Читать книгу Size Zero: My Life as a Disappearing Model - Victoire Dauxerre - Страница 11

I did exactly what Seb told me to do: skinny black jeans, black tank top, horrible khaki jacket, ballet shoes, and my Balmain sandals in my bag. My hair nicely done, no make-up at all and sweating profusely, all got up as I was in my ‘model gear’ instead of sporting the nice light dress which this early July heatwave called for. I met up with him at Saint-Michel and we jumped into a deliciously air-conditioned cab, where my body could get back down to a normal temperature. Seb spent the time drumming into me once again what he’d been repeating incessantly for the last two days: be natural, show willing, keep quiet and do what you’re asked to do. Amen.

It was one of those wonderful Haussmann buildings on Avenue Montaigne, just next to the Plaza Athénée. In the coolness of the entrance hall, I sat down on a step to put on my shoes, which was a whole palaver in itself, what with all the straps and my feet all clammy and swollen with the heat. Seb was watching me with a hint of irritation. ‘You’re going to have to work on your technique, aren’t you?’ Once I was perched on my heels, it seemed like he only came up to my navel – he was the ridiculous one. The first challenge: to stabilise myself at this improbable height. I was tottering a bit, but managed my first steps without breaking the heels or my ankles. Another sidelong glance from Seb: ‘Upstairs, you don’t want to be tripping, do you? It’s a minimum requirement, if you want to make a good impression.’ Thanks for the confidence boost, that’s just what I needed.

We took the lift up without a word. First floor, second floor, third floor – I felt the stress rising up my legs and clutching at my innards the higher we went. The door opened, and my heels sank into the thick, dark red carpet. There was polished wood panelling and, at the end of the corridor, a large elegant door bearing the same shiny golden plaque as on the façade, engraved with the word Elite in very sober and stylised black letters. Behind it, you could hear the hubbub of busy people. I had stage fright, like in the theatre just before walking on stage, when you can hear the buzz in the auditorium. Take a deep breath. Think of my parents and my brothers. Of Granddaddy, Nan and even Plume. Think about everything that makes me strong and makes me feel good. And go for it, like diving into the big pool.

We buzzed, and the door opened onto a rather spacious reception area. Seb nodded at the receptionist, who recognised him and smiled back. She ushered us in with a wave of her hand. I could feel my heart pounding furiously. We entered a huge, bright white room, with light streaming in through tall curtainless windows. In the middle stood a gigantic black table which people were milling around, speaking French and English in hushed tones, their eyes fixed on their computer screens and their phones stuck to their ears. On the right-hand wall, there was a bookshelf full of perfectly aligned books with names written in capital letters on their spines. And covering the walls there were hundreds of images in neat rows: first names, faces, silhouettes and measurements. These are the ‘comp cards’, which models use as super-size business cards. They’re a sort of snapshot of who they are, with the contact details of the agency.

The place was stunning – I felt as if I were in a cathedral, a cathedral of fashion, beauty and luxury. And this was perhaps where, in a few moments’ time, my baptism of fire was going to take place. I wanted them to take me on; I wanted to be a part of this amazingly big, bright, white world; I wanted a piece of the condensed and effervescent energy that this place exuded. Providing they liked me.

Nobody was taking any notice of us. We walked across the room towards a small brunette wearing big glasses who was sitting at the end of the table. Her voice was deep and carried authority. I focused on walking with a casual, self-assured air, trying not to tremble. Seb greeted the woman with a ‘Hi, Flo,’ and she turned towards me. It was all happening very quickly. Just before she replied with a ‘Hello’ and a big toothy smile – almost too toothy, in fact – I saw her gaze slide attentively from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, and then back up again just as attentively, until it met me full in the eyes. Still smiling, she said, ‘Hello, Victoire.’

‘Hello,’ I replied, holding out my hand. She shook my hand, though I immediately sensed that a handshake was a bit out of place here.

And then she turned to her colleagues and loudly announced, ‘Look over here, everybody! This is Victoire, the new girl! Look how beautiful she is!’

They all glanced across to size me up in their turn, said hello to me very politely and then returned to their business, as if I’d already left.

And yet I was still there, standing up to my full height of 5 foot 10 inches, plus an extra 7 inches thanks to my Balmain shoes, in front of Flo, who was sitting in her armchair and speaking to me politely but firmly: ‘So, you’d like to work with us? How did you meet Seb? What do you do in life? Could you take off your jacket?’ Phew! It was a huge relief to finally take off my horrible parka, which I’d been slowly dissolving in. Meanwhile, Flo was looking me up and down again. ‘Would you turn round?’ I felt like a cow at a cattle market. A piece of meat being scrutinised and weighed before being devoured. ‘Perfect. I’m going to introduce you to Vladimir, and then you can go and do the Polaroids with Nicolas.’

Did that mean that they were taking me on? Without discussion or negotiation or anything? She had said the ‘new girl’ as if I were already part of the team. And weren’t they even going to ask me for my opinion? Seb seemed to be in seventh heaven, as if he weren’t in the least surprised. As if everything had already been decided, without me having had any say in the matter.

Flo introduced me to Vladimir, the short man with the nice smile and the Serbo-Croat accent sitting on her right. He was the ‘head of the bookers’ – the agents who are in touch with the casting directors and send the models to the famous castings and other appointments, and then negotiate and sign their contracts. He greeted me with a ‘My darrrling, how beautiful you are. Come along, I’m going to intrrroduce you to the boss.’ I followed him towards an immense room with huge windows that gave onto a massive balcony overlooking the Avenue Montaigne. In the middle of it was an enormous black desk, behind which was sitting the only man in the whole agency who was wearing a suit and tie. ‘Gérrrald, let me intrrroduce you to Victoirrre, the new girl.’

He looked up at me. ‘Hello, sweetie.’

‘Hello.’

And he buried his nose back in his papers.

Leaving his office, his ‘sweetie’ was asking herself what she was doing there and if she really wanted to get mixed up with all these people, who were seemingly from another planet.

Nicolas, a very thin and very agitated young man, closed the large doors to the boss’s office so that he could photograph me in front of them. A first profile, a second profile, from the front, from the back, hair swept back over the ear. I remembered what Seb had told me two days earlier: a look of intent in the eyes, head slightly lowered, lips half-open.

Once the Polaroids were done, we went to the other end of the corridor, where a very cool-looking woman – huge trendy glasses, black jeans, big-brand trainers and immaculate haircut – greeted me without a smile and without introducing herself. ‘Walk!’

I did as I was told, putting as much grace into it as I could.

‘Again!’

Going down the corridor for the second time, I tried to catch her eyes, but she was staring at my bottom, not my eyes. At my arms and my legs. The less she said, the more I felt I was moving like a robot.

‘OK. You’re going to have to take walking lessons.’

Walking lessons? Did such things exist? I was about to come up with a reply, when I realised that she wasn’t talking to me but to Seb. Still without addressing me directly, she took a tape measure out of her pocket and came over to take my measurements. Chest, waist and hips, or rather the fat of the buttocks! I sensed that it was a crucial moment, but I had no idea what score I needed to pass the examination. ‘34, 25, 36.’ Was that good or not? Seb said nothing.

Flo appeared and asked, ‘Well, then?’ The figures were repeated to her. She sighed. ‘OK, we’ll lie, because you’re never going to get into the clothes – you absolutely have to be close to 34. We’ll put 34 and reduce the rest too. In any case, it’s eight weeks away and you’ll have more than enough time to lose it.’ She looked at me, giving me another of her toothy smiles. She was smiling, but in reality she wasn’t smiling. She was giving me a very strict order. ‘For the photo shoots, size 8 is fine and you can put some back on. But for the shows, you have to get into size 4 to 6. OK?’

OK.

Before we left, Vladimir asked me to sit down at his desk – what a relief it was to finally take the weight off my feet! – and handed me a contract in a classy white sleeve engraved with the Elite logo. He also reeled off a list of the things that I needed to do as a priority: sign the contract in question, do a photo session with one of their photographers so that they could print my comp card and put together an initial portfolio, and arrange walking lessons. ‘You’re rrreally too beautiful, my darrrling. Do a good job in New York. We’ll be seeing each other again for Parrris fashion week.’

We signalled goodbye to Flo, who was on the phone, and found ourselves back in the lift. Sébastien, who had never been so silent in all the time I’d known him, became Seb once again: I’d been great, they’d been amazed, he’d done the right thing to make sure that it was Flo who took me on, he’d negotiated like crazy but it had worked, and thanks to him I was going to have an incredible first season and become the supermodel who everyone wanted a piece of, because when ‘they’ find a French girl, ‘they’ never let go. The French girl is the must-have, and there aren’t so many of them on the market – perhaps two or three. ‘And one of them is you! You’ll see. In New York, Milan and Paris, it’s you they’re all going to want!’

So that was it, it was a done deal? In the entrance hall, as I extricated my feet from my sandals from hell, I felt drained and dazed, excited and out of myself. All these people had chosen me, appraised me, measured me and given me a schedule without once asking me for my opinion. Perhaps it was better that way. I wasn’t sure that I had an opinion. My life was in the process of taking off, without me really having had any say in the matter. And so what? Perhaps that was how life worked? Going with the flow and letting life take decisions for me? Letting it take me wherever it wanted to take me? Ultimately, there was nothing I had to do personally, except do what I was told and do it to perfection in order to become the best. And stop eating, straight away.

Mum was waiting for me in her old Austin Mini on the Avenue Montaigne – getting the metro in this heat was more than I could face. ‘So, what did they say, then?’

I gave her the low-down. Flo, Vladimir, Gérald, the contract, the Polaroid session, the walking lessons and the measurements.

‘An inch around the hips is quite a lot, Loutch. You’ve never been so slim, and you’ve got an iron will!’

She was right. But I was going to become a supermodel, the supermodel who everybody wanted a piece of. I was going to have a dazzling rise to the top, earn loads of money and kick off my adult life in an incredible way.

I had just turned 18, Elite thought I was terrific, and in September I’d be in New York! When I got home, I weighed myself. At 5 foot 10 and weighing 58 kilos, I could get into a size 8. So I’d need to lose at least three 3 kilos to reach size 6, and three more to get to size 4. It was 2 July and the first castings in New York were starting at the beginning of September, so I had eight weeks to reach a weight of 52 kilos. Or let’s say 50, so that I had a bit of leeway. That meant a kilo a week, which I should be able to manage.

I spent the rest of the evening on the internet, browsing sites and blogs by girls who offered slimming tips. It was pretty straightforward, in fact: I would just eat fruit. And more specifically, apples, because the pectin in them makes you feel full. I’d eat them three times a day, chewing tiny pieces very slowly, like Mum does when she eats a pain aux raisins. It was the same as preparing for my Bac or the Sciences Po exam: I just had to remain focused on my objective. I’d done it before and I could do it again. It shouldn’t be a major obstacle – it was just a question of willpower. And I had plenty of willpower.