Size Zero

by Victoire Dauxerre

  But first prize for really taking the piss undoubtedly went to the casting directors at Calvin Klein, Nikki and Ashley, who were peerless champions of the art. They were like grotesque Laurel and Hardys, kitted out in clothes of no discernible gender (dresses, turbans, make-up) and totally absorbed in their little routine, which involved playing the hysterical love-struck clowns. They would pick us out in groups of five with a wag of the finger, without taking any notice of the order we’d arrived in. ‘You, you, you, you and you. Oh, not you.’ And then they sent us into a small room where our outfits were waiting for us on heavily laden racks. ‘This one for you, that one for you.’ As if they were playing with dolls! I ended up with a very pretty little black dress which I was in the process of slipping on when the girl next to me asked me to swap. On her hanger there was a light, rather see-through dress. ‘I’m wearing a black thong, and that’s all they’ll see!’ I pointed out that they’d chosen this black dress for me and that it probably wasn’t a good idea to switch. ‘OK, do you mind if we swap thongs, then?’ I beg your pardon? How could this girl not know that light underwear was compulsory in this profession? I refused to swap my thong with her. She thought I was being horrible. What I found horrible was the idea of wearing somebody else’s knickers.

  We were their playthings – docile, submissive and consenting toys, who were theirs to do with as they wished. And none of us even dreamt of protesting. Once this circus number was over, they gave us back our books.

  I think that was the day when I consoled a tall pale girl with beautiful, very long red hair who had started to tremble before bursting into tears and muttering, ‘I’m not going to make it. I don’t know how to walk. I’m not going to make it.’

  I could so understand why she was cracking up! I reassured her as best I could by passing on some of Évelyne’s tips – relaxed shoulders, supple pelvis, watch the Playmobil arms – but above all by repeating to her Peter’s precious words, which had done me so much good when we’d had dinner at his place in Beverly Hills: ‘If you don’t treat the whole thing as a game, it’s going to kill you.’

  She looked at me as if I were a Martian and then she couldn’t stop thanking me for having been ‘so kind’ and for having taken the time to comfort and reassure her.

  ‘Don’t mention it, it’s only normal!’

  ‘It might be normal, but in this world of nuts, people are so inhuman that you sort of forget what normal is.’

  And then, just once in a while in this vast free-for-all, you caught a glimpse of a shooting star – a really pretty girl who exudes something different, something both light and powerful. Something scintillating and self-evident. She turned up as if in a hurry, her hair, make-up and outfit all impeccable.

  Freed from the obligation of wearing the standard skinny black trousers, she had turned up at the casting in a pretty and very sexy pair of shorts and an attractive top to match. There wasn’t a hair or a blemish on her stunning well-oiled legs. Not a blotch on her fair skin, not a fault in her taste. A kind of luxuriant perfection. The casting director came to greet her in person and in French, with an accent you could cut with a knife. ‘Constance! I’m so pleased you could make yourself available! Please come in. And how are you doing, my darling?’

  Her name was Constance Jablonski, the top French model of the moment, the winner of the Elite competition in 2006 and the muse of Estée Lauder and, much more importantly, of Victoria’s Secret. She was a year older than me and already had a glittering career under her belt. Exactly what I was hoping would happen to me.

  Russell Marsh

  The closer the fashion shows approached, the crazier everybody seemed to get. I was feeling increasingly stressed and tired out. I couldn’t understand how Olympe and Madeleine, who I would hear getting home at two nearly every morning, managed to keep going. I didn’t go out at all. The previous week Émile had invited us all over for some food at his rooftop apartment in one of the chicest parts of SoHo. Well, invited us so to speak, because in fact we all turned up with our own little salad boxes, purchased at the deli next to where he lived. But it was actually quite practical that way, because we could watch what we were eating and not be tempted to veer from our diets.

  I was the first to arrive and I was really stunned when he opened the door. I don’t know if it was by managing models that he’d earned enough to buy an apartment like that, but the place was dazzling: a large, very bright living room that gave out onto a huge teak terrace with a sublime view over the whole of Manhattan. ‘Take a seat while I have a shower.’ And as he said that, he started to get undressed right in front of me in the middle of the living room. For a moment, I felt extremely uncomfortable and I just had time to notice that he had impressive pecs underneath his crumpled linen shirt before I fled out onto the terrace, keeping my back to him and hoping that the others wouldn’t be long in arriving.

  Nothing happened, of course. Émile was no doubt amused at my discomfiture and I couldn’t help remembering how embarrassed I’d been when I’d arrived at Sergei’s seedy studio in Paris a few weeks earlier; that seemed all such a long time ago. I didn’t know this world, but the glimpse I’d had into it so far had confirmed that I’d been right to keep my distance from such a peculiar environment, where all sorts of creatures and predators prowled and substances abounded. I felt like a little girl catapulted into a world of adults. And so, when two hours later everyone had finished their aperitif (Pepsi Max for me) and Ludmilla announced that we were off to a party at Quentin’s – ‘I hope you’ve brought your swimsuit, Victoire? Wait till you see the incredible apartment he’s got, with a swimming pool on the roof. The parties there are just crazy …’ – I declined the invitation. I wasn’t armed for these ‘crazy parties’ on the rooftops of New York. But more than that, I didn’t feel like it. I was feeling cold and exhausted and I wanted to go home and call Mum.

  I was missing her terribly. The two of us were counting the days until I was back in Paris. The time seemed to be dragging interminably. We texted each other all day long and then spent ages on the phone every evening between me going to bed and the sleeping pill kicking in. The aches and pains – in my legs, in my stomach and above all on my skin – were getting worse. When I went to bed in the evening, it felt like my entire back was cracking up, as if I were a snake shedding its skin.

  Fortunately, though, in the course of this mad helter-skelter, I also had a few extraordinary experiences and encounters. I was lucky enough to be spotted by Russell Marsh, one of the most powerful casting directors in the business. Every year at the start of the season, he chose two or three new faces who he would take under his wing and transform into elite models. I was one of his choices and so, at his request, I attended the castings of all the designers he worked with. And there were plenty of them! It was a pleasure, and even an honour, to be picked out from the huge crowd of all the other models and I started to believe that perhaps Seb hadn’t completely overrated my chances of having a genuine career as an elite model.

  At each of his castings, Russell Marsh greeted me by my first name in his perfect British accent and with an encouraging smile. He seemed to really trust and believe in me – he introduced me with a great deal of affection to the designers as the ‘little nugget of the year’. In the midst of all this American excess, his Old Europe side, his London elegance, his bright eyes and the special attention he paid to me were like a rallying point and a source of comfort. He really could have been a member of my ‘family’.

  He had so much faith in me that he asked me along to the Ralph Lauren casting, despite the fact that the designer only ever chose blondes. It was a very unusual experience. Sitting behind a large desk, Ralph Lauren welcomed us with his wife, his two sons and his daughter at his side – an elegant array of beautiful, blue-eyed people. I’d naturally put on the little dress that I’d bought in Vegas and which I’d been wearing virtually constantly since I’d been in New York. I washed it every evening and it would dry overnight, ready for use
again the next day.

  ‘Hello, young lady. What’s your name?’ His eyes were extraordinarily blue, but also very kind. It was pretty rare to be greeted with such consideration, particularly by such a big name in fashion.

  ‘Hello, my name is Victoire, and I’m from Paris.’

  ‘That’s great. And you have a very pretty dress! I’d never have thought of wearing it like that, but it works really well.’

  I smiled, walked around for him a bit and smiled once again.

  He took one of my comp cards and handed me back my book: ‘Thank you once again for coming. Have a nice day, young lady.’

  I know it’s silly, because nothing amazing happened, but I couldn’t get over it. It was scarcely believable to find myself being treated so kindly.

  There was also a huge casting organised by Russell for three or four designers simultaneously – there must have been more than 300 hopefuls – at which we were each given a little black cloth bag with a few goodies inside: a coconut water drink, a notepad and pen, a ‘Fashion Week S/S NY’ tank top and a compilation CD featuring the hits of the summer. It was nothing fabulous, but in the middle of this massive cattle market we were taking part in unpaid in the hope that it might get us a bit of work in the coming weeks, and in the middle of all these castings where we’d stand around or sit on the floor and wait for hours and where most people would bark ‘next!’ at us by way of greeting (sometimes accompanied by a snap of the fingers) without even deigning to look at us or smile, even the most minuscule mark of consideration felt like a genuine gift. We were all delighted!

  One morning I had my first and only unisex casting, and it was for Lacoste! After days on end spent in the company of other girls, I was really pleased to be around some boys, a lot of whom were French. In the middle of the group, I immediately spotted a blond guy with green eyes who was even more handsome than the others: he was absolutely gorgeous! We didn’t speak to each other – it wasn’t the time or the place – but I thought to myself that it would be cool to be chosen to parade with him.

  And then one afternoon there was this timeless moment in a very attractive suite in a top hotel on Upper East Side, all of whose windows looked out onto Central Park. The designer had set up folding screens and clothes racks in the adjoining rooms, which gave the place the feel of one of Marie-Antoinette’s very elegant antechambers. As I waited my turn, I admired the beautiful late afternoon light filtering through the trees and looked forward to the long walk that I was going to treat myself to in Central Park once the casting, which was the last of the day, was over. But again I was out of luck: Quentin called me to give me another appointment and off I went, promising myself I’d return here as soon as I could.

  But of course I never got the opportunity, because we spent the whole time running around left, right and centre. Running around without eating a thing. And waiting, hour upon hour upon hour.

  One evening at around ten o’clock, a few days before the first fashion shows, I had just finished talking to Mum and had turned out the light, when Quentin called: ‘Victoire, I’ve got a casting for you! But it’s right now. Where are you?’ I told him I was in bed, that I’d taken a sleeping pill and that I didn’t think it was a great idea for me to get out of bed under the circumstances. ‘Are you kidding? It’s Samuel Drira, a great French designer, and he’s called on behalf of Russell Marsh. If he likes you, he’ll take you for the shows for the three brands he’s overseeing! You can’t afford to miss this.’

  I got up, got dressed and jumped in a cab, struggling against the relentless effects of the sleeping pill. I found myself in the small entrance hall of a smart private residence, furnished with pretty pink and red round chairs.

  Everything around me was floating. I went down a long corridor, at the end of which a man was waiting for me. I vaguely remember seeing some racks full of clothes and apologising for being a bit sleepy. He replied very sweetly that he was aware that it was very late. I suppose he must have got me to try on one or two designs and to walk for him, but I have no memory of it at all. I’ve no idea what happened afterwards, or who put me into a cab, or who helped me to get upstairs and into bed. The following morning when I woke up, I was incapable of piecing together the end of the evening.

  Between two castings, I was chosen by Narcisso Rodriguez’s team for a fitting, which meant for a start that I found out what a fitting was, and above all it meant that I got to know Louise. She was also a model and also French, and I had time to have a good chat with her. The two of us had to act as living models for the designer, who adjusted his designs directly on our bodies while referring to his drawings. Initially, I was pleased to be part of a design session and it was certainly more interesting than parading endlessly in front of casting directors with their unpredictable moods. And on top of that, it was paid work! But I lost my enthusiasm a bit when I realised that I was in the presence of a designer who was super-stressed-out about his upcoming show and that I would have to endure all his mood swings and all the pricks of his clumsy needles. Louise was positively furious: Narcisso Rodriguez had been using her for his fittings for four years, but never for his shows. She also worked for Elite and had won the competition in 2005. Since then, she’d been living in New York with her man, but her whole family was from La Baule, where she had grown up. It was so nice to be able to have a long conversation about that part of the world.

  When she realised that I was here with Seb, her reaction was vehement: ‘Ditch that loser as soon as you can! He’s a liar and a bullshitter. For four years now he’s been telling me that he’s turning thirty! I bet he told you that you were the new Claudia Schiffer and that you’d have the world at your feet?’

  I couldn’t really bring myself to admit that to her, because I felt rather stupid for having believed him at times when he’d said that.

  ‘Maybe it’s true, Victoire. The fashion world is pure roulette. But after four years, I can tell you that most of the girls are working really very hard for nothing much in return. You reckon that when you sign a handsome contract with a big agency, then you’ve hit the jackpot? That’s not the case at all. Of course there’s plenty of money involved, but most of it goes to the agency and to reimbursing your expenses. In the end, you’re left with barely 10 per cent of the amount stated on your contract.’ She was categorical: the only way of genuinely making money in this profession was to be chosen as the muse of a major brand. ‘But how many contracts are there like that in the course of a year? And have you seen how many of us there are in the market?’ She’d been lucky enough – she was really very beautiful – to have been chosen by Chanel and Ralph Lauren. ‘That’s meant that I can live well and buy myself an apartment in New York. But not much more than that.’

  A life like that would do me just fine! Perhaps it would even allow me to get myself known and slowly get a career in theatre or film off the ground?

  I expressed my surprise that she was here doing castings and fittings when she’d already been Chanel’s muse. ‘After the competition, I worked like mad and really watched myself. And then after three years, because it was all going well, I took my foot off the pedal a bit and put on 5 kilos. Instant punishment! I was no longer of interest to anyone! I’ve slimmed down and am making a comeback, but I’ve got to start all over again from the bottom. This business is a war zone, Victoire. There’s no quarter given.’

  So I’d have to wage my war, then. I was really proud of myself for not putting on an ounce since I’d been in New York and I was hoping that my efforts would bear fruit. At the end of these trying ten days, I was on my way to one final casting with Seb and the girls – I don’t remember which avenue we were on exactly. All of a sudden, on a crosswalk, the skyscrapers started to spin around me. I lost my balance without understanding what was happening to me. I heard Seb call out my name, I said to myself, ‘That’s it, it’s all over,’ and then everything went blank. When I came to, I was lying on the pavement, the girls were giving me something to drink and Seb wa
s coming out of a salad bar, where he’d got me a small piece of chicken. I realised that I had fainted in the middle of the street, out of fatigue and for lack of food. Seb suggested calling a cab so that I could go back to the apartment and rest, but I refused. After the chicken, I was already feeling better.

  When we arrived at the casting, a very sweet young woman gave each of us a form to fill in: height, measurements, weight. It was the first time since I’d been there that somebody had asked me how much I weighed. Very proudly, I wrote down 47. The girls were around the 60 mark. We handed in our forms and, a few moments later, the designer came to fetch us. Or to fetch them, anyway, to try on the designs. He didn’t take me. ‘I’m sorry, Victoire. You’re gorgeous, but you’re really too thin: 47 kilos just won’t work! My clothes will be hopeless on you.’ I went down to join Seb in the taxi and wait for the girls. I was pleased for them: for once the tide had turned in their favour, and it was about time.

  But it didn’t save them from having to pack their bags a few days later. Silent had let them know that it wasn’t worth them staying: they weren’t going to be selected for any shows. I felt truly sorry for them, and I think they believed me. They suggested we went out to dinner together the night before they left and naturally I said yes. I was so hungry for a dose of humanity and so in need of the slightest sign of affection! We spent a really pleasant night together, them tucking into a New York feast and me with three steamed vegetables in front of me. They didn’t say sorry for having been so unfriendly towards me, but I sensed that they no longer held anything against me and that they understood that I wasn’t to blame for how things had turned out for them.