When Women Don't Support Each Other
Low Betrayals and High Heels: International Women's Day is nigh, but what if our experience of women hasn't been so nice?
“There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help each other.” - Madeleine Albright
I have spent a lot of time around girls and women. I was raised by armies of nannies, lived at all-girls boarding schools for ten years, and then became a fashion model for another ten years, spending the majority of my working hours with females. I’ve got crazy bitchy girls stories galore. There are mean girls everywhere.
Females are complex creatures who operate in very different ways from males. Little boys push, shove, and punch each other, whereas little girls tear each other’s hearts out. The first time I experienced true heartbreak was at boarding school. I was eight years old when my best friend callously dropped me for a new girl. She told me we would no longer be “going round together” (when two girls walk side by side with their arms entwined as a symbol of exclusivity). Seeing my ex-best friend bound to another girl all day and night was shattering. Our emotional attachment severed, it was like my right arm had been amputated. Such is the nature of female relationships.
It is exceedingly rare for women to find true friends or even ones who genuinely support other women. It’s especially hard when female relatives are not amongst your core allies and, in some cases, actively work against you. If your family doesn’t have your back, who can you rely on?
My mother and sisters have caused the most bloodshed (metaphorically). Ultimately, I had to dismember the sepsis, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My feelings toward those females were not mutual. It wasn’t a case of “no love lost” — a lot of love was lost — deep, loyal, real love. Only it was mine.
My heart was too open and exposed, my feelings too fragile, and my mind too active. Their strategy: lock the door, throw away the key, gaslight, gaslight, gaslight, and act like she doesn’t exist.
People don’t like the truth; they prefer to play pretend.
With all that was left unsaid and brutally done, I had to save myself from drowning in a pool of my own blood, my heart in shreds that I’m still stitching back together.
After ten years in the cutthroat world of high fashion, I gave it all up at the age of twenty-six to start a new career in the art world. I was hired by one of the most prestigious international galleries and given a big desk in a fancy office, a credit card, a Blackberry, and access to the most coveted and expensive creations by world-famous artists. All I had to do was bring in new buyers and sell, sell, sell.
In addition to my base salary, the commissions on sold artworks were huge, so there was fierce competition amongst the “gallery girls”. They did not like the new girl with no prior work experience in art. One of them literally laughed in my face when she heard that all I had done before was model. I was determined to prove everyone wrong — that I was more than just a “pretty face” — that I could do business like and with the best of them.
Within the first few months, I was selling Hirsts, Koons, and Murakamis, amongst others. My beginner’s luck impressed my boss so much that I was moved to another office in the wealthiest area of London with far more foot traffic (a.k.a. “walk-ins”), which meant even more sales. I was promoted to manager of that location and had one of the most enviable jobs imaginable along with a lifestyle to match. There are people who would have killed to be in my position.
My boss had big plans. He wanted to open a new gallery in Qatar and have me move to the Middle East to run it. This meant serious big bucks and life-changing-sized commissions. The problem was that I wanted to be a writer. I was sick of the cattiness and competitiveness within the gallery; I was in a constant state of stress and exhaustion from all the work-related traveling and partying, and in a toxic relationship with a finance guy / major art collector who was hellbent on me being his other half of our formidable power unit. We had already made Tatler’s “Top Ten Most Invited” list alongside Prince William and the then-Kate Middleton, and American Vogue had led a feature on an elite group they called the “new, chic European jet set” with me.
None of it felt true. I wanted peace, not power. I wanted to rest, not jet set. I wanted to stay at home in my pyjamas, reading and writing, not wearing a different designer dress to yet another celebrity-packed party talking money every night of the week. The strain of having to be on call 24/7 and look good all the time was an intense pressure that left me teetering on the brink. I was physically ill, brain-fried, and soul-sick. With no downtime whatsoever, I was breaking down into an early grave.
When I look back to that period of my life, I have no regrets about walking away from it all, but I often think about what could have been if I’d stuck it out. I know I would be very rich, but I might also be very dead.
Two years after resigning from my hedonistic lifestyle, high-powered job, and druggy relationship, I was finally pursuing my dream of becoming a professional writer. I was at the University of Westminster studying for a master’s degree in Screenwriting and Film Production. My student lifestyle could not have looked more different from my gallery days (and nights).
I lived in a shared rented flat in North London, going to class by day and staying at home with my dog every night. Just the thought of getting dressed up for a party filled me with anxiety. I didn’t go anywhere or see anyone unless I had to. I sold off my clothes, shoes, and bags (I had an absurd amount that I knew I’d never wear again). My previous shallow existence was unfathomable. There was so much more to life.
One of the few people I did keep in touch with was a woman I knew from the gallery. Let’s call her Tessa. We started working in the same office at the same time and clicked immediately. I liked her no-nonsense simplicity; she had grown up in the countryside and was refreshingly real, unaffected by the dirty world of wealth.
After my resignation at the gallery, they needed someone in my place to run the office where I had been relocated. Tessa hated that she was still stuck working in our old office, so I emailed the directors, urging them to promote her to my position. They listened, and as a result, Tessa’s bank balance increased exponentially. I was delighted to help, and she was effusive with appreciation.
Over time, I noticed how her promotion began to affect her. She became a shopaholic, a glutton for designer clothes to a vulgar degree. Fashion had never mattered to her when we first became friends. Every time I saw or spoke to her, she would go on and on about her extravagant purchases. It’s interesting how money reveals people.
One evening at Tessa’s place, I saw the latest cluster of Net-a-Porter bags and boxes in her living room. She pulled out her new Burberry Prorsum aviator shearling boots to show me, her eyes alight. They were her most fashionable purchase yet. Tessa asked me my shoe size, and upon hearing that we were the same, she exclaimed, “If you ever want to wear them for something, you are more than welcome to borrow them!”
A few weeks later, an old friend invited me to a glamorous fashion week party. I felt insecure and out of touch with that world, but I was turning into a hermit and needed to come out from hiding. Paralyzed with fear about what to wear, I remembered Tessa’s kind offer to lend me her aviators. I could throw on a simple black dress and make the whole outfit about the killer boots. They would give me a much-needed confidence boost at the party.
“Oh!” Tessa’s voice shook over the phone. “You know, I’d really rather you didn’t borrow them.”
“Ah, ok.” I was equally surprised. “I only called to ask because you offered. Why did you say I could borrow them?”
“Well, I didn’t mean it. I only said it because I felt sorry for you. I was being kind.”
Wow.
After I hung up the phone, I headed straight to Selfridges and saw a staggering pair of F*ck You shoes (very different from F*ck Me shoes) by Camilla Skovgaard. They were breathtaking, under a spotlight on a glass shelf, aggressively built, and totally impractical. They were also ridiculously expensive, but I didn’t care. I had to have them, handing my card to the shop assistant with defiance.
Tessa had not only been disingenuous but also made me feel like a charity case. I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I made a choice to change my life — a choice most people in my position would not have made — but it wasn’t something to be looked down on. Buying those shoes was my way of reclaiming my power and cheering myself up. They were worth every penny.
I felt like a badass in my F*ck You shoes at the fashion week party, and then I didn’t wear them again for about ten years. They were unwearable works of art, standing tall in my closet, reminding me how powerful they had made me feel after someone — another woman! someone I called a friend! — had taken pity on me for eschewing a vacuous, material life and embarking on a humble new beginning.
The next time I wore my F*ck You shoes was for a photo shoot in Long Beach, New York. A photographer I had worked with in the past asked me to do a commercial swimwear shoot with him. I had just turned forty and brought the shoes along for some fashion shots because why the f*ck not?
The last time I wore them was to Paris Hilton’s engagement party on a rooftop in New York, paired with a Gucci dress. Those shoes weren’t made for walking, they were made for towering.
I probably won’t ever wear my F*ck You shoes again (they really are very difficult to walk in), but I will never get rid of them. Those beastial beauties will stay in my closet to remind me that no other woman — or person — can ever take my power away or make me feel small.
We are here only briefly. As we live and breathe, despite the relentless batshit craziness that goes on all around us, we each have the power to create a Brave New World. One of the ways we can do this — especially as women to other women — is by being genuinely kind and supportive.
I cherish my tiny cadre of female friends and comrades, all of whom are reading this (you know who you are — Thank You — I Love You!)
Their presence, encouragement, and kindness have been life-altering.
In the words of Aldous Huxley, “Let us be kinder to one another.”
Through her absolute lack of manners Tessa may have indeed done you a favor by leading you to buy those shoes that serve as a reminder of the rightness of your decision to leave that life behind.
One fine lady who writes as good she looks