Size Zero

by Victoire Dauxerre

  As the thing that scared me the most was the idea of being away from my family, I asked my parents to buy me a cuddly toy that I could take everywhere with me and would make me feel like I had them with me everywhere too. While they went off to look for one, Léo and I gave some thought to the name we could give it. As a lover of Asian culture, he explained to me that Japanese first names had actual meanings and so we went on the internet to have a look. That was a lot of fun. We ruled out Suki, which means ‘love’, Fuku, which means ‘luck’ but which didn’t sound very appealing, and Kasoku, which means ‘family’. In the end, we opted for Yùki, with an accent on the u. That means ‘courage’. Léo said, ‘That way, your courage will never fail you.’ Leo really was so sweet and he was right, too: courage was exactly what I needed.

  My parents returned with a cute little white rabbit, all soft and gentle, and I immediately adopted him. I sprayed Yùki with Mum’s perfume and from that point on he never left my side.

  We headed home from Marseille, Alex rejoined us, we packed our bags and we set off to the States.

  The American Dream

  I left on my own a few hours before the rest of them on a different plane, because Silent had taken care of my return ticket. At the end of our family trip, I’d fly to New York from Los Angeles to get straight down to work and they would return to Paris. All of which meant that I was travelling with Air France and had been upgraded to business class like a star! I wondered if this was a foretaste of the new life that awaited me. The armchair that became a bed was a delight, as were the billion options available on my personal in-flight computer and the little complimentary beauty set. True luxury! And just as miraculous was the adorable air hostess who seemed to find it perfectly normal that I turned down my three-star meal in favour of fresh fruit.

  I was in a bizarre state: both worried and excited, detached and nervous, grown-up and childlike. It was the beginning of adulthood for me, but I don’t know what I would have done without Yùki there to comfort me.

  I got a yellow cab to the hotel. Wow! New York! It was like being in a film, and not in the audience but on the screen: the taxi and all the smells, the car horns, the swarms of people all sweating profusely, Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan skyline … I was in New York, New York! I was sure I was going to love it here.

  As soon as my parents and brothers caught up with me, we began to explore every corner of the city. It was all set to be a dream holiday: New York, San Francisco, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, the five of us together and staying in incredible hotels. We’d been talking about it all year long and were so looking forward to it. And yet, though I didn’t want to admit it, I was having trouble keeping up. I was absolutely knackered, almost certainly because of the jet-lag, which I just couldn’t get over. And also because of that crazy month of July spent running around every which way, fretting over what choices I should make and what I was going to become, worrying about Granddaddy and trying to come to terms with my failure to get into Sciences Po.

  And because of the fear, this constant nagging fear.

  Traipsing around New York with the boys and Mum and Dad, I couldn’t help thinking that in a fortnight’s time I’d be here again, but all on my own. Central Park, the Guggenheim, the MoMA, Tribeca, Ground Zero, Broadway, the Rockefeller Center and the Statue of Liberty: everything that I’d always dreamed of was there within my reach, at my feet. Initially, it astounded me and then, all of a sudden, it overwhelmed me: I felt like I was losing my grip on the cliff face and that I was going to fall, and go on falling for ever. I didn’t say anything to them about it so as not to ruin their trip.

  One great thing here, though, was that the calories were marked on every item of food you bought. That way, I knew more or less what I was doing and it made up for the fact that I couldn’t weigh myself, because there weren’t any scales in the hotel rooms. I tried not to think about it too much. On the day I left Paris, my hip size was 35 inches and I weighed a teeny bit over 51 kilos. I absolutely had to lose at least one more kilo, but two or three would really set my mind at rest …

  Just a stone’s throw from our hotel, there was an enormous store: Victoria’s Secret. Mum knew that it was my dream to work for them. Who knew, perhaps in the not too distant future I would be one of their brand ‘angels’? In the meantime, she took me there to treat me to some lingerie. I chose a very pretty black lace ensemble featuring a discreet little pink bow. A ‘size 0’ pair of knickers, which presumably corresponded to a size 34, and a 32A bra. It might have been bad news for me that I’d gone down two cup sizes, because personally I was fond of my breasts, but it certainly wasn’t bad news for fashion week (I had of course noticed that many of the girls on the catwalks were flat-chested). I hadn’t had my period either that month, no doubt on account of all the stress, but I wouldn’t have minded it continuing that way – at least I wouldn’t have that to worry about at work.

  On the food front, Dad was starting to get annoyed. He was getting more and more insistent that I should eat some meat or fish and some vegetables. It drove me mad – that was my problem, not his. And if I’d started eating just like that, without being able to weigh myself, I’d have ballooned before I knew it. It was out of the question and so, as a compromise, we agreed that I’d eat out with them every other meal rather than all the time. So half the time I let them go off and have lunch or dinner while I found a nice piece of fruit or a low-calorie salad to eat on my own in peace and quiet, without having to endure my father scrutinising the contents of my plate all the time. You had to know what you wanted in life. He had been the first to encourage me to sign that contract and it was too late now to back away from the consequences.

  When we turned in for the night, I cuddled up to Alex. All three of us slept in the same room – Alex and me in the double bed and Léo in the single bed. My brother didn’t say anything, but I knew he could tell that things weren’t OK. And I’d fall asleep clutching Yùki tightly and trying to convince myself that it would pass.

  Three days after we arrived, we headed off to San Francisco. It was so beautiful taking off from New York just before sunset! Through the window, I watched the dazzling city recede, knowing I would be back there in a fortnight’s time for the start of my new life. I felt the tears welling up in me and hid my face in my hair so that the others wouldn’t notice.

  Initially I hated San Francisco – it was so damn cold! What was the point of coming to California in the middle of summer if we were going to freeze to death! I felt tired and frustrated. I really could have done without spending the whole day wandering around the streets, which are so steep that you practically have to climb up them. I thought I was never going to manage it, constantly twenty paces behind the others and completely out of breath, as if I were on two packets of cigarettes a day. My parents started to lose their patience and Alex was actively sulking at having to wait for me all the time. My darling Léo walked right behind me, trying to chivvy me along: ‘Come on, Vic, let’s get into second gear!’ I’d have loved to, my little Léo, but it was genuinely beyond me. I didn’t know what was happening to me – I had no strength at all in my legs and I had a knot in my stomach. I was aching all over and my skin felt stretched to breaking point. I just wanted to go home.

  Happily, the following day the weather was fine and warm and we travelled around on the streetcars. Not aching all over, and not feeling like a drag on everyone else transformed the whole experience. The more I got to know this city, the more I liked it. The colours, the very cool people, the flowers, the gardens, the beach and the blue, blue sea!

  I was actually feeling better, and lighter. Lighter and lighter, in fact. Although it had to be said that the previous day had ended on a very bad note. Dad had insisted that I went to the restaurant with them and he’d also insisted that I ate some fish and vegetables. All right, they were steamed, but they came with a dressing too. I ended up giving in and I ate my fish and courgettes feeling like I was an ogre devouring thousands of calories. Ale
xis, who loves good food and can’t bear public scenes, looked on aghast. And then I went to bed in tears.

  After that, to try to calm my anxiety about eating, Dad had a brilliant idea: he bought me some scales. They were electronic and they were compact, so I could slip them into my suitcase and cart them around with me everywhere. I nervously weighed myself – it had already been a week since we’d been eating out in restaurants and hotels and I must have put on a good 2 kilos. And yet no, quite the contrary! I had even lost a little and was now just under 50! I weighed 49.8 kilos, to be precise. Of course you had to be wary, because scales often vary a bit in their readings. But overall, everything was fine and I could afford to relax a bit.

  And so it was with a light heart that I agreed to dine out with them at a fish restaurant in the port. And I’m so glad I did! If I hadn’t gone, I think I’d have spent the rest of the trip regretting it, because who should be sitting at the next table, but Douglas Kennedy! It was Dad who recognised him and I couldn’t believe it, because I adored his books. I went straight over to speak to him and in my best English told him that I was French, that I loved reading his books and that I was so delighted to have run into him there. And he replied to me in French! He was absolutely charming and I was in seventh heaven. He signed an autograph and wished me good luck for the future.

  Now I loved California and I loved the United States! I was sure my life here was going to be incredible.

  We stayed for another two days in San Francisco and I really enjoyed being in the city, perhaps because my moods were like the streets there: they climb up and up and up, at the top of the climb there’s a fantastic view of the horizon, you tell yourself this is paradise and that the world belongs to you, and then bang, the descent begins, you start tumbling down much faster than you climbed up and you find yourself in the bottom of a hole, which you have to extricate yourself from in order to start climbing again …

  The Little Voice

  The scales read 48.9. I knew they were unlikely to be wrong, but I admit I didn’t entirely trust them. When I looked at myself in the mirror before taking a shower, I could see that I still had a lot more fat to lose. This was obvious when I pinched the skin around my stomach and on my buttocks: there were folds of fat. And folds of fat were a no-no at fashion week. As the big day loomed, I could think of nothing else. A little voice, which was much more unpleasant than Flo’s, had taken up residence in my head. No doubt it was the voice of my conscience, repeating to me on an endless loop: ‘Stop eating, you’re going to get fat. Stop eating.’ If only I could have stopped eating, indeed stopped swallowing anything at all except for water and a bit of Pepsi Max, that would have taken care of virtually all my problems! Every time I ate, I felt like I’d failed. Almost as if my Sciences Po results were coming back to haunt me morning, noon and night.

  We hired a car and set out on the road to Las Vegas and the northern end of the Grand Canyon. I’ve no idea how many miles we covered, but the drive seemed interminable. The boys had brought loads of provisions with them and since there was nothing else to nibble on, I caved in and stuffed myself like a pig: two carrots, an apple and even a piece of chicken. I hated myself, I hated myself, I hated myself. Tonight the scales would no doubt be chanting in unison with my little voice: ‘You’re eating, you’re getting fat, you’re eating, you’re getting fat …’ Worst of all, when we got to the hotel I realised that there was not a single place where you could get hold of fresh fruit or unadorned steamed vegetables. Initially I felt really annoyed, but then it occurred to me that it was no bad thing, in fact; after everything I’d gobbled down in the car, the best solution was clearly to go on a diet.

  I let them go off and stuff themselves with hamburgers and fries while I dreamed of spending all the money I was going to earn as a top-flight model on setting up a new restaurant concept that would be called Model Food. A calm, beautiful and immaculate place all in white with big, soft pink pouffes, as if you were in a cloud. The only items on the menu would be steamed chicken and fish, vegetables and fruits. Zero fat, zero sugar, 100 per cent purity and lightness.

  The next day Mum and Dad had a surprise in store: we were going to a small aerodrome and would be flying over the Grand Canyon in an old crate with propellers, just like in the films. The boys couldn’t contain themselves! I was excited too until I saw something dreadful in the hangar. As there were several of us and it was really a very small plane, everyone had to be weighed before boarding so that they could decide where everyone should sit in order to balance the weight properly. Weighing myself in public! My little voice immediately went mad. They were all going to see that I was too fat. Or too thin. No, too fat. The plane would fall out of the sky if I got on. It would never manage to take off and I would never manage to take off. I was a fat ball chained to the ground and I would never get off the ground, not for the Grand Canyon or for anything else in life. I didn’t want to do it.

  I really didn’t want to do it.

  Everyone else got on the scales, shoes, coats, bags and all. I didn’t dare say to Mum that I didn’t want to do it, so I handed her all my stuff so that I would weigh as little as possible. I concentrated as hard as I could so as not to see the guy looking at my weight, hearing him read it out and having to endure the moment when he said, ‘Sorry, miss, not you.’ But he didn’t say a word and I got onto the plane with the others. And while everyone else was rhapsodising about the landscape, I spent the whole flight trying to shut up that bastard little voice, which was spoiling every second of the flight. And of my life.

  When we got back to the hotel that night, I found myself briefly alone with Alex. He said that he’d had enough of it all; that they were spending all their time waiting for me, wrangling with me and hoping that I wouldn’t throw a sulk and burst into tears; that even when I was there, I was absent; that he didn’t understand what was happening to me, but that it was starting to get tiresome; and that I should do something about it. And then he turned on his heels and disappeared.

  I knew that he was right and that he wanted to get a reaction out of me, shake me up and help me, but I just didn’t have the strength to respond. I was feeling increasingly detached from everything, even from my own body. It was as if I could no longer connect with them or make them connect to me: we were all drifting apart. It was terrifying and there was nothing I could do about it. I was cold and aching the whole time, ever lighter and ever less substantial.

  In reality, I was becoming less and less alive.

  When we retired to our hotel room that evening, Alex looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘I’m going to sleep in the little bed.’ It was like a dagger in my heart. Even a big hug from Léo couldn’t console me or bring me warmth.

  Near Las Vegas we came across the most amazing outlet store I’d ever seen in my life: all of Ralph Lauren collections of the previous three years at 70 per cent off their usual American price! Dad said, ‘Make the most it!’ and we didn’t need to be asked twice. There were loads of terrific things, all for next to nothing. I checked all the aisles for sleeveless tops, but everything, even the size 0s, was a bit too big. A very sweet salesgirl – American store assistants were always adorable – showed me a section where I might be able to find what I was looking for, and bingo! I found a short ivory jumper dress – the Irish sweater look – which was absolutely delightful and exactly my size. Matched with my splendid pair of Balmains, I’d have the ideal look for the castings! The rack was full of little gems: I also found a tartan skirt and as many tops in 150–156cm as you could wish for. Pure bliss.

  It took me a while to realise that I was actually in the children’s section and that 150–156cm corresponded to age 12–14 back home. Which was a bit strange when you’re 5 foot 10, but what was stopping me? That little dress was just perfect for me.

  And I also found a pair of jeans. The pair of jeans, in fact. In the United States, jeans are an exact science: there’s a measurement for the basic size, of course, but also another for leg
length and a third for the width of the pelvis. It’s very high-tech. After I’d tried a few pairs on, the salesgirl found me that rare pearl: a pair that was tight but not too narrow, so that I had a bit of leeway around the hips; long enough to go down to my heels; and nice and tight around the thighs. When I saw myself in the mirror, I was completely taken aback: was that slim girl with the endless legs really me?

  The salesgirl’s comment was: ‘You are very skinny and so tall, with such long legs. Don’t you want to be a model?’ I smiled and explained that that was exactly what I was in the process of becoming and that next week I’d be in New York for fashion week. She looked at me with admiration and then asked, very shyly, if I would mind giving her my autograph. An autograph! Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. I thought about Douglas Kennedy, who I admired so much and who had been kind enough to sign an autograph for me a few days earlier in San Francisco. What a strange life I was leading! I attempted to react to this young woman with the same grace as he had, while wondering if I was an impostor or if she was a visionary.

  That evening in the hotel bathroom, while the others were having dinner, I slipped on my jeans and took a photo of my figure, with my feet squeezed against each other so that I could see properly what I’d noticed in the store: I had a pretty thigh gap, like in the photos the girls posted on their dieting blogs. When I started my diet, that was the goal I’d set myself, and now I’d made it – I’d pulled it off!

  I went onto the internet to check the French translation of ‘skinny’ and realised that I’d understood correctly. I also looked up the conversion tables for the American sizes and realised that I’d now hit the right sizes. Fantastic!