Ain’t Nothing Like

The Real Thing, Baby

Can a week with the finest labels convert a lifelong bargain hunter?

by Aimee Deputy, illustrations by Kat Heyes

Whenever I get a compliment on something I am wearing, instead of simply saying “thank you” and moving along, I often stop dead and grab on to the unsuspecting person, squealing out the item’s origins and, inevitably, its price tag.

“Really? Don’t you love it? Target—$21.99!” Or “The shoes? Total knockoffs, by Jessica Simpson. Who can tell? And they were only $80!” It is a habit I formed early, fed mostly by my mother, who believed that anything brand-name or full price was for the unimaginative. Bargains were to be celebrated, not tote bags and jeans that quadrupled in price just because they bore high-end labels.

As I grew older, I developed an appreciation for the craftsmanship behind the designer handbags, shoes, and ready-to-wear collections available in the Dallas shopping landscape. I coveted stilettos by Christian Louboutin, Gucci sunglasses, and my best friend’s butter-soft camel leather Marc Jacobs overnight bag. At one point, I was ready to sell my soul for a Chloé carrier bag, and when I spotted it staring at me from the windows of the boutique on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I was determined to walk in and buy it on the spot, without looking at the price.

But as I was inspecting the bag’s lining, I caught a glimpse of the price tag and immediately heard my mother’s voice in my head: “Come on! I’ve got a bag from the eighties that looks just like that—I would have given it to you for free.” My stomach dropped to my knees, and I scuttled out of the shop. I would just have to accept the fact that I was not a luxury gal.

So when my editor called and told me, “I’ve got an assignment for you. You’re going to wear the best of everything—Jimmy Choo heels, Harry Winston diamonds, and a bag that people are on waiting lists for all over the globe,” my immediate response was lukewarm. “I am probably the wrong person for this,” I pointed out. “You know me—a shoe is a shoe.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I am putting you down.” I could just picture her writing the assignment in her Hermès daybook I’d always envied. One week of the finest luxury goods, one nonbeliever. What could happen?

THE SHOES

When I got to my desk on a Thursday afternoon and found the FedEx box with “Jimmy Choo” in the return address, I broke a nail tearing into the package. Out from the tissue came the most gorgeous pair of black leather sling-backs, with metallic detailing over the peep toe and a silvery inset on the very high heel. A known klutz, I slipped them on and tottered about the office to warm up. More confident, I ventured to the elevator, where a woman noticed the shoes immediately.

“Great shoes,” she said matter-of- factly.

“Aren’t they?” I replied. I was about to blurt out that they were Jimmy Choo, on loan, but something stopped me. Instead I just said, “Thanks,” and swooshed out of the lift.

For the next three days, you couldn’t have pulled me out of the shoes, even though I had to budget more time to get places, as my usual lope was slowed to a prance. After a friend confirmed that they made me look exotically tall and at least eight pounds thinner, I decided they would be perfect for Saturday’s dinner with an ex-boyfriend.

“Wow, you look amazing! It’s been a while,” he said when he picked me up. It had only been three months, but I knew it was the shoes working their magic. As I leaned in to give him a brief hug, I realized that, in the shoes, I had an extra inch on his five-ten frame. Something happened in my brain: I had the upper hand for the evening. I smiled beguilingly at the maître d’, fluttered my lashes at our waiter, and acted like our messy breakup had only slowed me down for five minutes. When a conversation rehashing the relationship took a turn for the worse, dinner wrapped up early. He drove me home, still arguing, and even followed me as I clacked up the walk to my front door. I stuck my hand out for a farewell handshake, towering over him.

“Good luck,” I told him, the Choo-wearing me confident I would find a better man. “You always were difficult,” he said in defeat. “You couldn’t even give me a low heel tonight.”

Hot-heeled me looking down at him had unsettled his world. It was just what I needed to say good riddance. I slipped out of the shoes as I went inside, giving them the kiss goodnight I had originally planned for the date.

“Good luck,” I told him, the Choo-wearing me confident I would find a better man.
“You always were difficult,” he said in defeat.
“You couldn’t even give me a low heel tonight.”

THE BAG

A friend had invited me to stop by her booth at a tony neighborhood elementary school where she was selling her line of trendy children’s clothing. It was the perfect place to carry The Bag—Bottega Veneta’s Large Cabat. The tote is big enough to contain a full-grown German shepherd, not that you would dare let a dog near the intricately handwoven goatskin.

At first I’d thought, “What on earth will I put in this thing?” Not to worry. It quickly swallowed my lipstick, keys, and cell phone. By day three, the day of the school fundraiser, I had loaded it with a spare pair of ballet flats, notebooks, a newspaper, a dress to return to Barneys, a full-sized brush (good-bye, wimpy comb of my small-purse days), and myriad other items that I often found myself wishing I had with me. Surprisingly, the bag never felt too heavy or too large, a testimony, I believe, to its fine workmanship.

I wondered, though, if the polished mommies at the fair would stare at its size and suspect I was shoplifting. As I loaded my purchases—bake sale goodies, an embroidered pillow, and a new play outfit for my niece—into the bag, I realized I didn’t feel or look like a crazy bag lady. I was a smart lady with a $5,650 handcrafted tote that screamed, “You know you adore it, and it carries ev-er-y-thing!”

“Great bag,” the pretty woman at the coffee station commented.

“Oh, gosh. I just love it. Thanks!” I gushed.

She stared a moment longer, and then she spoke up: “Do you mind my asking where I might get one?”

Oh, how quickly I had changed. “No, no—of course not. It’s Bottega,” I said like a pro. “Bottega Veneta. It should be in stores soon.” And with that, I moved along.

THE GEMS

On a Saturday night, in one of the city’s biggest ballrooms, nearly two thousand of Dallas’s most fashionable turned out for the annual DIFFA (Design Industries Foundation Fighting AIDS) runway show and design auction. I’d worked in media for years, so I was no stranger to the over-the-top gowns and coats worn to the event, or the corner where journalists lurked in not-so- formal formalwear, scribbling notes in steno pads.

But this year I was to be draped in Harry Winston diamonds so valuable I had to be escorted every minute by a bodyguard named Adolph. It’s amazing what hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of flawless diamonds can do for a three-year-old black jersey dress. I looked, and felt, like a queen.

The first comment came from a gentleman selling raffle tickets. He was staring at the necklace, a mix of nearly 32 carats of stunning brilliant, marquise, and pear-shaped diamonds ingeniously fashioned into a swarm of butterflies.

I couldn’t resist. “They’re from Harry Winston,” I half-whispered.

“I sell costume jewelry, and I could tell from across the room they weren’t fake.”

That was just the confidence booster I needed. I laughed long and loud at jokes made at my front-and-center table next to the runway. I bubbled with smiles and compliments for everyone, instead of hovering quietly in the background. I struck up conversations with near strangers, imagining they were asking themselves, “Who is this charming girl dripping in diamonds?” From the score of West Side Story, “I Feel Pretty” played over and over in my head. People stepped aside to let me ahead of them in line; photographers from the society papers snapped my picture. I could feel the sparkle, but could anyone else? I spotted a magazine editor who had once passed me over for a job. Normally I avoided him, but in my gems, I grabbed my date’s arm and made a beeline for him.

“Darling! Do you remember me?” (He usually pretends he’s never seen me before in his life.)

“Why, yes—how are you, sweetheart?” He looked at my face only briefly before zeroing in on the necklace and earrings. Convinced I had no business in those jewels, he turned to my date to learn if perhaps he was responsible. “And what do you do?” he asked.

I pinched my date under the arm before he could blurt out the truth. “Oh, a little of this and that,” replied my honey mysteriously, as he’d been trained to do. And we strolled off, leaving editor man gaping behind us. From then on, my date was in on the action. Turns out he liked playing the role of millionaire diamond-buying hottie. I even caught him using what could only be construed as a clipped Old Philadelphia accent as the night wore on. Apparently, the psychological boost of luxury is contagious.

I returned the diamonds at the end of the night to Adolph and his bulletproof briefcase without crying, but I sure felt like I might. I vowed right then to get something—anything—fabulous and luxurious to keep the rush I was feeling fresh. I was learning fast how pricey goods could become an addiction.

Jimmy Choo Beloved black leather sandals ($580) at Jimmy Choo in Dallas and Houston and jimmychoo.com; Bottega Veneta gold woven-leather Large Cabat handbag ($5,650) at Bottega Veneta in Dallas and bottegaveneta.com; Harry Winston Marquesa diamond-and-platinum necklace and ring (prices available on request) at Harry Winston in Dallas and harrywinston.com.