Finding Myself in Fashion (19 page)

All of us judges were concerned from the get-go that this contestant might have an eating disorder. She was exceptionally thin. And while her frame did translate well in photographs, we thought that perhaps she wasn't eating properly. But she swore that it was a matter of genetics, that her whole family was ultra thin, and that she had no eating disorder. We demanded to see a doctor's letter, and we did. The girl's family doctor assured us that she was in good physical health, and we believed him.

Still, the title was no slam dunk. The other remaining finalist was pretty fabulous as well, though in a different way. She was also nineteen, but she was much more the girl-next-door type—lovely and grounded, although her potential as a high-fashion model was doubtful. Did we go with the quirky redhead or the more mainstream, athletic-looking contestant? At the eleventh hour, our judging panel was divided. When all was said and done, it was up to me to cast the deciding vote.

It was agonizing having to choose between the two. In the end, after hours of gruelling deliberation, I came to the conclusion that it was our quirky redhead who exuded that star quality. Her chameleon-like ways were captivating. And besides, she had perfect bones—all mouth, naturally clothes-hanger thin, with a penetrating gaze. When she was announced as the winner, she was overjoyed, and she promised us that she would work as hard as she could and make us all proud of her. It was exciting to see this Cinderella story play out, and for a few weeks, before the final episode aired and the winner was announced to
the nation, I was inspired by this intriguing young lady who had been transformed before our very eyes. Most important, I was convinced she would have a modelling career.

Once the winner was announced, it was time for her to step forward. I urged my editor at
The Globe and Mail
to feature her in a fashion spread, and I felt proud when I heard that she had done a good job. She readily jumped into the spotlight and dutifully began doing interviews with a number of media outlets. I was at home one evening when the publicist at my TV station called to say that there was an item about to be broadcast on
ET Canada
that I might find upsetting. Apparently, our new Top Model had said some disparaging things about me. So I tuned in to the program.

The report featured quotes from an interview the girl had done for an upcoming issue of
Inside Entertainment
magazine. Our Top Model's disturbing words were up there on the screen for the whole country to see. She called me a “workaholic with two failed marriages,” and compared me to the Meryl Streep character in
The Devil Wears Prada
! I was flabbergasted as I watched the report, which went on to say that she'd hated all the judges, and that we had only done the show “to be famous.” I was distraught that she had spoken about my personal life in this hurtful way. It especially stung when I flashed back to how I had cast the deciding vote in her favour. I was dumbfounded, enraged, and just plain hurt.

A few minutes after the segment aired, my phone rang. It was the girl, beside herself, apologizing profusely for what had just been reported. She said that her comments had been taken out of context, and that she was so nervous during the interview she didn't really know what she was saying. “I've never even seen
The Devil Wears Prada
!” she protested. I told her how hurt and disappointed I was, and while I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, I had a sinking feeling that maybe I had horribly misjudged our winner.

A producer at
ET Canada
offered me the opportunity to go on the program to defend myself, but I declined. I was assured that the interview was on tape, that the girl's comments had not been taken out of context, and that she had not been coerced in any way. I was crestfallen that we had made such a grave error.
It is possible to speculate about what would make a person behave so unpredictably and irrationally, and so clearly against her own best interests. Obviously, one explanation is nervousness in the face of intense media attention.

As it turned out, my friends in the industry were just as upset as I was, and I guess a lot of people simply wrote her off. Several months later, I heard that she was throwing in the towel and abandoning the modelling world. She also publicly admitted that she had been anorexic all along. I was shocked and saddened by the whole experience. And I felt sorry for this naive young woman who had lost what might have been a golden opportunity.

THE BATHTUB CAPER

EVER SINCE I was a teenager, the notion of walking on the wild side has held great appeal. While I was never a major rebel, I certainly indulged in my share of sex, drugs, and rock and roll growing up. But evidently, I had an inherent moralistic sense of moderation, because I never went too far, and thankfully, I never got into any big trouble. Certain moments of my impetuous youth have remained with me to this day, however. In the summer of 1969, for example, when I was seventeen and attending the Toronto Pop Festival, I jumped onstage in a yellow pompom-trimmed bikini top for an impromptu dance with the legendary rocker Ronnie Hawkins. A large photo of this suburban kid—and I was identified by name—boogying her brains out as the Hawk did his mean rendition of “Hey! Bo Diddley” appeared in the
Toronto Telegram
the next day. Of course, my mother was mortified, but I was proud as punch. The whole experience was downright exhilarating, and it unquestionably contributed greatly to who I am today.

But a certain modesty comes with age. While I have always applauded the playful audacity of those in the fashion world—from the late Alexander McQueen, who dropped his jeans to reveal American flag–decorated boxer shorts when he took his runway bow in spring
2000, to the inimitable Betsey Johnson and her risqué cartwheels— I sensed that my own days of succumbing to unbridled outrageous behaviour were over. Then, in October 2005, the
FQ
team and I went on a photo shoot to the five-hundred-year-old seaside town of Cartagena, Colombia. To add to the excitement, we were accompanied by a documentary crew from
Cover Stories
, a reality TV series about the making of our magazine, which I was co-executive producing. Though we'd been warned about the potential perils in that part of the world, from kidnappings to drug cartels, we also knew that Colombia was full of gorgeous geographical and architectural settings, to say nothing of the country's incredibly beautiful people. It was all too much to resist.

Our first day was spent shooting on the cobblestone streets and bustling squares of the old walled city. From the lively craftspeople selling their wares to the glamorous designer boutiques and restaurants, we quickly fell in love with this magical place. Crowds gathered to watch our stunning models, clad in local and international designer clothing, joyously camping it up for our photographer, Paul Wright. We even enlisted some colourful local characters to join in the fun, including a group of amiable musicians and an elegant woman carrying a basket of fruit on her head. After each setup, the intrigued onlookers burst into wild applause. By the time I got back to my hotel to change for dinner, I was jubilant: Our first exotic holiday spread for
FQ
was going to be utterly exquisite. And watching my creative team in action was a pure joy. In the trenches of the fashion magazine world, it doesn't get much better than that.

We had been invited to the swank home of a prominent and gracious Colombian woman for dinner. I was debating what to wear when my BlackBerry buzzed with a message from my sister. “Today is International Very Good Looking, Damn Smart Women's Day,” it read, “so please send this message to someone you think fits this description. And remember this motto to live by: Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, worn out, and screaming, ‘Woo hoo! What a ride!'”

Inspired by this spirited statement, and feeling almost svelte in comparison to the corpulent Fernando Botero statue I had just seen in Santo Domingo Square, I donned a skin-tight, cherry-red cocktail outfit by the Canadian label Zenobia. Sucking in my stomach, I made my way to the lobby to meet my colleagues, and for a precious few seconds, I actually did feel “very good looking” and “damn smart.”

Our hostess's home was truly spectacular: an ancient building transformed into a deluxe modern palazzo, complete with an indoor swimming pool. There were about twenty of us altogether, and as we sat on the rooftop, drinking delicious mango cocktails, I felt unspeakably privileged to be feted in such an opulent manner, in such wildly exotic climes.

Downstairs, we took our seats at a beautifully set table next to the pool. Dinner included a rich bouillabaisse imaginatively served in coconut shells. Just as we were finishing our scrumptious desserts, a lively band of musicians marched into the house and began playing some steamy Latin tunes. Within minutes, we had all kicked off our shoes and were dancing our hearts out. We might have known that the pool would be too tempting on such a hot and humid night. Suddenly, guests began jumping in in all their finery. It was one of the most surreal scenes I had ever experienced! Twisting and turning to the Latin rhythms in that cool blue water, laughing madly with my pals, I was amazed that this South American fever was so infectious. The fact that I was wearing skin-tight jersey was fortuitous, as my sopping wet outfit fared much better than some of the chiffon numbers several other women wore. Still, I'll never forget how beautiful everyone looked, and how little it mattered what anyone was wearing. This was so beautifully beyond fashion: It was about losing ourselves in the moment. The whole outrageous escapade somehow felt totally natural, and all I kept thinking was “Woo hoo! What a ride!”

Maybe it's the Pisces in me, but I seem to have an affinity for water. Take my memorable interview with the guitarist extraordinaire Andy Summers, of the hot 1980s rock band the Police. There are precious few ways to add years to one's life, but one of the most effective has to be getting into a bathtub with a rock star.

I first met Andy back in 1980, just after the release of the Police's third album,
Zenyattà Mondatta
. The band was touring western Canada to promote the record, and as the host of
The New Music
, I was invited to Regina, Saskatchewan, to do a story on the group. I was hugely charmed by all of them. A few months later, the Police came to Toronto, and I was granted a one-on-one with Andy. Always the imp, and playfully adamant about pushing the boundaries of television propriety, he naughtily suggested that he hop into the bathtub for the interview—sans pants. Sitting on the tub's edge, attempting to conduct my “serious interview,” I could hardly contain my laughter as the bath bubbles began to dissipate and Andy nervously tried to cover himself up. It all made for great TV, and to this day, it's remembered by a generation of
The New Music
fans as a music television “classic.”

Fast-forward to the summer of 2007. More than a quarter of a century later, Andy, who always had a penchant for photography and took delight in documenting those hedonistic early days in his life as a rock star, had just released
I'll Be Watching You
, a beautiful book of his old photographs. Because the art of photography had always been a staple on
Fashion Television
, we decided it would be very cool to profile Andy and his new book. My office called to see if he would be up for a segment with me. Happily, he had fond memories of our old bathtub romp for
The New Music
and readily agreed to be interviewed the day after the Police played the Air Canada Centre. He also suggested that we do something as outrageous for the TV camera as we had all those years ago. “Maybe this time, I'll get in the tub with him!” I joked to my producer, Christopher Sherman. Christopher mentioned the idea to Andy's management. Apparently they loved it. I was offered tickets to the show and provided with a backstage pass to see the boys both before and after the concert. It was starting to feel like the old days all over again.

It had been many years since I'd seen the guys, but Sting recognized me immediately and was as amicable and gracious as ever. Andy was happy to see me too, and we began plotting our shoot the next day.

“So you're thinking of getting into the tub with me this time?” he asked.

“Well, if I can talk myself into it, sure,” I said, laughing.

“I've got it all planned,” said Andy with a twinkle in his eye. “I'm
going to take this rich brocade fabric that's draped all over my dressing room and decorate the bathroom with it. And I'm going to put candles all around the tub … Rather exotic and mystical, don't you think?”

“I'll bring the bubble bath,” I laughed. I said I couldn't wait, but secretly I wondered what the heck I'd got myself into.

The Police concert was astoundingly good. The guys sounded as amazing as ever, and I was blown away by their talent, energy, and overall stage appeal after all those years—almost better than I had remembered. I couldn't wait to get my up-close interview with Andy the next day. With his approval, I asked the Toronto photographer Paul Alexander to document our interview so I could use the stills in
SIR
— the men's magazine we'd launched in 2005—alongside the transcript. With the
FT
camera crew capturing it all in motion, this was promising to be a sublime multimedia experience.

The next morning, readying myself for the bathtub encounter at the Windsor Arms Hotel, I agonized over whether I should be packing a bathing suit—and if so, one piece or two—and whether I should even be entertaining the notion of getting into a tub with Andy at all. After all, I was a fifty-five-year-old mother of two! I had told my own mother about the possibility of doing this bathtub interview, and she was shocked that I would even consider such a thing.