old postcard?” the concierge laughed, and I launched breathlessly into my longwinded family history of the card and what an amazing coincidence it was that I had found it. The American was nodding along, listening politely, asking me good-natured questions and I thought to myself, “Gosh you’re handsome. You look kind of familiar.” We started chatting casually for several minutes and then suddenly it dawned on me. It was Robert Redford.
I must have displayed that creepy star-struck face people get when they realize they are in the presence of a screen idol. His look turned into one that said: “Damn, she has just clicked who I am.” I then backed clumsily into the old-fashioned telephone cabinet behind me and dialed Deborah’s room. “Get down here,” I hissed. “Robert Redford is at reception.” Deborah unfortunately had her wet hair up in a towel, and by the time she descended I had turned into a blithering idiot and Mr.
The scale of this launch was unprecedented. Journalists from around the world were flying in first-class to Cannes and then helicoptered into Monte Carlo. We were booked at the magnificent Hôtelde Paris, one of the finest hotels in the world. Lee, Deb and I checked in, pinching ourselves, while the whiny American editors went ballistic when they were informed that the rooms would not be ready for another half an hour. They were “exhausted” from their Concorde flights. Deborah had come from Sydney and she was ready to run a marathon.
In my experience on press trips, American journalists are incredibly high maintenance. Italians have very lofty standards, but instead of complaining they just show up whenever they like—or not at all— which is maybe preferable to kvetching. The English mainly whine. I have no opinion on the French because they rarely mingle.
We were then given mock credit cards which we were able to use for anything we required—in the hotel, at the casino, at the Beach Club—and which would then be billed back to Arden. Dinner that evening was at Le Grill on the eighth floor of the Hôtel de Paris, where the roof slid back to reveal a starry night sky, a clever gesture to kick off the lavish PR exercise.
The next day was free. Deborah, Lee and I had the most indulgent day lounging around at the Monte Carlo Beach Club, where hiring a towel is the equivalent of about one week’s rent. Thankfully we had our Elizabeth Arden play money. I spent most of the afternoon fixated by the glamorous jetset Euro mothers and their children, wondering why one toddler required two nannies. It became perfectly obvious at sunset, while the mother was slipping out of her Eres bikini, that one nanny is needed to put Junior into his cashmere swimrobe while the other packs up the Chanel tote.
Our hectic schedule included tours of Saint Paul de Vence, long lunches at the world’s most famous restaurants and a stroll around the magical medieval village of Eze. But no work as such. We were shown a bottle of the fragrance, saw the advertising images featuringthe American actress Daryl Hannah, and told that she would be joining us for a special dinner at the home of Karl Lagerfeld. It was like a dream holiday.
One balmy afternoon, I wandered through the streets surrounding the hotel and came across a store selling vintage postcards. My mother had traveled to Monaco in the late fifties and during her trip sent a card home to her father, a black-and-white vista of Monte Carlo that I had found and placed in an old wooden photo frame. Here, in this poky shop, was exactly the same postcard. I was thrilled. I would post the identical card to my mother, nearly forty years later. I returned to the Hôtel de Paris and rushed excitedly up to the concierge’s desk to buy a stamp.
The concierge was chatting with an American man when I interrupted them, but they both turned to me amiably. “Where did you find this old postcard?” the concierge laughed, and I launched breathlessly into my longwinded family history of the card and what an amazing coincidence it was that I had found it. The American was nodding along, listening politely, asking me good-natured questions and I thought to myself, “Gosh you’re handsome. You look kind of familiar.” We started chatting casually for several minutes and then suddenly it dawned on me. It was Robert Redford.
I must have displayed that creepy star-struck face people get when they realize they are in the presence of a screen idol. His look turned into one that said: “Damn, she has just clicked who I am.” I then backed clumsily into the old-fashioned telephone cabinet behind me and dialed Deborah’s room. “Get down here,” I hissed. “Robert Redford is at reception.” Deborah unfortunately had her wet hair up in a towel, and by the time she descended I had turned into a blithering idiot and Mr.
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