Finding Myself in Fashion (29 page)

Oddly, I remember going back and forth on whether I had the time that week to attend this press event. It seemed like a luxury to be able to sit back and schmooze with other editors over lunch and a small fashion presentation. In fact, I decided at one point that I would definitely decline the invitation. But for some reason, I relented the night before, contacted the PR company that had invited me, and said I'd be there. I don't know why I suddenly changed my mind. Evidently, the fashion gods had something to do with it.

Levy Canada's presentation at the Gardiner was swank and sophisticated. The VP of marketing (and the woman behind it all), Linda Legault, was warm and down-to-earth, and we instantly connected. She struck me as a no-nonsense businesswoman, with years of experience under her belt and a realistic view of the industry. I told her how impressed I was with the presentation, and she suggested I come to Montreal to check out the showrooms of Levy Canada and their partners, the Corwik Group (which was behind a number of diverse sportswear collections) and FDJ French Dressing (a successful jeans label). I told Linda that I came to Montreal regularly because Bekky was attending university there. On my next trip, I would give her a call.

I made it to Montreal a few weeks later and visited Linda's showrooms. I was immediately impressed by the eclectic sportswear
collections I saw there, and once again the cogs started turning. What if I could cull a line by choosing a variety of affordable pieces from all the different collections produced by these companies? That way, I would work as a kind of editor with their stable of designers and stylists. Of course, we would tweak the pieces to make them original. And the line could be called “EDIT by Jeanne Beker.” Linda and her team loved the idea.

A couple of months later, I was standing in front of Bonnie Brooks and her team, pitching our focused little collection of wardrobe essentials. It felt right from the get-go, and with each piece I talked about, the enthusiasm in the room grew. Before I knew it, the team was talking marketing strategy, and we had a deal. I was stepping onto a new platform once again. It wasn't my first foray into putting out a collection, of course, but this time, it felt better. Bigger and more solid. I knew my partners and I were in this for the long haul. The Bay gave us a huge vote of confidence by ordering EDIT for sixty-five stores across Canada. And Linda and her team began making plans to launch the label internationally. I felt as though I was off to the races once again.

EDIT launched in September 2010 and was an instant success, with some pieces selling out within the first week. The Bay started reordering within days, and the positive feedback from the press and customers was dizzying. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were snapping up these chic, wearable basics. Soon, The Bay started talking about a plus-size collection, as well as the possibility of EDIT accessories and bags. While I was careful not to get carried away by these developments, I was happy to think that if things continued to work out, I might have a lucrative and stimulating project to keep me busy long after I stopped running after Karl Lagerfeld in my stilettos—though retirement from that particular scene still seems miles away.

A few months earlier, in February 2010, I was nestled in the luxury of the gleaming bird's-eye maple and cream leather interior of a plush little Gulfstream jet. As I nursed my third glass of Veuve, I contemplated the mysterious way we sometimes get to return to places, people,
and situations we knew at an earlier time and in dramatically different circumstances. “Do you want to go up to the cockpit for landing?” my host asked. I knew the fog on the ground in St. John's that morning was as thick as pea soup, but even though my vision would be limited, I welcomed the opportunity to observe the pilots in action. I went up front and was strapped into the jump seat alongside a panel of gauges and buttons and switches. Soon, a fascinating buzz of technical jargon was coming through my headset.

I had been to Newfoundland so many times since I moved there in 1975, the day after I married my first husband, Marty. For our big adventure, my dad generously presented us with his old 1959 Chrysler, which we playfully dubbed the Golden Slipper, since it was my dad's slipper business that had allowed him to purchase the vehicle in the first place. The grand old jalopy barely made it across the island from Argentia, but we savoured every second of that romantic ride. I was brimming with idealism back then, certain I was embarking on an exhilarating journey that would change the course of my life forever. And I was right: It was in this magnificent province that my thirty-five-year affair with media began. In a funny way, Newfoundland has acted as a kind of catalyst for me more than once. First, it was where I launched my media career. Then I came back to St. John's in January 1998, after a twenty-year absence, to produce a TV special on Canadian fashion. I wanted to include a story on a St. John's retailer, Wenches and Rogues, whose Water Street boutique sold Canadian labels exclusively. Besides, who could resist a fashion shoot on Signal Hill? I was by then leading a much different life than the one I had left behind in 1978: I was married to somebody else, the mother of two little girls, and enjoying a successful, bustling career. When I arrived in town, I immediately reconnected with old friends, visited the streets where I had lived and worked, dropped by some of the shops I had frequented, and spent a lot of time just marvelling at how far I had come. I felt ready to take on the world! When I returned home from Newfoundland that weekend, I got the brutal news that my husband, Denny, was leaving me, and my world came crashing down.

I spent the next few years struggling to rebuild my life, and during
that time, I made several trips back to The Rock. My dear friends Chabela and George Ayoub had purchased a little saltbox house in the fishing village of Bauline, about forty-five minutes outside of St. John's. Their precious seaside home was always a great source of comfort to me, and I visited Bauline several times with my girls, taking great delight in the charm of the Newfoundland people and the cozy quiet of outport life. This province possesses a brilliant community spirit that has never failed to restore my faith in myself and in life's possibilities. There's a precious rustic quality to life here, a sense of innocence and adventure that I hold very dear, and that is light years away from the trenches of fashion.

And now another homecoming—this time in the cockpit of a glamorous private jet, with my beautiful twenty-year-old daughter, Joey, in tow. She's a musician/singer/songwriter, and I jumped at the opportunity to bring her to the Juno Awards—Canada's version of the Grammy Awards—which were being held in Newfoundland for the first time in a decade. CTV was producing the show, and the weekend would give us all a chance to hear some great music and connect with some very talented songwriters. I also brought along my producer, Christopher Sherman—one of my closest friends and confidants. He had never experienced Newfoundland before, and I knew we would have a stellar time.

My host—a prominent Toronto businessman with whom I was discussing extending my personal brand—invited us to stay in Beachy Cove, at the splendid country home of one of Newfoundland's most legendary families. The sojourn was a fantasy from beginning to end. But one of the greatest thrills was walking the red carpet in my fringed Armani dress, which I'd teamed with a little leather shrug by Abbyshot, a local St. John's label that had generously gifted me the garment on a previous trip, when I had hosted a charity fashion event. No sooner did my Louboutin boots hit the crimson rug than a host of kids, no doubt fans of
Canada's Next Top Model
, started calling my name. I joyfully signed autographs and posed for pictures, lapping up every second of my big minute in the spotlight, pleased to be the momentary centre of attention at such a monumental event.

A
few weeks later, I had the privilege of attending a special luncheon at Toronto's CN Tower. Hosted by Laureen Harper, the event was in honour of the spouses of the G20 Summit. Sixteen wives of world leaders attended, as did ten Canadian “Women of Distinction,” handpicked by Mrs. Harper. I was among the highly eclectic, successful bunch. Others included the Olympians Joannie Rochette and Silken Laumann; Julie Payette, the astronaut; the journalist Christie Blatchford; and Senators Nancy Greene Raine and Pamela Wallin. It was an impressive gang, to be sure. Mrs. Harper was at the table's head, with the incomparable Michelle Obama at her right, while I was seated at Mrs. Harper's left— directly across from Mrs. Obama. I stood at the table, looking down at the placecards before we all took our seats. And for one moment, overwhelmed by this phenomenal honour, I got misty-eyed. All I could think of were my parents, and how proud my late dad would be if he could see this. And I kept asking myself how a kid from Downsview— who simply dreamed, believed, and worked really hard—had managed to find herself sitting among some of the most prominent women in the world.

In person, Michelle Obama was even more gorgeous and gracious than I had imagined. Her sheer physical presence was striking enough. But coupled with her generosity of spirit and inimitable “comfortable in her own skin” style, it gave her a larger-than-life quality the likes of which I had never seen. Wearing a Rachel Roy brocade ensemble and pointy-toed high-heeled pumps, Michelle Obama was the last one to arrive at the luncheon and the first to leave. But not for a single instant did you get the impression that she didn't want to be there. When Laureen kindly introduced me to her as “my good friend Jeanne Beker,” she stretched out her hand, looked me right in the eye, and said, “So nice to see you!” flashing her infectious smile. It was as though she actually knew me, remembered me from somewhere, perhaps had watched me on TV for years! Of course, I knew that probably wasn't the case, but it was flattering and I warmed to her right away.

At the table, the conversation ran the gamut from designer clothes to diets and working out to raising children. We discussed the pressures of keeping up appearances, and the challenges of instilling good values
in our kids. It was the kind of girl talk one would expect among close friends, and the wonderful warmth of the exchanges was heartening. I came away feeling high on the spirit of sisterhood and savouring an awareness that had come to me so many times before: We're really not that different from one another.

I had barely come down to earth from the excitement of that memorable afternoon when another wonderful opportunity came my way. I was asked to appear in a month-long run of
Love, Loss, and What I Wore
at Toronto's Panasonic Theatre. This stage play, written by Nora and Delia Ephron, had been showing to packed houses in both New York and L.A. for months. Like
The Vagina Monologues
, the show was based on interviews with a wide range of women, and was performed on stage by a handful of actresses sitting on stools and reading from a script. The stories revolved around fashion and clothing, and how certain pieces of our wardrobe help define us at different stages of our lives. Essentially, it's a show about sisterhood and heart, and I had the privilege of being cast with an extraordinarily talented group of women: the veteran broadcaster and former Stratford actress Barbara Budd; Luba Goy, of Royal Canadian Air Farce fame; the brilliant actress Sheila McCarthy; and Jane McLean, whose star was beginning to rise in Hollywood. It was a hugely rewarding experience, and I got to deliver a range of compelling, bittersweet monologues dealing with everything from wearing a blowup bra to having a mastectomy.

The connection we all felt with the women in the audience was profound. We laughed, we cried, we mused, we remembered. But most important, all of us—cast and audience members alike—admitted our fears, our vulnerabilities, and our passions through these reminiscences about clothes. It got me thinking a lot about how fashion brings people together, and how it can even bring us closer to our own personal truths. And I got to thinking as well about how this enigmatic sartorial arena had served me so well, in so many ways, by giving me a voice, an identity, and a unique way of touching people.

As I travelled across Canada that fall, promoting my EDIT line, I had the privilege of meeting hundreds of fashion fans, from young girls to little old ladies. Grandmothers, mothers, and daughters—and even some men—came
out to meet me, and to hear me talk about fashion and the glamorous world they saw on
Fashion Television
every week. At every event, I would start out talking about fashion trends and personal style. But by the end of each session, during the audience Q&A, I invariably found myself addressing life's larger picture, talking about confidence, courage, passion, and tenacity.

I then had the pleasure of meeting fans one on one. The exchanges were always fleeting, but each one seemed so sincere, so full of deep feeling and appreciation. People told me how they'd grown up watching me, some in faraway places where
FT
became their window onto a world filled with possibilities. Some people said they were moved to pursue careers in fashion because of my work. Some just said they found me inspiring.

My final “launch” appearance was at The Bay store at Yorkdale— the Downsview mall where, as a sixteen-year-old, I got my first weekend job in fashion, selling on the floor of a womenswear retailer. I even had my sweet sixteen party in the basement of a Yorkdale restaurant. And as I signed autographs and chatted, taking a moment to look into the eyes of all these gorgeous faces who had come out to see me, a realization came to me: I was passionate about fashion, but only because it had become such a perfect means to this gratifying end—this way of communicating, getting to people, studying human nature, and learning about life. I knew I had found my calling.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The late, great Alexander McQueen once told me that everything in life is a lesson. While that may not be an original notion, it's one that resonates with me loud and clear. Originally, I wanted to call this book
Life Lessons in Fashion's Trenches
, spelling out each valuable “lesson” I'd learned. But my brilliant editors, Diane Turbide and Jonathan Webb, convinced me that simply telling the story of how I found myself—and continue to find myself—in this fantastic arena might be more concise and compelling for readers. The lessons learned are obvious.