A new memoir by her closest friend sheds light on the woman behind the image.
“Baby, baby,” Kate Spade would squeal, about to tuck into a tasty sandwich, party with friends or, on occasion, sell her cheerily colourful handbags to a fancy store.
In We Might Just Make It After
From the time the two met as dorm mates at the University of Kansas, Katy, as Arons calls her, combined an unshakable work ethic with a disarmingly infectious charm. At a glance, they could not have been more different: Arons, a farm girl from Kansas, Spade, then Kate Brosnahan, the quintessence of Midwestern prepdom, clad in a pop-collar polo shirt, baggy khakis and Weejuns loafers.
“Whenever I did anything that Katy thought was kind of ‘farmy,’ she would refer to me as Jethro,” Arons writes, confiding that she, on the other hand, initially found Spade’s buttoned-up style a trifle dull.
Still, the two became all but inseparable, enjoying frat parties, shopping for secondhand clothes – it was all they could afford – and aspiring, like their idol Mary Richards on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, to glam careers in the big city.
By the early 1990s, fuelled by that mutual fantasy, they had decamped for the New York City borough of Manhattan, making do with a succession of day jobs and toiling by night in a cramped apartment with their pals and founding partners, Pamela Bell and Andy Spade, Spade’s future husband, to piece together a fledgling fashion brand built on a low-frills nylon tote in a spectrum of colours with a discreet tag fixed to its face.
Over time, the company expanded. Kate Spade was sold, first to Neiman Marcus Group and, in 2006, to Liz Claiborne Inc. A decade later, Spade and Arons founded Frances Valentine, a lifestyle label that Arons now runs.
Arons remembers her friend as wickedly droll with a sense of fun that sometimes verged on the macabre. An irreverent prankster, Spade thought nothing of playing dead to elicit a laugh.
Small wonder, then, that “there was a part of me,” Arons writes, “that fleetingly hoped her suicide was her most elaborate, epic prank yet”.
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Advertise with NZME.In a conversation at her studio at Frances Valentine in New York, Arons acknowledged that although it is still hard to let her friend go, writing the memoir was a form of communion. “I feel our connection every day,” she said.
The interview was condensed and edited for clarity.
Q: What prompted you to take on this project?
A: About two years ago this summer, I was with Pamela and Andy [Arons’ husband]. We were in stitches about some of the things that happened at Kate Spade, and Andy said, “You should write a book.” As we were discussing it, I felt, “Well, I’m 60, and I’m starting to forget some of the nuances of our relationship.”
Q: What went through your mind as you wrote?
A: There were emotional times. But writing was also cathartic, and it gave me an opportunity to tell everybody what Katy was like. People didn’t really know how funny and feisty she was, and how kind. If her image still resonates, it’s because I think people sense her authenticity.
Q: You were scholarship students. What else bonded you?
A: We were huge vintage shoppers. Part of that was to save money. But we shared a love for details on vintage pieces. You’d find a sweater with this great embroidery, and nobody else had it. Things like that really held us together. But it was her sense of humour more than anything else.
Katy and I would scare each other all the time. She would walk up behind you and jolt you with a clap – she had the loudest clap of any human being I ever knew. So after she died, when I went through her closet to retrieve some of her clothes, I thought for a moment, she’s going to jump out and scare the hell out of me.
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Advertise with NZME.Q: What were some of the high points of your relationship?
A: I think we were happiest when we were flat broke but also when we were starting the business. A store would call for a reorder just one week after our first delivery. They’d sold all our bags, every one, and we were just beside ourselves.
Q: Were there moments of friction?
A: There was one time I was jealous. I’d moved to New York to get a job at a fashion magazine. I pounded the pavement, really worked at it. I’d gone to a temp agency but never got sent to one of the Condé Nast magazines. Then Katy arrived at the same agency and straight off got sent to Mademoiselle. I was like, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Q: She went on to become the face of the brand. How did that sit with you?
A: I don’t think I really minded. The business was an idea that we hatched together, but Katy was the designer. I don’t think any of us wanted to step forward and take her place.
Besides, I was grateful to her. She was a private person, and I knew how hard it was for her to be out there representing the brand.
Q: Why was that?
A: Katy was anxious about a lot of things – giving talks, accepting awards. But business tours could be especially gruelling. I used to think: “How hard could those be? You just smile and wave.”
What I didn’t know is that she would have interviews in the mornings, personal appearances in the afternoons, then dinners with the store executives, and the next day, it was on to the next town. It was stressful and exhausting. And she was on her own. It stays with me that I didn’t make it a point to go to be with her.
Q: You chose in the book not to speculate on her state of mind. Do you think that you could have said more?
A: The way I described her is what I want people to take away. All those secrets – and the private jokes we had – I know that some of those things I will never share. I don’t think we can ever know everything about ourselves or the people closest to us. People legitimately want to know why she did what she did. The only person who can answer that is not with us.
Q: Was there something about her you wish you had understood better?
A: I don’t think I could have. Katy had depression. As for me, I’ve been down. I’ve been blue, but I’ve never had depression, and I just can’t know how that feels.
Q: Has her death changed your perspective on the friendship?
A: I was very angry that she’s gone. I still am. It’s complicated. I knew, obviously, that there were issues. But how can you blame someone who has health issues? I get mad that I still want to pick up the phone and call her every single day but can’t.
I like to focus instead on how much we brought to each other. We might not have admitted this to ourselves at times, but over the years, we opened each other’s eyes to a different life.
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This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
Written by: Ruth La Ferla
Photographs by: Jeanette Spicer and Marilynn K. Yee
©2025 THE NEW YORK TIMES
