Читать книгу Model Citizens: Riding for a Fall - Henry Pepper - Страница 3

And lo the darkness fell upon Los Angeles.

On the coast, the blood red sun sank beneath a hazy Pacific horizon.

Downtown a cold wind pushed its way through the concrete canyons, stirring the few Christmas decorations remaining on shop fronts.

Uptown the closer drivers got to the Hollywood Hills, the more detours and police security checkpoints they encountered that Friday night.

From the corner of the North Highland and Hollywood Boulevards, hundreds of stretch limousines were backed up from the Kodak Theatre.

Inside the brightly shining Kodak, visibly excited A-listers, dressed as if winter had not yet arrived in the United States of America, hurried through the Theatre’s tiered interior in search of their seats.

Out the front of the Kodak lobby, dozens of television cameras, hundreds of news and entertainment photographers and the fleet of glistening limousines combined to create the illusion that anything was possible.

Paparazzi photographers cat-called the Who’s Who of World Fashion as clusters of the famous and infamous alighted onto the plush red carpet.

Intricately dressed fashion designers from London, Milan, New York, LA, Paris, Tokyo, San Francisco and beyond. Hundreds of picture-perfect models and their lovers. Fashion agents. Actors. Hollywood film producers. Celebrities. Bloggers. Journalists. Executives. Wannabes.

Every 90 seconds, like clockwork, limousine doors swung open and another cluster of photographers’ flashes exploded.

The very air they breathed was loaded with great expectations. The beautiful people posed for the cameras, creating a glamorous logjam if they lingered too long in front of their favourite photographers.

Beyond the cameras and shouting journalists, stood a small crowd of cold, windswept onlookers, genuine fans, neither slim nor beautiful, who waved at their favourite celebrities from a cordoned off viewing area.

Inside the Kodak, the world famous auditorium echoed with a thousand conversations. Giant video screens, sandwiched between Estee Lauder logos and a sky blue backdrop, adorned the glittering rectangular stage.

As the audience slowly found their seats, a collage of fashion clips played on the screens, priming the audience for American network television’s live coverage of the 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards.

The repeating films highlighted the 12 models who had made it into the finals, pouting and touting, in a cascading fast-edit style that accentuated the cut, look and fit of designer fashion.

Depeche Mode’s Question of Time rocked the theatre:

“I’ve got to get to you first

Before they do

It’s just a question of time.”

It was almost show time!

The audience murmured expectantly as the film loop finished, the music faded, the Estee Lauder logo came up on the big screens and the house lights dimmed.

Bathed in a lilac spotlight, the Master of Ceremonies, dressed in a single-breasted black Armani suit, crisply pressed white Jean Paul Gaultier shirt, a black bow tie and two-tone Spectator shoes, looked like an escapee from a 1970s James Bond film. He emerged from behind the curtains at the rear of the stage in a puff of pink smoke.

The primed audience roared with approval.

The M/C, known universally in the business only by his first name, Branson, glided past a floating steel cage suspended from the ceiling that contained two adolescent white tigers.

The muscular cats growled as Branson passed. The audience, as instructed during the warm up, gasped as the house cameras zoomed in to show a close up of their teeth.

Branson took a startled step backwards, clutched at his chest in mock shock, then smiled and bowed at the elegant cats. He skipped into a walk and headed for centre stage.

All eyes were on Branson for all the wrong reasons. There had been some snide comments in LA gossip columns over the years about his profound love of martinis, but it was only recently that his drinking issues had become a big deal.

Earlier that very Friday, a nasty Los Angeles Times gossip columnist had reported that Branson had made a booking at the Betty Ford Clinic for the day after the Awards.

Branson’s publicist had, during a morning of mild hysteria, put out an angry denial, only for an enterprising Good Morning America reporter doing a stint inside Betty Ford to confirm half an hour later that Branson had indeed made a booking.

The broadcast makeup team had done an award-winning job of powdering over the tell-tale facial signs that he had fulfilled his pledge to attend every single pre-Awards party held over the festive season.

Stopping at the Estee Lauder-branded podium, Branson smiled, opened his arms wide and tapped the microphone theatrically.

“Hello everyone and welcome to the magnificent Kodak Theatre here in Los Angeles. We have a truly-special event to share with you tonight, the 10th Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards.”

The extroverted Californian audience, responding to prearranged signals, once more roared with delight.

Images of famous models “bigging it up” on the catwalks of Milan, New York, Paris and Tokyo filled the screens.

Depeche Mode’s Enjoy The Silence thumped the air:

“All I Ever Wanted

All I Ever Needed

Is Here

In My Arms.”

Branson pivoted on his heels, hoping that the endorphins generated by his morning session at the Hollywood Gym were beginning to kick in.

And with that, the live show began. The 12 Estee Lauder contestants strutted out onto the Kodak runway - one by one - flaunting impossibly skimpy designer lingerie.

Right from the start, the Kodak crowd was getting involved, clapping along with the sound track as the models delivered their best moves in outlandishly expensive undergarments.

From above the catwalk, a diffusion cloud of Breise Focus and Kino Parabeam lights flattered all they caressed. Kino flathead soft lights lined the front and sides of the runway to ensure that every parading contestant looked her best.

The high-energy opening segment concluded with 12 pouting models forming a semi-circle in front of a huge Estee Lauder logo projected onto the blue screen behind the stage.

Branson closed his arms, breathed as deeply as his previous month of nightclubbing permitted and clasped his hands together. As he gestured toward the podium, the audience and the stage, Branson caught sight of himself in one of the many stage mirrors and was relieved to see the makeup appeared to be holding.

He pointed approvingly towards the beaming group of young women.

“Aren’t they something? It’s my great pleasure to be sharing tonight with you all ...”

Branson, the heir to a circus dynasty and immersed in the theatre business all his life, milked the audience with an expectant grin.

“As we discover which model has captured the heart and spirit of the world of fashion this year ...”

He swept his hands forward and waved enthusiastically at Alexa Chung and her fashionista friends in the first tier VIP boxes.

“This is the big one for the global fashion industry, folks!” he reminded the audience.

Pink’s Get The Party Started danced out of a wide wall of Klein + Hummel RX240 N speakers and matching RB480 S sub-woofers.

“I’m coming up, so you better get this party started

Making my connection as I enter the room

Everybody’s dancing and they’re dancing for me.”

The screens darkened as the parade rhythmically morphed from lingerie to spectacular designer gowns.

The models, who had been entering and leaving the stage in a perpetual circle of motion, finally came to rest beside Branson in three small groups.

The 12 contestants came from different parts of the globe and, together, presented an eclectic sample of the human form. Tall. Petite. European. African. Asian. Brunette. Blonde. Redhead.

Most of the models wore their professional catwalk faces, but two of the striking women featured on camera exchanged fleeting unscripted smiles.

The brunette and blonde’s brief intimacy was magnified on the screens scattered throughout the auditorium.

A titter of whispers shot around the room.

Almost everyone in Los Angeles had heard gossip about the two models predicted to win the evening’s event. In the run up to the “Estee Lauders,” every gossip columnist and melodramatic entertainment reporter in the USA had asked what the Awards would do to their rumoured affair.

No one could prove the pair were lovers. Then again, they could not disprove it either.

As no one had denied a romance was happening, the media story had run and run. Would a win for either one of them, and the tens of millions of dollars in contracts that would flow from it, destroy their relationship?

After all, LA’s fashion pundits had repeatedly speculated, there could be only one winner in this very public battle.

Branson smiled and raised his right arm before approaching the nearest group of models.

The lone Californian contestant, the strawberry blonde, Joanne Hart, stood tall at the centre of the group. She winked seductively at Angela Durand, the French brunette standing next to her.

Joanne’s blonde hair was cut fashionably short. A gold and diamond David Webb necklace around her neck, a crimson Alaia evening dress hugged her beach girl physique, crimson L’Oreal gloss highlighted her plump inviting lips and metallic black Louboutin heels lifted her head and shoulders above the other models in the group. A post-modern siren with sparkling blue-eyes and an infectious smile, Joanne was buxom and curvaceous yet LA slim and stood around 5 foot 10 inches tall.

Angela Durand had long silky brunette hair, big brown eyes and soft-skinned creamy European features highlighted by Estee Lauder Apricot Scrub. Her physique was yoga-toned and thin. She stood 5 foot 3 inches tall.

On this night of nights, Angela wore a short Rodarte stretch-lace black dress, sheer black Rive Gauche silk stockings, red Shiseido lipstick drew the eye to her beautifully proportioned face and loud red Gucci heels complimented her gown. A red silk ribbon held her long hair neatly in place, a thin silver Chopard necklace and peace sign hung around her neck. Angela’s introverted retro look and sunny personality were all designed to melt the hardest of hearts. And judging by the fascinated response of the glitterati spread out in the auditorium before her, she was succeeding.

Branson floated across the floor to stand in the middle of this group of models. He threw his left arm casually over Angela’s shoulder, his right arm around Joanne’s waist and the trio smiled in-synch for cameras 3 and 4. The M/C posed in a way calculated to capture the envious interest of every red-blooded male watching the broadcast on TVs in lounge rooms, bars and clubs all round the world.

“History clearly demonstrates that tonight’s winner of the 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards will become the International face of the fashion industry in the years ahead,” Branson touted.

He stepped back and waved as Angela and Joanne, hands on rhythmic hips, walked the 12 models off stage.

Branson spun back to face the audience and excitedly pumped the air.

“Here we go folks, it’s show time!” he gushed. The screens showed film of the models pirouetting in boho-style cheesecloth shirts, tie-dyed skirts and swimwear. Joanne sported a barely there silver Aquarella Artemis bikini, as she stood bare-foot in a lush forest location, with a waterfall behind her. Grateful young men grinned at her through the cascading water.

Joanne spun around, beamed invitingly in front of the hypnotic water and paused.

Then up flashed a classically framed shot of Angela standing on a beach of golden sands, wearing a yellow La Blanca Shirr one-piece swimming costume and wide-brimmed crème sun hat. She smiled as if she was innocent and happily splashed her feet in the ocean’s crystal blue water.

As the clip ended, the audience was full of excitement and anticipation. Branson stepped forward as the screen dimmed and spun around to face the room in a move that he hoped displayed his athletic form.

The screens showed a sassy young reporter standing outside the Kodak. With prompting from the event producer, Branson spun back to face the reporter and camera 5.

“We’ll get back to our contestants soon but right now we’re crossing to our reporter, Terri-Lee Wilson, for a report from the red carpet. What’s happening, Terri-Lee?”

Terri-Lee, blonde, vivacious, petite, stood in her Reiss Sonia little black dress, black Blahnik heels and orange Shiseido lippy at the exact spot where the red carpet met the reception area.

There was an oversized ABC microphone in her tiny right hand.

“It’s real busy out here, Branson!”

Behind her, British actor Hugh Grant could be seen exiting from a black limousine in a dark Ralph Lauren suit combo. He was conjoined with a redheaded woman in a black Paul Poiret micro-mini-skirt, Gucci stretch lace top with satin trim and crème Silvio Rossi pumps. The camera followed the pair to the lobby where an usher greeted them with an exaggerated thespian bow. The crowd called out excitedly. Ever the professional, while doing his shy-little-boy flirt routine, Hugh made sure the photographers had a clear shot of his best profile.

“As you can see Branson, the stars have come out tonight for the most highly-regarded awards in world fashion,” Terri-Lee said breathlessly. The screens switched to an exterior shot. Limousines were queued-up-as far as camera 6 could see. At the front of the queue, a bunch of botoxed 90s soap opera stars alighted. As their dated sartorial style and designer hats looked tragically out of place, the telecast vision quickly switched back to the smiling ABC reporter.

“I’m hoping to talk with Super Models Kate Moss and Helena Christensen a little later on but, for now, it’s back to you Branson,” Terri-Lee continued as she wound up the live cross.

The crowd surrounding Terri-Lee cheered as the telecast vision switched back to the interior of the Kodak.

Branson fiddled with his earpiece while beaming into camera 1. The audience applauded and once again Branson milked the moment.

“Thank you, Terri-Lee. We’ll look forward to speaking to you again a little later in the show,” the M/C said and performed last year’s dance-step as he grinned into camera 2.

“Don’t go away folks, we meet 12 of the most gorgeous women on earth, right after these important messages.”

Choreographed images of the models in bikinis, splashing in a heart-shaped swimming pool, switched to a commercial for Estee Lauder’s latest anti-wrinkle skin care range.

Inside the auditorium, the giant back screen faded to purple inscribed with white and yellow flowers. The 60s were back in fashion.

At the entrance to the Kodak parking station, two sensibly dressed women were work-shopping parking rage. They yelled at each other and sounded their horns while aggressively trying to manoeuvre their late model Mercedes coupes past each other.

Neither woman would concede. A long-haired parking attendant, dressed in soiled blue jeans and a red and black flannel shirt, appeared and surveyed the narcissistic scene. He shook his head, shrugged and walked slowly back to his office. He flicked the door shut behind him, turned Eminem’s Kill You up loud and plonked his un-shined brown boots up on a paper strewn desk.

Inside the larger car, a silver Mercedes S63 AMG, sat Giselle Richter MBA, Chief Executive Officer of the Estee Lauder cosmetics corporation. To her subordinates she was universally known as ‘The Gale.’ Like a strong wind, you could always hear her coming and, like a hurricane, she seldom delivered good news.

Dressed in a brown Sanders wide leg jump suit and matching brown jacket, her prized Stuart Weitzman Retro Rose pumps co-ordinated with deceptive soft-pink Estee Lauder lipstick, Giselle jutted out her big square jaw, spotted a gap and accelerated past her opponent with tyres squealing.

Finding a vacant parking spot, The Gale raised the middle finger of her left hand through the driver’s window as her vanquished opponent drove past with horn blaring. Giselle had already “made it” and, as far as she was concerned, the more people who knew it the better. Before exiting the Merc she checked her phone and her hair, layering on more lipstick. Giselle clicked her key ring to lock the door and strode to the elevators, smiling.

“Life is full of little triumphs,” she thought as she moved forward toward the bright lights.