by Carre Otis
“Dawn will give you all the details. Flights, bus stations, the models’ apartment. Congrats, kid. You did good. Now you better go knock ’em dead.”
I went home that day and packed my little bag. I would be gone long before Kenny got home from his tour. Getting away from him wasn’t my only reason for going to New York, but it was high on the list. I didn’t leave a note, didn’t tell my parents where I was going. I didn’t feel like I had to now that I was really on my own.
Sadly, I never saw Gary again. This lovely man who gave me my first break died of AIDS just months after I left for New York. He was the first of many dear friends who would lose their lives to that dreadful disease. To this day I have never once forgotten his kindness or his faith in me.
I would not find either of those qualities in a man again for a very long time.
Chapter 2
Early Modeling Years
THE BIG APPLE
New York was a whirlwind of surprises. With just the money that Gary had given me in my pocket, and a few more pennies I had saved up, I was living on the low end of a pauper’s budget. Unprepared for winter weather, I was cold to the bone. Colder than I’d ever been before.
Finding my way to the models’ apartment was a terrifying journey. New streets, yellow cabs, fast drivers, all a swirl of unknowns. Elite’s model apartments were way up on the twenty-second floor of a high-rise on Manhattan’s famed Park Avenue. San Francisco didn’t have many buildings like this. I wasn’t used to the towering heights, nor was I used to the city lights, which never seemed to dim long enough for anyone to sleep. That old feeling of homesickness permeated every cell in my body. I ached for familiarity. But instead, when I rang the buzzer on apartment D, I was met by a woman with a stiff smile who efficiently proceeded to tell me the rules and regulations of the housing arrangement I’d just entered into.
Trudi Tapscott was in charge of the New Faces division at Elite, and all the new girls stayed with her. The place was depressing: There was a stark living room with a glass table and a lone ficus tree standing sadly in a bare corner. A kitchen completely devoid of any basics, even salt and pepper, lent itself easily to the new diet all the girls seemed to be on. Trudi’s apartment adjoined the models’ quarters, and although she couldn’t have been older than thirty, her impressive stature easily had us all assuming that “big sister” was watching. Although it remained unspoken, I’m pretty sure we all thought that a favorite of Trudi’s would have a lot more casting opportunities in a day than would a girl who rubbed her the wrong way. So we learned to live with her and love her. And those who didn’t, pretended to.
I was “odd girl out” again. My style wasn’t “sorority.” My differences had already found their way into how I related to others. This housing arrangement wasn’t going to lead to forming any close or lasting friendships. It was clear to me that my personal history wasn’t exactly like that of most of the other girls. I was a runaway. I had no money, nothing cool in my bag of tricks, nothing fancy in my wardrobe. And, most painfully, unlike the others I wasn’t calling home on Sundays to report my week’s victories to my loving and excited family. I was just hoping to get by.
The day I arrived, I dragged my exhausted self and my small bag into the bunk room. I was barely given a nod by the others, all of whom were newcomers themselves.
“Hi,” I tried shyly. “I’m Carré.”
Nods all around. Stephanie was a brunette on the top bunk, Tiffany a blonde on the lower bunk. And Fiona walked in with a towel wrapped around her tall, slender body. “Oh!” she declared excitedly. “I’m not the new one anymore! That’s a fucking relief!”
Great, I thought. This ought to be fun. Pulling out my toiletry bag, I headed to the bathroom to get washed up. Tomorrow morning I would have to be at the Elite headquarters to meet the man in charge.
Afterward, climbing onto the small bottom bunk, I could hear the girls whispering and laughing. They had already met the Boss, John Casablancas, and were well into their first weeks of endless castings and test shoots. If you managed to nail a job, you were as good as gold, but so far none of the new girls had. Listening to their conversations, I gathered that there was a four-week rule. If you hadn’t scored something (or someone) by then, chances were you would be “sent back.” That banishment loomed over all our heads as the minutes, days, and weeks ticked by. It was an interesting hell for a teenager to have to endure. Already we were on the clock, with a definite expiration date.
As the sun rose over the Big Apple, movement in the small apartment had purpose. The occupants made themselves busy preparing for the rounds of the day. Hair dryers buzzed, mascara was applied, lip gloss dabbed, and hefty streaks of rouge were smudged on. Apparently, barefaced castings were not really done in New York, or perhaps everyone just had her own interpretation of what “bare” meant.
I threw together the only outfit I had that might be hip enough to wear to a meeting with the president of Elite: an oversize silk navy button-down man’s shirt and my only pair of black leggings that weren’t yet threadbare. Pulling on my socks and boots, I gazed out at the city streets below, noting that a light rain had begun to fall. I didn’t have an umbrella, and I certainly didn’t have a fancy overcoat. Looking on as my fellow models buttoned up their formal “best,” I felt small and inadequate. Fiona must have noticed my wistful expression and threw me a long black trench coat.
“Here,” she said. “You don’t have one, do you?” Her look was inquisitive, and maybe a bit concerned. Shaking my head in disbelief and gratitude, I stood up to try it on. It was a perfect fit. And a perfect addition to my one and only outfit.
“Seriously? I can borrow it?” I asked.
“No prob,” Fiona answered with a smile. That coat was an absolute gift, and it got me through my first freezing weeks in Manhattan.
I made my way to the agency and prepared myself for the worst. I was certain that John Casablancas would see me and realize that he’d made a terrible decision in flying me out. I sat quietly in the waiting room playing with the buttons on Fiona’s coat, watching the doors open and shut, seeing faces and hearing accents from all over the world as people passed through like waves in an undulating ocean. The walls were covered with posters of Kim Alexis, Joan Severance, and Janice Dickinson. Paulina Porizkova lay sandy-bottomed for a Sports Illustrated cover. It was all tremendously impressive as well as tremendously intimidating.
Suddenly the large doors onto the waiting room opened and Trudi’s familiar face poked in.
“Carré, John will see you now.”
I gulped. Stood. And followed Trudi through the doors and into absolute mayhem. Bookers were on phones, all speaking in different languages. Head shots and composites lined the walls. Notes and client names were pinned to an enormous bulletin board. It was loud. Unbelievably loud. These were the days before computers and e-mail. The noise was unforgettable.
Trudi opened another large wooden door leading to a spacious office, and as I stepped in, she closed it firmly behind me. I held my breath. Here it was. The moment of truth. Sitting behind a beautiful mahogany desk was a dark-haired man. He swiveled his chair around to face me. He had such a magnetic smile. He beamed broad and bright; John Casablancas was a handsome and gregarious man.
“Hello, my dear,” he said as he stood up. He walked across the carpet toward me. Just when I thought I would shake his hand, his cheek met mine in what I would soon come to know as the “Euro air kiss.” Both sides were quickly pecked, and then he just as quickly backed off, retreating to his lush seat behind the desk.
“Sit. Sit down.” John smiled, nodding to the chairs that surrounded him. I sat, trying to cross my legs elegantly and look sophisticated. Shit, I was so far out of this league it was painful. I was certain my cover was about to be blown.
“Let me tell you how this works, Carré,” he said. “You will stay here, with us, and we will begin by sending you out for some test shoots. All I have here are these.” He slapped the test photos
I had taken in San Francisco onto the table. “Of course we can tell you are a pretty girl. But the question remains . . . do you have it?”
I nodded dumbly. “It.” Did I? I wasn’t certain at all.
As if reading my thoughts, he gave a small laugh. “Even if you think you don’t have it, my dear, act like you do. And let me be the judge.”
“Also, I hear you have no money. Is this true?”
I nodded and stared.
“We will provide you a small allowance every week. This will be on your tab of what you will owe us as your agents. And this money . . . well, Trudi will give you all the details you need. We expect you to show up on time. Be professional.” He turned his attention to a small photo on his desk. I recognized the face. It was a young up-and-coming model, Stephanie Seymour.
“Let me tell you a story. This girl, Stephanie, came to me only six months ago. With her mother. She was an unknown. And soon she will be world-famous. In just a year. Ahhh . . . Stephanie.” He looked longingly at the picture. “She sends me the sweetest cards, with glitter and stickers spilling out. She’s in Marbella right now, shooting for French Elle. My little star.”
I was confused. But soon it would be clear. Stephanie was John’s girlfriend—despite their nearly twenty-seven-year age difference.
He placed his hand on the intercom and paged Trudi.
“So let’s give you a few weeks and see what we have. Perhaps you will be my next little star,” he said, in what sounded to me an almost conspiratorial tone.
Just then Trudi walked in.
“Come along with me, Carré,” she said. “Let me show you around. You will be ‘mine.’ ” There was something caring and protective about both her manner and these words.
I stood and thanked John. I was genuinely grateful, just unsure.
As we walked back through the office and the hustle and bustle, Trudi pointed out all the big agents. “There is Monique Pillard. She handles all the stars.” As we passed a glass-encased office, I could see a small, pudgy, wire-haired woman pacing. She looked like someone’s grandmother. But Monique was a big shot. Not to be fooled with.
After my tour I was a given a map of the city and a list of the subways I’d need to take to get to my first test shoot. It was with Rocco Laspata, a photographer who would later go on to found the Laspata DeCaro agency. Rocco had been sent my one picture from Gary’s test and had liked it enough to agree to shoot me. Working with him was my initiation into life as a model in the big city.
There were many, many test shoots in the weeks to come, but few pictures actually made the cut. It was the hair, or the makeup, or the lighting—or, even worse, just me. I wasn’t quite right. I was too this or too that. I was too plump, my face too fat, my smile too crooked, or my nose too difficult to light. My pout at that time was too big, my tits too small. Despite all the hope in my heart, there was an inevitable sinking feeling at day’s end, knowing as I did that the clock was ticking and my time was running out.
One evening Trudi asked if I wanted to come over for a glass of wine. Wow. This must mean she likes me, I thought. I happily agreed, and as I knocked on the door that led from the models’ apartment to hers, I felt my first sense of triumph in the big city.
I sat with Trudi on her white couch, listening to music, sipping wine. And as we both loosened up, she began to share with me details of her love life. Her boyfriend had just sent her a gift, she told me. “Wanna see?” she asked sloppily. I laughed, eager to please, and said, “Of course.”
But mortification took over as she pulled off her pressed pants and underwear and stood there bottomless. (Modesty, as I’d be reminded many more times in my career, really is overrated in the modeling industry.) Embarrassment then turned to confusion when Trudi opened a box and pulled out a pair of panties. Or were they? What the hell? They were “half panties.” My brows must have furrowed in uncertainty. I tried to act cool and nodded, encouraging her to try them on. That, of course, was my first introduction to the thong. Neither of us were very clear on how to wear one, so the next few minutes were spent in trial and error.
“Well, wait,” she said, struggling. “I think this string goes here and that one goes there.” She wiggled the panties around, but no matter how she situated them, they still looked totally wrong.
We laughed and at that point I stood, figuring this was a good time to leave. “Oh, they’re cute,” I assured her. “Really cute. He must be a doll.”
“Wait, Carré, before you go. . . . Let’s hang out again. Maybe we could have drinks with Eric. My boyfriend?”
“Yeah. That would be great.” I lied. I sensed that Trudi was lonely and looking for a friend but I also sensed trouble. Lord knows, I don’t need any more of that now, I thought.
“Cool. Tomorrow at seven. Okay?”
“Sure.” I smiled. I was tired. Ready for my day to end.
The next day came, and eventually I found myself back at Trudi’s with a glass of Fumé Blanc in my hand. Her boyfriend was there, too. We hung out and ate Chinese food ordered from the corner restaurant. But every time Trudi left, Eric would stare at me, inching closer and closer on the couch. It was all too awkward. I liked Trudi a lot, but spending time with her and her boyfriend was weird. He made me feel uneasy.
I ended up hanging out with them again . . . and again. Every night the same thing happened. But I couldn’t resist. The models’ apartment was dull and lonely. Of course, it didn’t take long for my involvement in the “world next door” to get the other girls furiously whispering every time I made a late-night return.
A couple of weeks into my stay, I was called into the Elite headquarters. Waiting in Trudi’s office, I was surprised to see John himself walk in. He had a series of my test shots in his hand.
“Carré, we have a problem.”
Oh, no. This wasn’t going to be good.
“Your look isn’t it, my dear. It’s not catching on. We haven’t one really solid shot of you in all of these,” he said, waving the pile of pictures. I swallowed hard.
“You look too . . .” He paused.
“I know,” I said. I finished the line: “Fat, pouty, angry, plump, dark, exotic. I’ve heard it all.” It sounded like a list of dwarfs from an alternative Snow White movie. And I was grumpy, too, tired of being endlessly picked apart.
“Now, now,” John scolded. He was supposed to say these things. Not me. “I will give it one more week. On my dime. If we can’t get something good, something really good, then I’m afraid you will have to move on.”
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.
“Pardon?” He shot me a stern look.
“Nothing. Of course, Mr. Casablancas. Thank you. I will give it my all.” Not that I hadn’t been. I had. It was just that—once again—I was “wrong.” All wrong.
John left, and I sat alone in Trudi’s office, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t have a fallback. I didn’t have another plan. This had been the whole plan. I was fucked.
“Hey, Carré.” Trudi waltzed in. “What’s up?” She saw my stricken face. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” She drew me into a hug, and I cried for a moment, then looked her in the eyes.
“Sweetie, listen to me,” she said. “He won’t just let you go. You’ll be sent to Paris. Milan. You will make it.” I felt momentarily comforted. “You! You are special, Carré, you have that look,” she assured me. Then she asked me to do her a favor.
“What is it?” I said between sniffles and blotting my tears.
“Can you meet Eric at my apartment? He doesn’t have the keys, and I have a late meeting.”
Without thinking, I said yes. Why? I’m not sure. I wanted to help. I felt vulnerable, and I was grateful for her support. But something in me was flashing a warning sign.
When Eric showed up around seven, I did as I was told and let him in. Comfortable in Trudi’s apartment by this time, I turned on the music and opened a bottle of wine, offering him a glass.
�
�Here you go, Eric,” I said, smiling cheerfully and handing it to him.
“Thanks, Carré.” As he took it, his hand touched mine and our eyes met. His gaze lingered a moment too long. I pulled away and looked at the floor. That was awkward, I thought.
“Come,” he said, as he patted the couch next to him. “Sit by me for a moment.”
I was unsure of what to do, yet I didn’t want to be rude. And so I sat.
Casually and utterly predictably, Eric put his arm over the back of the couch, his hand touching my shoulder. I stiffened. A moment later he swiveled around so that we were nose to nose. I held my breath, praying he would go away. And then he did it. He kissed me. I pulled back on impulse, totally mortified. I was considering slapping him when Trudi walked in and stood, mouth agape, staring at the two of us sitting much too close together on her couch.
“What the fuck is going on?” she yelled. I could see the fury course through her, the rage welling up as her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t just do that again, Eric?” She was demanding an answer and begging him to be something other than what he was. I could feel her pain, her sense of betrayal.
“Trudi!” I cried, rising from the couch. “It’s not what it looks like!” What a pathetic line, I thought as soon as it came out of my mouth. Like she’d ever believe that one.
She stomped over to me and pushed me. “What the fuck are you doing? You treat me like this? You treat me like shit? I invite you into my home and you do this?” Spit was flying. Her voice was escalating. I knew that the girls next door had their ears to the wall.
“Wait! I didn’t do anything. He—” I cried, pointing a finger. “He tried to kiss me. I only did what you said. I opened your door for him!” I was desperate. But I knew I wouldn’t be believed. I was telling the truth and it didn’t matter. My lifeline was being severed.
Trudi looked like she wanted to slap me first and then smack Eric, too. Instead she grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me to the door that separated the apartments. She opened it and pushed me through.