What Travels with You

The folder.

One per person, rebuilt before every appearance. There is always the legal brief, the sensitivity file, the tonal sheets, the statement drafts, the wardrobe list and the press history. Sometimes there is more. Never less. The point of a folder is that the answer to a question is in the room rather than on someone’s phone in another time zone.

The legal brief.

Eight to ten pages, prepared by the house. Page one is the summary. Page two lists every agreement you have in force, with the counterparty, the term, and the two or three clauses that matter at this particular moment. Page three is what you cannot do. Page four is what you can do if asked. The rest is background. Pages one and two get read before every meeting. The whole thing gets read before anything televised.

The sensitivity file.

The names of family, the names of former partners, the names of anyone a reporter might raise, and the subjects you do not want to discuss, with the reason. It exists so that nobody has to improvise on your behalf. It is not shared, it is not stored with the rest, and it is read rather than circulated.

The tonal sheets.

One page per brand you are associated with. What the brand calls itself. What it does not call itself. The three words it has agreed to in press and the three it has declined. Who to reference if asked and who not to. The press office number, in case. This is the sheet that prevents a friendly answer from becoming a contractual problem.

The statement drafts.

Three, for three outcomes: good, neutral, bad. The good-outcome draft is the longest, because it is the one most likely to be changed in the moment. The bad-outcome draft is the shortest, and it is written every time, on the plane, whether or not anyone believes it will be needed. Writing it is not pessimism. It is the difference between a considered sentence and whatever comes out under a lens.

The wardrobe list.

Primary look, secondary look, accessories and shoes for both, and the designer and point of contact for each. Technically a stylist’s document. It is in the folder anyway, because the person holding the folder is the person who will be in the room if the stylist is on a flight, and because a damaged or missing item at seven in the evening is a phone call somebody has to be able to make.

The card.

Laminated, and it lists dietary requirements in English, French and Italian, and in Japanese where it is needed. It gets handed to the venue’s catering lead the night before. Venues are reliably surprised that anyone carries a laminated card. It is a small, slightly absurd object, and it is the reason nobody spends the evening of an important dinner being quietly unwell.

The press history.

Every significant press interaction, with the date, the outlet, the journalist, the angle, and the outcome, marked one of three ways. Clean means the piece ran as represented. Drift means it ran with a different emphasis. Hostile means it ran in a way that damaged you. If a journalist with a drift or hostile note appears on a press list, the plan for that journalist exists before you walk into the room.

And what the plan usually is.

Standing between the two of you. Politely.

The names.

Immediate family, the extended family you are close to, and a short note on anyone you are not in contact with. So that when a reporter asks how your brother is, the person beside you already knows whether the answer is he is well, thank you or I would rather not discuss family, and can give you the cue before you have to decide.

How a cue is given.

A hand on the elbow. Or stepping in and offering water. Or simply looking at you. It takes a few appearances together before it works without thinking, which is an argument for the same people doing it each time rather than whoever is free.

What else is in the bag.

Advil. A small sewing kit. A charger for three different cables. A five-dollar bill. Two plasters. A pen that works. A pen that does not work, which nobody has thrown out.

Why any of this matters.

Because your nerves on the day are private and are not there to be managed. The job is not to make you feel less nervous. It is to make the room exactly what you expected it to be, so that your attention is on the work and not on the room. The room is the house’s responsibility. The work is yours.

The one thing worth learning.

How to read a contract. Not draft one. Read one, well enough to know what you have agreed to and, more usefully, what you have not. Almost nobody arrives already able to do this, and almost everyone can be taught it in an afternoon.

And at the end of the day.

The bag is emptied. In the morning it is refilled. The folder is updated, the drafts are updated, the sensitivity file rarely is, the card is wiped down, the Advil is checked for expiry. Every working day, whether or not anything is happening. Most of this work is done on the days when nothing is happening.