The Devil Wore Calvin Klein

Of course she did; it was 1995 and she was Elizabeth Saltzman

Hello, Beautiful People.

All the recent excitement about The Devil Wears Prada 2 and Love Story, the JFK Jr. miniseries, got me thinking about my own misadventures in the once-glittering world of Condé Nast and the fashion world of the 1990s. That’s right, just like Carolyn Bessette, I, too, was living in New York City in 1995. I’ll be real with you: it didn’t seem that glamorous at the time. Perhaps because I wasn’t dating a Kennedy.

NOT MY LIFE: JFK Jr. + Carolyn Bessette, ca. 1995, NYC. Photo: Globe Photos/ZUMA Press Wire/Shutterstock

But it was still a fun time to be in Manhattan. I’d always wanted to live there. So I saved up about $2 grand from my job at a resort in Lake Tahoe and moved there in August 1995. Not only had I never been to New York City in August; I had never even been to New York City, period. But boy, had I read a lot of fashion magazines. I felt prepared.

I grew up in the small ski town of Truckee, California and various towns in Montana—light years away from the greater fashion universe. But I’d been rabidly reading VOGUE since my early tween years, and my walls and school locker were wallpapered in Yves Saint Laurent ads and Steven Meisel photo shoots. I was devoted to John Galliano’s costumey frills, detested Christian LaCroix’s absurd bubble skirts, and worshipped at the altar of Naomi Campbell and Christy Turlington, my favorite supermodels.

OH MY GODDESS: Naomi Campbell and Christy Turlington in Versace for VOGUE Italia, 1990. Photo: Patrick Demarchelier

I was a committed member of the Condé Nast fashion cult, at least from very far afar. My professional goal? Move to New York City and get a job at a Condé Nast magazine. It was a long shot, but I consoled myself with the fact that VOGUE had once hired the young Joan Didion, who was from Sacramento, of all godforsaken places. Then again, I was no Joan Didion.

Somehow, I was now living in New York City and, through a series of friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend scenarios, scored a job interview at VANITY FAIR and the opportunity to become the assistant to VF’s Fashion Director, the renowned and terrifying stylist, Elizabeth Saltzman.

OH HELLO DIVA: Elizabeth Saltzman, in Tiffany jewelry, entering The Carlyle Hotel in NYC. Photo: Vanity Fair

That’s when the real horror set in: What the hell do you wear to a job interview with one of the scariest fashion divas in the business? (Nobody said diva back then, but still.) Let me rephrase that: what do you wear if you’re from Truckee and the closest thing to a designer clothing item you own is one of those knockoff black nylon Prada backpacks that you bought on the sidewalk in Chinatown a few days earlier?

THESE WERE EVERYWHERE IN 1995: The Prada Vela nylon backpack that launched a thousand knockoffs. In 1995 the real thing cost about $300-500; a fake one, like mine, cost about $30. A new one today costs $2450. Photo: Prada

I knew I could never beat or even meet Saltzman and her VANITY FAIR team on the playing field of cutting-edge style. So I decided to pretend I was one of those extremely cool women who wore a classic uniform every day. Style that didn’t go out of style (or, arguably, into it). Someone like Katharine Hepburn.

Of course, I didn’t have a uniform or any clothing that could plausibly pass for one. So I did what any young, ambitious, and frankly desperate aspiring magazine assistant would do: I walked into an Upper West Side branch of Banana Republic, chose the most Katharine Hepburn-esque outfit I could find (classic white button-down shirt + wide-leg black pants) and I charged the whole thing to my credit card, fully intending to return everything the next day. I drew the line at shoes: you really can’t fake good shoes, nor can you return them. And I certainly couldn’t afford them. I said a prayer to the fashion gods that the long trousers would camouflage my incredibly average Steve Madden loafers.

NEVER COMPLAIN, NEVER EXPLAIN: What I was going for: Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story (1940). Photo: Bettmann

I’d been instructed to meet Saltzman’s outgoing assistant in the lobby of the Condé Nast building, known as The Castle, at 350 Madison Ave. I was told to look for a “young blonde woman,” which seemed like a good omen (I was also a young blonde woman). They should have told me to look for Catwoman instead.

The assistant saw me and waved me over. She was young, and blonde, but her most notable identifier was her outfit: head to toe leopard print. And I mean, head to toe. Leopard print wasn’t as ubiquitous in 1995 as it is now; back then it was still seen as a little bit ironic, like wearing your great-aunt’s Pucci dress to a party, in a nod to the Babe Paley era. But this young blonde woman had gone all out: leopard ballerina flats, leopard capri pants, tight leopard sweater with bracelet-length sleeves, leopard silk scarf around her neck, and (not making this up) a leopard-skin pill-box hat. Just like the Bob Dylan song. She looked slightly daffy but completely adorable, like a blonde Audrey Hepburn, or a healthier Edie Sedgwick (the Dylan song was about Edie).

SHE WAS FROM SANTA BARBARA: Edie Sedgwick, 1965. Photos: Andy Warhol

Oh, and the leopard-clad assistant was carrying a wicker basket, with a tiny Chihuahua inside, which was, naturally, wearing a leopard-print collar and leash.

I knew right there, I was doomed.

NEXT WEEK:

The Devil Wore Calvin Klein, Part II: The Interview