The coats became a hit among entertainment’s elite. Reiss’ shrewd guerrilla marketing to influencers worked. Model Kate Upton graced Sports Illustrated’s cover in 2013 in a Canada Goose. In an era of fast fashion, rampant counterfeiting and hypersensitive Millennials who are already looking askance at Reiss’ fur-lined coats, he must keep Canada Goose’s premium cachet from flying south permanently. Fashion’s bargain bin of brands-from True Religion to Uggs to Aéropostale-is brimming with once-hot has-beens. Now that Canada Goose has entered the pantheon of global luxury brands, Reiss must deftly navigate an unforgiving retail marketplace.
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Canada Goose’s stock, listed on the New York and Toronto stock exchanges, has soared to stratospheric levels despite a series of stock sales by Bain and Reiss, who has become a billionaire. Two years ago, Reiss and investor Bain Capital raised $250 million in an IPO. This has helped the company maintain envious operating margins of 23%, nearly double Columbia Sportswear’s and higher even than those of luxury giants like LVMH, Burberry and Prada. “Hands behind your back.” He must have seen me glance at the clock.Canada Goose’s customer base may have changed drastically, but its core line of coats, which now sell out at stores like Nordstrom, remains largely the same. We faced the mirror, him in a blue shirt and tie he’d changed into after the reception, and I, bare-breasted up top, and in white lace garter down below. “You are magnificent,” he said, twisting my hair in his finger. I unpinned my hair, leaving in the one, pencil-thin braid I’d demanded, and as it fell over my back, my dress slipped off.
He’d gotten on one knee all over again, and I realized the reason he’d been so much more sexually ferocious was because he was happy. A year later, he got me an engagement ring of my own, a round canary diamond. As if overnight, he became more aggressive, more demanding, more kinky, more dominant than he’d ever been. Six months after the transplant, Jonathan roared back like a lion.
He slowly unzipped the back of my dress, touching my spine as he went. I inhaled deeply and put my hands in my hair, lifting my arms out of the way. If we could be together two years, we’d get married for real. He bought a house in the Hollywood Hills, and we moved into it. We agreed our marriage wasn’t genuine because of the circumstances surrounding it, but we never suggested our love was anything but real. I stood by him, helping him manage his recovery. I didn’t think it would last, but with each passing day, I feared my kinky Jonathan would never return. He was also sexually vanilla, which I tried to accept. He was confused about who he was, vulnerable, testy, physically weak, and overly cautious. You don’t just walk away from a heart transplant and continue as before. He’d left that operating room a different person. Now we called each other husband and wife in public. We were married in the eyes of the law, but to us and the world, today was the day. I could have done it any time, and he knew it. The fact was, I’d been too busy touring, recording, and taking interviews to do simple tasks, like changing my name as I’d promised. “You have to give the name change a little time.” It was a lame excuse. “No one knew where you were until I asked for Monica Faulkner.” “Do what, Goddess?” I groaned in response, opening my eyes to watch him caress my neck and shoulder with his mouth. “We said we weren’t going to do this until we were out of the country.”
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His lips were full and soft, more than lips they were the physical manifestation of every taste of longing, every tingle of desire, every scorch of ambition. When the pen moved, the shavings moved, and I arched my neck to feel more of him.
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