Loyalty
Trust No Bitch
In Italy they say decisions are taken at the table. It was about relationship, about community, despite the facade of snobbery and caddy queen gossip among “friends” within fashion. My time at Vogue taught me the importance of transparency, tough love, and loyalty. We were a team first and foremost. Despite disagreements, and moments of hurtful misjudgements, ultimately we were open, honest and cared for one another.
Three years of spending much time in Paris, between market research, exhibitions, fashion weeks, editorial photo shoots, and consulting gigs, it was becoming my second home. I’d usually opted to stay at my friend, Mariasole’s, place. When Sole moved to Brazil her friend, Enrica, offered a couch bed whenever I came to town. She was also Fiorentina and grew up with Sole, hence my trust came easily. Overtly friendly and unapologetically frank, Enrica spoke her mind. I admired her ability to respond quickly with whit whilst being slightly passive aggressive. Each trip she’d offer to intern for the season, desperately wanting to get into magazines. She’d wait for me outside of shows in runway Dolce & Gabbana looks, not old enough to be archive, and new enough to still be on sale at the outlet. After getting to know each other more, I finally decided to accept her offer.
Quite quickly I understood she’d a different idea of what climbing the ladder to fashion editor was. If you weren’t a journalism major, the only way you got a chance at the magazine, was if you had the stomach for the bootcamp style majority of the job. Positions were earned. As one cannot assume to be a doctor just because they love medicine — there is value in experience. We were shooting a red story with Eniko Mahlik in a beautiful cottage outside of Paris. Enrica’s first official editorial photoshoot was telling. Unable to follow the simplest of instructions. I saw the disappointment in her face being left in the wardrobe room with the steamer, seemingly flustered, while I stayed on set. Back and forth looking for another because the one I’d brought was broken; eventually realising it just wasn’t plugged in. I remember Sissy giving me that look; “bocciato”. I was empathetic toward her desire to learn the job. After all, she was a few years older than me and had no real career, just a wealthy boyfriend who never seemed to be around nor show much affection and attention when he was. In retrospect, I don’t know if it’s fair to say she was completely clueless, perhaps it was a part of the climbing act, which made her smarter I reckon.
New York dates confirmed and we were on our way. Enrica arrived the same day, but only came to the office the next day; she needed to “settle in”. Something I’d never dream of doing as a junior editor. If the editor was in the office, so were you. Enrica walked into the Condé Nast International office with Dior stilettos and oversized sunnies, pearl bijoux Chanel necklaces, hands full of an oversized bag and a giant American coffee. Despite looking as though she really tried, she was over an hour and a half late. The market research I’d requested, she’d forgotten about, had no idea which looks were arriving that day, nor could she summarise an update of the extra accessories that she’d pulled from Paris. She seemed distracted, scanning the room like a praying mantis. I’d given her an opportunity and this was how she showed gratitude. Luckily because I’d learned from the best, I was able to do both her job as well as mine while managing a few other interns, prepping production for the LA shoots coming up, and closing out the Paris job we wrapped a few weeks prior. Sissy warned this would be the only season we’d work with her. She was a mess, disorganised, impertinently bold and passively entitled. An attitude that just wasn’t excepted on our team.
Disappointment was an understatement. This wasn’t the woman I’d come to know the year before. It seemed as if she’d chosen to blatantly take advantage of me in the hopes of advancing her new career. On set I needed to remind her she couldn’t casually go up to the photographer. As you wouldn’t run up to a supreme court justice your first intern job at the court house. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, she was supposed to be a friend. I respected her as a woman. We’d shared many personal moments together. She’d confided in me about her relationship and I disclosed my work woes. On set I needed to be tough, set a boundary, because I thought she genuinely wanted to learn the job. I was open and vulnerable with my personal frustrations, thinking it would help her relate. I’d been with Vogue Japan for nearly five years and was looking for a raise of some sort, financial or editorial. Perhaps the only negative thing I’d say about editors from the school of Condé Nast Italia, is since they’d spent a decade hustling — during a time when everything cost less and the world was more glamorous — the assumption remained your trajectory should mirror as so. More true than I’d imagined, only the strongest survive.
Like every “tour de force” I was exhausted once back in Milano. Enrica’s last task to complete the job was learning to unpack, sort, and return. Another one of the more gruelling bits. I woke up that next morning with a fever, weak and looking forward to having a friends help. For the majority of the trip, she’d left me to pick up after her, so I assumed she’d be more than willing to sit in the office and close up the season. I sent full voice note instructions. Not only giving her access to my PR’s but also some responsibility I thought she was ready for; I forwarded all the sample correspondence emails. It was surprising when she expressed her incapability of doing it without me. Didn’t she want to prove her skill? Was she happy with the facade, watching me do the work for her? Many a heated word exchanged, and twenty minutes later Sissy calls. In a calm and loving voice she said — Kisha, ma how well do you know this Enrica?- Relaying that Enrica called in a tizzy, saying I left her to do everything and that she was too inexperienced to problem solve and execute the task without me physically in the office with her. Enrica went on to say that she found my reluctance to help her, despite my fever, sheer irresponsible. She mentioned it was perhaps time for Sissy to let me go and hire her on instead because I’d been complaining of my discontent with a “raise”. My heart fell to my stomach. Sissy made it clear that Enrica was of no value to her. That outside of her poor work ethic, her crude display of two-faced back stab was enough proof to keep the girl at a distance. She suggested I do the same. Warning that women like her knew no boundaries. She said -watch your back dear and trust no bitch. You know I love and value you, these times in the industry are tough, so keep your enemies close, but be wise to what you share because wicked women will use everything to cut you down.-
The following phone call would be the last time Enrica and I would speak. I don’t think she expected Sissy’s loyalty to me. She told me she was excited to finally be allowed to come to the Milan office, and leaving her alone felt like I was trying to sabotage her. She was afraid of making a mistake, didn’t know the other women in the office and felt intimidated without me. How ironic. I reminded of how she’d behaved on set and how I covered her incomplete assignments. Continuously interrupting, convinced she did absolutely nothing wrong, justified being late as wanting to be extra sharp on set. I was dumbfounded. I heard a year after that season, she’d returned to New York and used a Vogue Japan Editor’s name to sneak into fashion shows.
When I ran into her at the Phillip Plein boutique opening on Madison Avenue a few years back it was as if I’d seen a ghost. The many emotions of betrayal came flooding back over me. There she was, still in old season runway, still the loudest in the room. I’d heard of her instagram influencer success. Reminded of the time we’d spent together, was it insecurity that enabled a woman to play such a false self. Had she not cared that I knew her partner was secretly gay and that their relationship was for profit. Did she not care that I’d taken her home many a drunken night after she’d been making out with random men at fashion parties I’d invited her too. Was she a woman so desperate for attention, so lacking in self love, that she’d do anything to crush you if it meant an opportunity for herself. Her appearance on Netflix’s Emily in Paris was the bit that made me fall in love with the series. They made it very clear how ridiculous the idea of wanting to be famous for doing absolutely nothing is. I’d been schlepping it at Vogue because working with creative icons gave meaning and purpose to my career. I wasn’t in it for the sake of status.
Surrounded by women of great integrity, I was truly privileged with my team at Vogue Japan. It doesn’t mean we never fall short, with our foots in our mouths, we’re still only human. Women create life, thus our reactions lean primal — results from a culture that says we’re always less than him. What stung most was how easy it seemed for Enrica to stab me in the back. Anna, Sissy, Vivi, and Au taught me to be loyal to each other first, and loyal to the craft second. In an industry run mostly by men, I couldn’t comprehend someone I considered a friend, sucker punching me for popularity. It couldn’t have been for the job, she didn’t make much effort afterwards to work with other stylists or publications. Her objective seemed to be socialite, in which case, she arrived at the top of her ladder. My friendship meant less to her than an attempt at b celebrity, I was just a pawn in the long con.
