Читать книгу Size Zero: My Life as a Disappearing Model - Victoire Dauxerre - Страница 13

Seb had told me that she was a former model. According to him, he was paying for a session with walking teacher Évelyne (€150 an hour) because she was the best person to teach me how to walk the catwalks, on which I was supposed to be parading in a few weeks’ time with perfect ease and with that feline allure that their name suggests. ‘Don’t forget your Balmains, otherwise it’ll be pointless.’ And so there we were, Mum and I, standing in front of the door of an apartment on the thousandth floor of a dizzying tower in the 12th arrondissement. The woman who opened the door to us didn’t look like a model at all: her feet were bare, her grey hair was held up in a messy bun by her glasses, she was wearing a colourful silk djellaba and her fingers were bedecked with silver rings. She gave us a friendly welcome and ushered us into a purple, orange and pink apartment full of Buddhas, candles, Indian wall hangings, rugs, embroidered cushions and a faint but pervasive smell of incense.

She offered us some tea, pushed all the furniture in the living room against the walls to create a corridor for walking, and installed Mum on a chair so that she could observe everything, remember anything I might forget and then help me practise during the holidays in order to be ready for New York. I put my hair up in a ponytail, slipped into my performing sandals and off I went. She immediately saw that I knew how to walk in heels – ‘You have the grace of Lauren Bacall’ (isn’t she a Hollywood star, Seb?) – but that I was holding myself too erect, a bit like a classical dancer, and that I was much too tense.

She showed me how to relax my shoulders and arms, right down to my nails, with a few little exercises. We spent quite a while on the issue of ‘Playmobil hands’: how to make sure that I didn’t resemble a Playmobil figure with stiff arms and hook-like hands. And so I learned how to think about relaxing my fingers when walking. And also how to swing my pelvis to relax my legs and to inject movement into my arms, how to lower my head slightly while looking up in order to obtain that ‘killer look’, how to erase any kind of expression from my face – ‘Above all, never smile!’ – so that I would look superior and detached from the humdrum world, and how to concentrate on always walking in a straight line. And of course she also showed me how to adopt that ridiculous gait that is peculiar to models: one foot placed exactly in front of the other with a high knee lift and a big stride, which makes even the most beautiful of creatures look completely stupid. ‘It’s a convention, Victoire, and you have to master it. Never forget that they’re looking at the clothes, not you.’

After an hour of this, I was knackered. ‘Practise a bit every day. You’ll see, your body will internalise it all and you won’t even need to think about it any more.’

In the lift back down to earth, it occurred to me that not even a month ago I’d been completely immersed in revising. And I couldn’t help wondering if I really wanted to spend the rest of my life focusing my energies on crucial issues like ‘Playmobil hands’. We were a long way from Shakespeare and global geopolitics!

The question of the contract still had to be dealt with, and I was reassured that Dad was taking care of it. I knew that he would do what was in my best interests. I went with him to see his lady lawyer friend, who explained that Elite would be looking after me in France; Silent, who I had not yet met, in New York; and D’ Management, who I would be meeting in Italy in October, in Milan. All these agencies negotiated each of my individual assignments, charged a fee to the clients, kept a percentage of these fees and paid a small sum to Seb, who remained my ‘primary agency’. All my expenses would be advanced to me and the agencies would reimburse themselves at the end of the season from my earnings.

When I asked Seb why Elite couldn’t represent me all around the world, he got into convoluted explanations about how in New York and Milan the small agencies had much more clout than a big machine like Elite and that they would be much better placed to look after me. My job was to make them want me, and if I placed my trust in him, he knew this world like the back of his hand and knew better than anyone what would be best for me. And for him too, no doubt, though I didn’t say that to him.

He was increasingly getting on my nerves with his incessant chatter – the mere thought of him opening his mouth tired me out. But I decided to trust him. When it came to the important things, he’d made good on his promises: he had indeed introduced me to Elite and had made sure that I went straight onto the roster of top models managed by Flo. He’d paid for my sessions with Sergei and Évelyne, who were just the type of professionals I needed. And above all, he would be in New York with me when I took the big plunge.

It was the first time in my life that I was going to travel somewhere without at least one member of my family. I was trying not to think about it too much, but it was making me really anxious. The fairy tale would have been perfect if Mum could have come with me, but Seb had made it clear that this was not on the cards. And anyway, if Mum came with me, who was going to look after the boys? In September, Léopold would be entering Year Eight and Alexis Year Twelve, and so it was important for her to be there for them. I was the big sister and I had to learn how to fend for myself, and so I was very happy in the knowledge that that pain in the neck Seb would be by my side to guide me through this alien world.

Naturally it was Seb who took me to see Silent a few days before I left for Marseille with Mum. Rather than receiving us in their offices, they asked us to come to a photo studio in the suburbs where they put together the images and videos that they use to promote their stable of models. And so the meeting took place on the top floor of a warehouse, which you accessed via a goods lift. How cool! Everyone was quietly busying themselves in this rather grand loft space, which was like a well-ordered beehive. In one corner there was an open kitchen with a well-stocked buffet which Olympe and Madeleine were busy nibbling away at. I greeted them with a smile. In another corner, between two bulging clothes racks, there was a sort of dressing room where the girls were getting their hair and make-up done. I immediately recognised the very beautiful actress Emmanuelle Seigner, who was getting a blow-dry. Technicians and assistants were beavering away in a huge empty space that was surrounded by projectors and all the photographic and video paraphernalia.

Seb introduced me to Louis, a tall elegant man with a piercing blue gaze who was wearing a pristine shirt and perfectly tailored trousers and was casually sockless in his smart shoes. He was one of the founders of the agency. He greeted me as if he’d known me for ever and hadn’t seen me in ages: ‘Ah, Victoire, I’m so happy you’re here! You know, we’re so pleased to be taking you to New York with us. We’re going to do beautiful things together! Have you met Émile?’

He led me over to his partner, who was at the buffet. He had a nice-looking face, was slightly too tanned, perfectly shaved, had very white teeth and was wearing a rather crumpled linen suit and a pair of flip-flops. It was another kind of elegance, which jarred somewhat with the way he spoke: he was in the process of giving Olympe and Madeleine, who hadn’t moved an inch from the buffet, a dressing-down. ‘For fuck’s sake, girls, you have to know what you really want! We’ll be in New York in six weeks, and you go on eating regardless. Stop eating! We’re not going to take you there in that state.’

I felt embarrassed for them and I could see that they were furious that I was witnessing this scene under Seb’s satisfied gaze. But above all, I found it unfair: they were perfectly slim. I wasn’t sure I would be able to do any better.

For the time being, the apple diet was working: I’d weighed myself that morning, and I was touching 56 kilos. And I wasn’t even really hungry! Amid this whirlwind of preparations, the fact was that I didn’t really have time to think of eating. But would I hold firm over the long run? And why had they ordered this gargantuan buffet for a gathering of models who were all supposed to be on a diet?

Émile greeted me very sweetly too and introduced me to Nicolas, the hairstylist who was going to look after me. They were absolutely insistent on having me in the photos and videos that would serve to showcase the agency in New York. And so before I could blink, I found myself being made up and having my hair done all in one go. They took possession of me and all I had to do was let them get on with it.

Nicolas was in ecstasy about the quality of my skin: ‘Wow, Victoire, you remind me of Daria Werbowy. And I know what I’m talking about, I did the Lancôme campaign with her.’ I was flattered. For the last fortnight, I had been browsing through the magazines to familiarise myself with this new world and I’d spotted this sublime, blue-eyed brunette who, according to the papers, was one of the ten highest-paid models in the world. Let’s hope that the comparison would bring me luck. ‘Everybody will just adore a complexion like that! And you’re right for every type of hair and make-up.’

He explained how it worked: a few days before each fashion show, a model is assigned to the make-up artists and hairstylists, and they use her to create the make-up and hairstyle look for the season. ‘After that, they take Polaroids which are posted up in all the dressing rooms so that the other make-up artists and hairstylists can reproduce the look on all the other models in the fashion show.’

I didn’t even have time to ask Nicolas if Daria was nice, because it was now my turn to be filmed. An assistant put me in front of the camera and a huge fan started up, sending my hair, which Nicolas had taken great pains to style, flying all over the place. ‘Go ahead, Victoire! Walk around, use the space, enjoy yourself! Look at me. That’s it! Now to the left. Your eyes, give me your eyes! Great! Laugh! That’s perfect, we’re done!’

It had been short, but intense. And I loved it!

Louis and Émile came over to say goodbye. ‘We’ll see each other again in New York very soon. Between now and then, get plenty of rest. We want you at the top of your game. And don’t whatever you do get tanned! Stay in the shade – that’s a must.’

In the taxi on the way back – thanks, Seb, for sparing us the train – my ‘primary agency’ insisted on this point: white skin, face and body. A tan was out of the question, and no bikini line either. And especially no muscles. ‘Don’t be doing any sport, will you? They want feminine women, not athletes. The only exercise you’re allowed is walking. You even need to watch it with swimming – wide shoulders are not attractive.’ I couldn’t help looking at him with a certain annoyance. ‘Well, what did you think, honey? Being a top model takes effort! It’s a profession.’

That same day, Vladimir, the head booker at Elite, took my parents out to lunch at L’Avenue, a chic restaurant on the Avenue Montaigne. No doubt Dad’s constant calls about each little detail of the contract had started to irritate him. He’d probably decided that it would be easier just to speak to my parents directly and also get to know them a bit in order to put their minds at rest. They must have been used to that at Elite – I was almost old for a debutante. Most of their recruits were not even over 16 and I assumed that coaching the parents was also part of their job. Be that as it may, the contract issues were sorted out and my parents seemed reassured when they saw how serious the agency was about looking after me: ‘In any case, it’s in their interests that no harm comes to you. We trust you, but do be careful, Sweetpea.’

I don’t think it ever occurred to Vladimir to invite me to this lunch too, which was fine by me, because there wasn’t much for me to do in a restaurant. As somebody who worked in the industry, he knew that you didn’t invite a model out to eat.