Finding Myself in Fashion (14 page)

Jack was instrumental in my deal with the Werners. Sears agreed to carry the collection, and for a couple of seasons, everything went along fine. Of course, this type of humble collection paled in comparison to the major line I had done with Eaton's. And as much as I enjoyed my dealings with the Werners (just imagine talking thong underwear with a Hasidic Jew!), I didn't feel the company had the marketing vision, savvy, or funds to promote the line the way it needed to be promoted. No matter how good the product was, how reasonably it was priced,
and how timely it was, Jack and I instinctively knew this company would not be able to take it to the next level. So we amicably dissolved the partnership with Wertex and abandoned the notion of another collection—for the time being.

I never for a moment thought of either of my clothing lines as a failure. Both were successful while they lasted. I was lucky to have all that hands-on experience, to get an up-close look at the shmatte business, warts and all. It was only a taste of the daunting challenges so many designers and fashion houses have to go through to get their products out there. But for me it was a real eye-opener, a personally enriching experience, and good fun to boot. Some things just aren't meant to last.

My relationship with Jack ended in May 2006. We spent seven and a half years together, and it was a wonderful ride. But as much as Jack had been there to help to heal my broken heart and support my independence as a single working mum, there was still a big hole in my life. I wasn't ready to settle, and I longed for a different kind of love.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING MOON BOOTS

OF ALL THE JOYS and challenges that have come my way, few can compare with those I've encountered raising my girls. Bringing them up to be kind, compassionate, and creative young women has been one of my life's sweetest and most trying adventures, as well as my most blessed accomplishment. Bekky was ten and Joey was eight when Denny left in 1998. I was in the throes of this monstrous career of mine when our world was blown apart. While I can't say I would have opted to raise them as a single parent if given the choice, I got through a lot of tough stuff these past thirteen years, and I'm proud to still be standing alongside my two remarkable beauties, who are poised to take on the world.

Any working mother—especially one obligated to travel so much for her job—will tell you that there can be a tendency to overcompensate for the pangs of guilt brought on by separation. My heart always went out to the girls when I had to be away, and I often tried to make up for my absences with little gifts. Sometimes, when I had the time to shop, these were exotic treasures. But usually, the presents were nothing more than token Beanie Babies picked up at an airport terminal. However humble these wee gifts were, the girls were eternally appreciative that I'd brought back a bit of “the road” for them. Denny
thought I was spoiling them terribly. “Look at how many Beanie Babies these girls have!” he said disdainfully shortly before he moved out. I had to admit that their burgeoning collections were impressive. But how could I deny my children something they took such delight in? How much longer would I be able to win their hearts with such meagre purchases? I didn't think for a moment that I was spoiling them.

When Denny did leave, I felt horrendously guilty. It was as if I had failed the girls in my inability to hang on to their dad, in becoming so utterly undesirable that he felt forced to tear himself away from them. Some parents may have fought to conceal their pain, to put on a brave face and not let their children witness their heartache. But my girls were everything to me, and I needed them to know that I was crushed, that my dreams, as well as theirs, were being smashed.

The hardest thing for them to understand was why their father, who loved them so much, was leaving home. We would talk about it just before bedtime, up in Joey's room. I explained that this wasn't about them. Daddy adored them, I said. It was all my fault: He just didn't love me anymore, and that was making him unhappy. “He does so love you, Mum!” Joey would insist, desperately trying to make me feel better. And then the ever-astute Bekky would chime in, trying to make sense of the wretched situation for Joey, for all of us. “No, he doesn't love her anymore, Joey!” she'd say fiercely. And that, of course, would make Joey cry. And I would cry. And this went on for days and weeks and months, until we all slowly began to learn to live with this sudden void in our lives.

My writing became a welcome therapy for me. I had always shared so much with readers in my regular
Flare
magazine columns, which I began writing in 1994. But in 1999, I had the opportunity to share even more with all those who had grown up watching me when I was given a weekly syndicated column in the Southam chain of newspapers. The columns could be about anything I chose to write about. Often, they reflected the stories I was working on for
Fashion Television
. But sometimes, I would write about my personal life—about the trials and tribulations of raising my girls, and my observations about this
rollercoaster existence I was leading as a mother, daughter, career woman, and impassioned fashionista.

I adored the time I spent writing, especially when it was in my office on the second floor of our house. When I wasn't pulled away by travelling assignments, I tried to spend as many hours as possible at home with the girls, helping them with homework or cuddling up in blankets on the big comfy couch with our dog, Beau, watching old movies. The most luxurious time for me was when I'd tucked them safely and snugly into bed in their third-floor rooms and then headed downstairs to my office sanctuary with a giant mug of tea, lit a fire in the small fireplace, and wrote into the wee hours. The opportunity to review the accomplishments, setbacks, and insights that crowded my life in this focused, concentrated way always filled me with awe. The columns I wrote about the girls seemed to garner the most attention. Bekky and Joey were intrigued to know which of them—or which particular trial—would become the subject of a column, and they never really winced too much when they saw our personal stories in print. Often, they seemed rather proud, if a little surprised, to think that our family travails were captivating readers of my columns. I had evidently struck a chord with parents who were raising adolescents. I always wrote from the heart—and while I did have to censor myself to some degree, I took pride in the fact that I was as candid as I could be. Initially, the girls were a little uneasy about all this, but as time went on, they accepted my judgment about what I chose to share with readers. The positive feedback we got was always fun and very welcome. It was heartening to know that I wasn't alone. There were countless parents out there struggling to figure things out, get it right, carry on a rich and meaningful relationship with their kids.

I began writing my column for the
National Post
in 2001. Then I switched to
The Globe and Mail
in 2003, when we launched
FQ
, which was distributed by that paper. Some columns resonated more loudly than others, and I revelled in gauging which stories mattered most by the quantity of reader mail that came my way. The column about my struggle with the girls over their messy bedrooms was a hit. My artist friend Vivian Reiss finally convinced me that we waste too much
precious time arguing with our kids over minor issues. So instead of abhorring the tornado-like conditions on the third floor, I learned to embrace the chaos by viewing it not as a disaster but as a kind of art installation—an ode to the girls' unbridled energy.

The column that described my shock at seeing Bekky's first tattoo also made an impact. Dozens of parents across the country could really relate to that one. But one of the most popular columns I have ever written—one that people still talk about today—dealt with the issue of entitlement and the theft of a pair of Bekky's boots at a New Year's Eve party in 2005. “The Case of the Missing Moon Boots” was told in two instalments, and it taught me a lot about the necessity of speaking up for justice, no matter how banal an episode may appear.

It all started at a New Year's Eve bash at the home of our young pal Ben Brill, who lived around the corner. Ben's annual party customarily attracted large groups of private school kids and university freshmen. Eighteen-year-old Bekky had come home from school in Montreal for the holidays, and she had borrowed a pair of my black suede stiletto booties to wear to the party. But because it was a snowy night, she carried them with her as she made the trek over to Ben's in her brand-new white Moon Boots—those mega-cozy clodhoppers that first surfaced in the 1970s but had made a trendy comeback that winter. The Moon Boots were a cherished Christmas gift from her dad, who bought them to keep her tootsies toasty in the frozen wasteland of Montreal.

When Bekky woke up on New Year's Day, I asked her about the party. She was dismayed to tell me that the evening had ended badly. “My Moon Boots got stolen!” she glumly reported. She then explained that while no one had 'fessed up, she had heard that one girl had been searching for her own boots at the end of the party, and when she couldn't find them, she simply put Bekky's boots on and left. I asked Bekky if she knew who the girl was. She said that she didn't but there were some kids who did, and these kids had volunteered to help Bekky find her. I doubted these kids would be diligent in their search, especially on New Year's Day. Bekky was slated to go back to school in Montreal the next morning, and she needed those warm boots. The mother in
me was determined to pursue the matter, even though I knew Bekky would kill me. And so the sleuthing began.

I called Ben, and he gave me a name: J.Y., a grade-twelve student at the neighbouring ritzy girls' school. Apparently, Ben's friend Mike had seen J.Y. scrounging around for her own boots and then finally leaving the party with big white Moon Boots on her feet. I was incensed that a young lady from such an upscale school would do such a thing. Did she think that no one would notice, or that she was beyond reproach?

If justice was to be done, I would need a witness. I called Mike, who confirmed that J.Y. had indeed left the party in the Moon Boots. Mike didn't have her number, but he said that Ben knew her best friend's boyfriend. I got back to Ben, who, after some time on MSN, managed to get me the contact info for J.Y.'s friend.

“Hi. Happy New Year. This is Bekky O'Neil's mum,” I began, feeling at once apprehensive and a little like a lioness looking out for her cub. “I was wondering if you knew anything about your friend J.Y. leaving Ben's party in my daughter's Moon Boots last night?”

The girl was very sweet, and she began apologizing profusely for her friend.

“She couldn't find her own boots and was freaking out because she had to get home and pack for a trip. So she just put the Moon Boots on and wore them home,” she explained.

“Right,” I said. “Well, maybe we can just call her and get them back.”

“Uh, actually, J.Y. left for Mexico early this morning,” said the friend. “She won't be back til next week. I'm sure she didn't mean any harm by it,” she continued. “You know how it is at these parties—everybody's always taking everybody else's shoes.”

This did not console me. I was enraged that this J.Y. girl seemed to think that because someone had stolen her boots, she was somehow entitled to steal Bekky's.

“Do you know where in Mexico J.Y. is staying?” I asked, feeling more like Nancy Drew by the minute.

“I think it's someplace called Palace … in Playa del Carmen,” she replied.

I was on a mission only a mad mum could relate to, and I started ringing every hotel in Mexico with the word “Palace” in its name, looking for the Y. family. Finally, I struck gold.

“Mr. Y., sorry to bother you on your vacation, but do you have a daughter named J.?”

“Yes,” he replied.

I proceeded to tell him the sordid tale, explaining not only that those boots had sentimental value for Bekky—they were a Christmas present from her dad—but also that she was leaving for Montreal in the morning and all the shops were closed, so we couldn't buy her a pair of new ones if we wanted to. He told me to hang on a minute, and then came back on the phone a few minutes later.

“Well, does your daughter know where J.'s boots are?” he queried.

“No!” I snapped. Was he insinuating that Bekky had taken them?

Unfortunately, he explained, there was no one who could access their Toronto home to retrieve the boots, but he'd “try to have them sent over in a few days.” As it turned out, the girl had worn those honking Moon Boots all the way to Mexico, and we had to wait for the family's return to get them back.

I was amazed at the reader response to this story. It evidently struck a chord with people—mostly mothers—who seethed over the injustice of it all. And then there were those who were just happy to see another mum go to battle for her kid. I was thrilled that I had mustered the nerve to take a stand and speak up. And even Bekky seemed impressed. I hope I showed her that the squeaky wheel often does get the grease— or in this case, the Moon Boots.

True to his word, the father did bring the boots back to our Toronto home about a week later, but there was not even a note of apology from the girl who had committed the crime in the first place. As I drove across town to take those darned boots over to a friend of Bekky's who was travelling to Montreal, I prayed that my daughter appreciated all the hassle I had gone to in the name of justice, and of course, motherly love.

FAMILY VACATIONS

IN FALL 2000, I got carried away at a charity auction and bid on something wildly extravagant: a week's stay at a magnificent house in the Irish countryside, generously donated by its owners. I had taken possession of our farm that past summer, but my affinity for the Emerald Isle got the better of me. In the summer of 1998, when I was just crawling out of my post-breakup depression, I took a trip to Ireland to visit my close friend, the Irish designer Louise Kennedy. That adventure helped heal me, and got me to believe in magic and poetry again. Since then, I had fantasized about one day taking my daughters—both O'Neils—to the enchanting land that was so instrumental in my recovery. So when this sojourn at a grand five-bedroom home outside of Galway, on the shores of Lough Corrib, was offered, I just couldn't resist. Besides the satisfaction of knowing the money would be going to a worthy cause, I knew this special house—dubbed Cappagarriff—would provide the perfect end-of-summer getaway, the calm before the inevitable craziness of fall. Bekky and Joey, then thirteen and eleven, respectively, had never been to Europe, and I wanted to initiate them in a way that wouldn't feel “touristy.”