magazines, all three Triplets were trust-fund babies. It didn’t hurt that their penchant for $2,000 pants and the latest Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahniks, or Prada boots was assisted by their access to the magazine’s fashion closet and a ream of eager-to-please designers they probably had on speed-dial.
In fact, just last week when I cruised through the fashion department to pick up some copy Wendy was supposed to edit, I’d heard Sidra cooing into the phone, “But Donatella,
dahling,
I simply
must
have that suede skirt for my trip to Paris next week. . . . Yes,
dahling,
I’d really owe you one if you’d messenger it over right away.” The call was followed an hour later by the conspicuous arrival of a carrier case from Versace, which was whisked into the fashion department. The doors slammed shut behind it.
Sidra, the oldest of the Triplets and their fearless leader, was a bit of a legend in the New York editorial world. She claimed to have dated George Clooney for a month or so in the mid-nineties and had used that fact as a sort-of job reference throughout the rest of her career. She was known to frequently drop, “When George and I were dating . . .” into various conversations where the words really didn’t belong.
For George’s part, he denied that he knew her. That hadn’t stopped her from dragging his name through the mud to her advantage—and to the endless delight of the New York gossip scene. Her name was a Page Six staple.
For reasons I still hadn’t entirely figured out, Sidra had developed an instant dislike for me the moment I’d set foot through
Mod
’s doors as the magazine’s youngest senior editor a year and a half ago. The more I got to know her, the more I suspected it was a case of clear-cut professional jealousy. I was fifteen years her junior, and I was just one step below her on the editorial chain. I’d done some checking up on her, and at my age, twenty-six, she had still been an editorial assistant at
Cosmo.
My few attempts during the first month to ingratiate myself with a quick chat were met immediately with a cold shoulder, and to date, we’d never even had an actual conversation. Half the time she refused to even acknowledge my existence, and otherwise she badmouthed me around the office. My coworkers, thankfully, knew her well enough that her complaints tended to go in one ear and out the other.
Unfortunately, she also loved badmouthing me to people at other magazines who didn’t quite know how catty and bizarre she was. Once, at a Fashion Week celebrity fashion show, I even overheard her telling a senior editor from
In Style
that I was a delusional intern who liked to pretend that I was
Mod
’s celebrity editor, and it was best to just ignore me and play along.
As the director of fashion and beauty for
Mod,
Sidra oversaw Sally and Samantha, who were clearly being groomed to become her clones. So far, it was working out. Sally, the fashion editor, didn’t yet understand that dressing models in Gucci and Versace couture didn’t quite fly with Margaret, who was—wonder of all wonders—smart enough to realize that most
Mod
readers didn’t make enough money in a decade to buy the clothes that Sally would order for one shoot. Not exactly the best way to compete with
Cosmo
in the circulation trenches.
Samantha, the beauty editor, was responsible for the magazine’s makeup tips. She was apparently equally confused, failing to realize that not everyone had the high cheekbones, full lips, and flawless complexion that she did. Of course, not everyone had the good fortune to be sleeping with Dr. Stephen McDermott, Manhattan’s premier “Dermatologist to the Stars,” either.
The only way to tell the Triplets apart, I sometimes thought, was by the fact that Sidra was the only one who had already invested $20,000 in breast implants by Dr. David Aramayo, arguably the best plastic surgeon in Manhattan. I was sure that the others weren’t far behind. They were doubtlessly
In fact, just last week when I cruised through the fashion department to pick up some copy Wendy was supposed to edit, I’d heard Sidra cooing into the phone, “But Donatella,
dahling,
I simply
must
have that suede skirt for my trip to Paris next week. . . . Yes,
dahling,
I’d really owe you one if you’d messenger it over right away.” The call was followed an hour later by the conspicuous arrival of a carrier case from Versace, which was whisked into the fashion department. The doors slammed shut behind it.
Sidra, the oldest of the Triplets and their fearless leader, was a bit of a legend in the New York editorial world. She claimed to have dated George Clooney for a month or so in the mid-nineties and had used that fact as a sort-of job reference throughout the rest of her career. She was known to frequently drop, “When George and I were dating . . .” into various conversations where the words really didn’t belong.
For George’s part, he denied that he knew her. That hadn’t stopped her from dragging his name through the mud to her advantage—and to the endless delight of the New York gossip scene. Her name was a Page Six staple.
For reasons I still hadn’t entirely figured out, Sidra had developed an instant dislike for me the moment I’d set foot through
Mod
’s doors as the magazine’s youngest senior editor a year and a half ago. The more I got to know her, the more I suspected it was a case of clear-cut professional jealousy. I was fifteen years her junior, and I was just one step below her on the editorial chain. I’d done some checking up on her, and at my age, twenty-six, she had still been an editorial assistant at
Cosmo.
My few attempts during the first month to ingratiate myself with a quick chat were met immediately with a cold shoulder, and to date, we’d never even had an actual conversation. Half the time she refused to even acknowledge my existence, and otherwise she badmouthed me around the office. My coworkers, thankfully, knew her well enough that her complaints tended to go in one ear and out the other.
Unfortunately, she also loved badmouthing me to people at other magazines who didn’t quite know how catty and bizarre she was. Once, at a Fashion Week celebrity fashion show, I even overheard her telling a senior editor from
In Style
that I was a delusional intern who liked to pretend that I was
Mod
’s celebrity editor, and it was best to just ignore me and play along.
As the director of fashion and beauty for
Mod,
Sidra oversaw Sally and Samantha, who were clearly being groomed to become her clones. So far, it was working out. Sally, the fashion editor, didn’t yet understand that dressing models in Gucci and Versace couture didn’t quite fly with Margaret, who was—wonder of all wonders—smart enough to realize that most
Mod
readers didn’t make enough money in a decade to buy the clothes that Sally would order for one shoot. Not exactly the best way to compete with
Cosmo
in the circulation trenches.
Samantha, the beauty editor, was responsible for the magazine’s makeup tips. She was apparently equally confused, failing to realize that not everyone had the high cheekbones, full lips, and flawless complexion that she did. Of course, not everyone had the good fortune to be sleeping with Dr. Stephen McDermott, Manhattan’s premier “Dermatologist to the Stars,” either.
The only way to tell the Triplets apart, I sometimes thought, was by the fact that Sidra was the only one who had already invested $20,000 in breast implants by Dr. David Aramayo, arguably the best plastic surgeon in Manhattan. I was sure that the others weren’t far behind. They were doubtlessly
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