Killer Look (15 page)

“No, no. I'm not a journalist.”

“I haven't been to confession in fifteen years, but it's very comfortable talking to you,” Tiz said. “Must be the Savitsky connection.”

“Probably so.”

“You're shocked? You really have to be an outsider to this biz not to know that one of the ways models get through endless hours of shoots is being drugged,” Tiz said. “Couldn't do it stone sober. Ever hear a model say she's hot?”

“I don't know any models, I don't think.”

“One of the classic signs of anorexia is that light fuzz—you know, hair—that begins to grow on your face and arms,” she said. “It's a response to the body trying to keep itself warm when it doesn't have any fat on it. You could have dropped me in the middle of the Sahara Desert in those days, wearing a mink coat and combat boots, and I still wouldn't have felt the least bit hot.”

“Drugs and an eating disorder,” I said. “That's a deadly combination.”

“At seventeen? I was truly the walking dead.”

“But you couldn't leave this guy?”

“Really, Alex. I guess you don't know much about addiction,” Tiz said. “He had me totally hooked on coke, and equally handcuffed by the big salary. I had no education, no training to do anything else.”

“What stopped it? What got you sober?” I asked.

“My boss was a stoner, too,” she said, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat on the last mannequin, slanting it to give her a sexier air. “One night after he debuted his spring line during Fashion Week, he was texting back and forth with his boyfriend. Sexting's the better word. This one was all over the tabs at the time. Ring a bell?”

“Not yet.”

“You must live a really secluded life, Alex. You'll have to tell me what you do,” Tiz said. “Anyway, he took photos of his private parts, and instead of texting them to his lover, they wound up on his Twitter feed with the words “TOUCH ME!”

“Of course I know who you're talking about. I do remember that. The
Post
had a field day with that story.”

“Well, it served to put that jackass out of business, and I wound up in rehab. Hazelden, in Center City, Minnesota—the butt end of nowhere.”

“It worked, didn't it?” I said.

“You bet it did. Nineteen years old and totally washed-up. All the money I hadn't spent on vintage designer clothes, I spent on six months of inpatient rehab.”

Tiz walked over to the rack of WolfWear that was standing against the far wall. She pulled a leather coat off its hanger and draped it over her slim shoulders, topping the look with a felt cloche hat and vogueing a bit as she walked toward me.

“I showed up at breakfast one morning, sporting a Balenciaga dress that I picked up at a thrift shop in SoHo for thirty-five bucks. Black silk, trimmed with hot-pink lace,” Tiz said. “Over the top for rehab, but it gets so damn dull there by your third month in. I wore pretty outrageous stuff, just to keep myself sane, but nobody ever noticed.”

“I'm sure they noticed you.”

“That day, there's a new guy at the table. Older than my dad, but totally got my sense of style. Checks me out head to toe the minute I drag into the room, then points at me, kind of cocking his thumb and finger like it was a gun. ‘You got a killer look, girl. You got a real killer look.'”

“Wolf Savage,” I said, recognizing the signature compliment that Hal told us about just that morning.

Tiziana Bolt smiled at me again. “You
do
know him, Alex. You've heard that line before.”

“Wolf Savage was at Hazelden?” I said. “You met him in rehab?”

“He went by Velvel Savitsky out there. Much more hush-hush that way,” Tiz said. “Less likely to wind up in the newspapers. See my point? You're his daughter's friend and you didn't even know about it, did you?”

“Not a clue,” I said. There were endless layers that Mike and I would need to peel back to know more about Wolf Savage.

“That's when I nicknamed him Velly, 'cause I knew who he was from the moment I laid eyes on him. He'd have been busted out there if I called him Wolf—you know, if people in rehab actually knew who he was. Besides, the Velvel bit just cracked me up. Nothing he could do about it,” Tiz said, putting the coat back on the rack. “That man had a wicked addiction to
Oxycontin.”

Tiziana Bolt and I were sitting at a table for two in the Members Dining Room on the fourth floor of the Metropolitan Museum. The staff was setting up for the evening service, but there was still enough daylight to see the spectacular vista of Central Park that the sloping wall of windows offered.

Tiz's work on the exhibition won her perks like entrance to the private dining room, and since I had proved my insider status to her by recognizing a typical Savage compliment, Tiz asked me to join her for a late-afternoon cup of tea.

“May I have some Earl Grey?” she said to the waitress.

“I'd like a glass of Chardonnay, please,” I said. “Are you sure you won't join me, Tiz?”

“Nine years clean and sober, Alex. Thanks very much.”

I wanted to get back to the beginnings of her relationship with Wolf Savage. Tiz spoke of him with a hint of intimacy that I hoped to explore before turning her over to Mike.

But she was going on and on about the excitement of opening the exhibition and helping to stage Wolf's alternative to a Fashion
Week show on Monday night. She didn't seem the least bit interested in asking me any other questions about myself. She trusted me quickly, which made me feel a bit guilty—but not guilty enough to stop talking to her.

“What else does—did—Wolf have you working on?” I said.

“I'm coordinating the show. Monday night—the big one. Like totally coordinating everything,” she said, spreading both long arms in a wide circle over her head.

“What a huge responsibility.”

“You're telling me, luv.”

“I thought that would be all in the hands of Hal and Reed,” I said.

“Well, dear, if you know them then you know why Velly had a limited respect for their abilities.”

“I don't really know them,” I said. “I mean, we've met briefly. You're in a much better position to understand all that.”

The waitress set down our drinks. I waited till Tiz squeezed her lemon and sugared her tea before taking a sip of my wine.

“Reed's a nice guy. Mind you, we're not close or anything, but he doesn't have a fraction of the eye for style his father did,” Tiz said. “And Hal? He's got a jealous streak longer than a runway at Heathrow.”

“Jealous of his brother?”

“Of course he is. Same gene pool, but Hal isn't smart enough to get out of his own way. If those two can keep WolfWear alive for another six months it will be a miracle.”

“I thought Hal and Wolf—Velly—were best friends.”

“That's the face they presented to the world, but if Velly hadn't killed himself first, Hal might have stuck a knife between his ribs before they were done,” Tiz said. “Buy yourself a ticket for Monday night and watch Hal preen and prance. I promise you it will be revolting.”

“I wish I could buy a ticket to the show,” I said. “But I know they're entirely closed to the public.”

“Don't you know why Velly got kicked out of Fashion Week after last season?” Tiz asked.

“Not exactly. Not the details, I mean.”

“God, Alex. You need to get out a little more. All the designers used to be in Bryant Park,” she said. “For years and years. You know? They tent that whole area behind the New York Public Library. Those tents are where most of the shows are held.”

“I know. I follow the blogs,” I said, grinning at my new friend. “It may not be apparent to you, but I'm a bit of a clotheshorse. Off the rack, though.”

“I thought as much,” she said. “Mix-and-match approach.”

Drama school hadn't done much for her tact.

“Then some of the stars began breaking out. Out of the tents, I mean,” she said. “Imagine how it is. They each want a venue that can top the others. Some of them feel they've outgrown the Bryant Park setup. Kanye West—not that he knows the first thing about fashion—took over Madison Square Garden last winter. Think of that, will you? Eighteen thousand seats in a huge arena—not folding chairs in a Midtown tent—and he put on a show as well as released a new album the same night. They've all gone frigging mad.”

“Didn't you say that Velly got kicked out?”

“Let me explain. Fashion Week's been around since the 1940s, Alex. Meant to showcase American designers as well as to attract attention away from French fashion during World War II. Then this brilliant fashionista, Fern Mallis, was running the CFDA—the Council of Fashion Designers of America. You've probably heard Velly talk about her?” Tiz asked, barely stopping to draw breath. “In the '90s she had this amazing idea to consolidate all the New York City events into one calendar and put them under a tent in Bryant Park.”

“It was always very exclusive, wasn't it?” I asked.

“You bet. Always private. By invitation only. The entire focus was on the press and on the buyers. It became the biannual way the fashion industry did business, with fall shows for spring/summer lines and the February shows for fall/winter.”

“How many shows go on at a time?”

“Once designers started breaking out of Bryant Park, there were four or five different venues, maybe eighty shows in a single week. Last year they were spread out around town—over at Chelsea Piers and in the Meatpacking District, uptown and downtown—anywhere that could offer something special, or someplace shocking. Each one of them trying to outdo the other.”

“Does Anna Wintour go to all of them?” I asked. “Is that even possible?”

“Not a chance. But everyone wants her to appear, because it really elevates the status of a show if she blesses it with her presence.”

“Then there are all the celebrities to account for.”

“Movie stars and such? Designers
pay
them.”

“To come to a Fashion Week event?” I asked.

“We dress them, luv, and on top of that we pay them to show up and applaud. Pure advertising. I mean, an Angelina Jolie or an Uma Thurman might be there because she actually wears the clothes of a particular designer, but otherwise the houses are scrambling to put their threads and their bling on anyone's back, because that's what star power is. That's what a photo on Instagram can do for a brand,” Tiz said. “And that's the reason we never hear back from a lot of the headliners we reach out to, 'cause they just don't need our money.”

“Was it always that way?”

“No, luv. There was a time—before all that snow went up my nose—that the shows were great fun. Boy, do I remember those
days. I mean, it was a blast. Supermodels who wouldn't get up off the sofa to pick up a telephone for less than ten grand a day would work the runway at Fashion Week for peanuts. Every one of them you ever heard of wanted in on the action. Things were fresh and designers were all about creating beauty, not becoming the next corporate brand-builder.”

Tiz ordered another cup of tea. I needed to slow down on the wine.

“So why did Velly get booted from the tent, right?” she asked. “Is that what we were talking about?”

“Yes. I'd like to know.” I was curious about whether Wolf Savage had done anything to undermine the classic engine that drove his industry, making more enemies along the way.

“There's a big divide within the CFDA organization. Some of the old-timers like Velly wanted to change the whole concept of the week. Make it less exclusive and turn it into a consumer event.”

“Like the idea of selling tickets to the public?” I said.

Tiz Bolt leaned in over her teacup as though she had a state secret to give away. “Truth to tell, Alex, there's so much corruption and so many kickbacks in this business, it's like an explosive waiting for someone to strike a match.”

“How do you mean?”

“You could go online tonight and find a cottage industry of brokers selling tickets to Monday's show. All of them obtained illegally, by the way,” Tiz said.

“You mean Velly didn't get his way?”

“Of course not. There goes the neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm not sure that I do.”

“February was Velly's last time under the tents, the last time he was allowed to play in the sandbox with the other designers who fought to hold on to tradition. So he dreamed big, Alex. He set his
sights on this museum as soon as the Costume Institute came up with the idea of doing a retrospective on his work. The hell with Fashion Week,” she said. “Wolf Savage wanted his own special moment in time.”

“Kanye West sold tickets, though,” I said.

“Face it, Alex. When it came down to being in Kanye West's camp, or Calvin Klein's, Velly did the right thing.”

“You mean he backed off his plan to make his show consumer-friendly? Broadcast it to the masses?”

“At least he tried to. But by the time he made up his mind to try to mend fences, the scalpers had already sniffed blood, so when Fashion Week started last February, one site listed accommodations at the Plaza Hotel, a VIP shopping trip at Saks, and two tickets to other shows in Bryant Park for $1,500, $2,500. For lesser designers than Velly, that is.”

“That's a real break with tradition.”

“The higher-ups blamed Velly for the idea of letting in the riffraff. I mean, no one expected better from Kanye West, did they? But Wolf Savage? On top of that, someone at Savage proper must have had sticky fingers. Swiped a few tickets, despite orders from the show runners not to. Check it out—I'm telling you that the Savage show in February went for something like $7,500. Stolen tickets—I swear to you. Totally illegal.”

“You're joking,” I said.

Maybe I could have the office investigate the scams once we were deeper into this. It might be a way for Tiz to overlook my deception.

“It's no joke,” she said. “This whole concept has changed. The younger guys just starting out in business—and Velly—they're the ones that don't do as much couture work. They don't need the closed doors and exclusivity. It's social media that destroyed the entire idea of what the shows worked to build for the industry for the last three decades.”

“Social media?”

“Sure, Alex. There used to be such incredible curiosity and interest before each event, when fashion editors were on the edge of their seats, waiting to see a new collection. Look, you go to the World Series and when the seventh game starts, you have no idea who's going to win, do you? You have no idea what will happen next,” Tiz said. “Isn't that a large bit of the excitement, of the fun of the game? Now, with the first reveal, all the outfits are blasted out to the world on Instagram, like I said. There's an immediate return on investment.”

“So the couture houses really don't like the idea.”

“They hate it,” Tiz said. “It used to take six months before the images would get out and could be copied for the masses by nameless brands who were hired by department stores. WolfWear could knock off a Givenchy day suit for the next season. Now? Guys with a whole range of lines—like Velly—can go into production in China, for peanuts, within a week.”

“And that pleases the companies that are buying up the designer names? Backing them?”

“Of course it does. Cheap copies they can flood the market with, Alex. Not to mention how the pressure has gone up so many notches. It used to be spring and fall collections. Now there's pre-fall, then fall and winter. Then resort, and pre-spring before spring,” Tiz said. “These guys have to do accessories and shoes and handbags. Some of these big names are even dressing flight attendants with a separate label. You don't think the global goons care about the designer—about the creative end of the business—as long as there's something to sell?”

She must have known about the George Kwan deal. “Kwan Enterprises?” I said. “I've heard rumors about some kind of hostile takeover. I guess that Velly didn't want that to happen.”

“Heaven forbid,” Tiz said, putting the back of her hand to her
forehead and pretending to be faint. “That was entirely a Hal Savage proposition. He and Velly were fighting cats and dogs over George Kwan.”

“So here I was,” I said, adopting Lily Savitsky's point of view for the purpose of fishing for information, “thinking Wolf Savage was on top of the world. I couldn't understand why he'd take his own life. This exhibition—an honor so few designers have had. Monday's big show. A son to follow in his footsteps. A daughter who was trying to reestablish herself with him. I just didn't get it. Now you make it sound like it was all doom and gloom around the man.”

“This glittery fashion world is completely smoke and mirrors, Alex. The stakes are enormously high, and I think Velly knew he was about to have his legs cut out from underneath him,” Tiz said. “He wanted to go out on top is what I think.”

“By putting a plastic bag over his head?”

“Painless way to go is what they tell me.”

Harsh words for a friend.

“Who told you that?” I asked. “That his death was painless.”

“Oh,” Tiz said, sounding surprised. “Word on the street is all I know. What I read in the papers. Like that.”

“Have you spoken with Reed? Or with Hal?”

“No. Neither one. I just left messages with my condolences. I get my working orders from the assistants who handle the front office.”

“Okay, so Velly rocks the boat by trying to open Fashion Week to the consumer market, and that gets him booted from Bryant Park earlier this year.”

“Yeah. Kiss of death, I guess. I mean not literally, but I think his whole operation was tanking.” Tiz leaned back and gestured with a thumbs-down motion.

“I get so much more emotional about these things than you
do,” I said, waving to the waitress and asking for a refill. “I admire your sangfroid.”

“Don't know what that is, luv.”

“Sorry. Keeping calm under stressful situations,” I said, thinking of the literal French meaning of the word—cold blood. “Another tea?”