The Vogue Factor: The Inside Story of Fashion's Most Illustrious Magazine by Kirstie Clements Page B

exercise would then be repeated, and by the end I would be pouring a rosé, almost too exhausted to go. We would arrive at the park, with sleeting rain, puddles full of dirt and a subzero wind chill factor, and the gorgeous little things would raise their redraw faces to me with a look as if to say, “You think this is fun?”
    The miserable weather often meant that I was reduced to taking them to the local McDonalds, so they could at least expend some energy in one of those glass enclosures filled with colored plastic balls. The big problem was they weren’t quite the minimum size or age allowed, so they would become completely submerged and I’d constantly be wading in to fish them out. We went on a summer vacation to Biarritz for two weeks and the sun never came out. Not once. It was too cold to eat ice cream. Joe, Sam and I cried throughout the whole holiday.
    One drizzly morning my editor at
Vogue Singapore
, Michal McKay, an incredibly chic woman with a precise ebony bob, rang to share the sad news that the magazine was to close. It was a shame for all, as the team had done a wonderful job, but it also meant that I lost my monthly retainer, which was a serious blow to the household finances.
    The news traveled fast and Nancy was on the phone shortly afterwards with a proposition. Would I like to return to Australia to fill the position as her deputy editor? Nancy had already suggested once before that I come back to
Vogue
. A new CEO, Didier Guérin, had recently been appointed, and Nancy confessed that they were not exactly seeing eye to eye. She needed the moral support.
    Mourad and I sat down and discussed moving back. I had been asked to return by Condé Nast twice; I believed there wouldn’t be a third time. I also truly believed that Sydney would be a better environment to raise young children. In his heart, I don’t think Mourad reallywanted to come to Australia, as he is very close to his family and was reluctant to leave them. But he agreed to do it for me. I accepted Nancy’s offer, agreeing that I would commence in March.
    We decided that the twins and I would leave first, and move into my mother’s house until we found somewhere to rent. Mourad would follow later, after his car was sold and the apartment packed up. The airfares were booked and purchased, notice given on our lease. I had packed suitcases for the children and myself, and closed my French bank account. With only a few weeks to go before our departure, the apartment phone rang late one night. It was Nancy. She had just been fired.
    It was a sickening moment, for both of us. She was understandably upset and the last thing I wanted to say at such an awful time was: “What’s going to happen to me?” Nancy didn’t know who had been appointed as her replacement, but she had thoughtfully already clarified with Guérin that my job offer was still in place. I really didn’t want the gig anymore, not under these circumstances, but I had no other choice. We couldn’t even begin to guess who the new editor would be. “Okay,” I said to Nancy. “I’m going to the couture tomorrow. Let me talk to some of the other press and see if I can find out anything.”
    After a sleepless night I took the train into the city, and found my seat at the Valentino couture show. A fellow journalist I knew from the
South Sea China Post
was beside me. “Aren’t you going back to
Vogue Australia
?” she said. “I heard there’s a new editor.”
    “Yes, I believe so,” I replied, trying to maintain my cool. “Who is it?”
    “Marion Hume, the English journalist,” she said, pointing to a woman in a navy-blue pantsuit sitting on the other side of the runway. “She’s over there.”
    I already knew Marion, only very slightly, from the circuit. She was a well-respected fashion journalist in London, and had been a recentguest at Australian Fashion Week. Her expert commentary while she was in Sydney must have caught the attention of the powers that be