As we were ordering, Madeleine said to me very kindly, ‘Victoire, you can’t live like this! Eating so little is no kind of life.’ I replied that the shows were starting in two days’ time and that I had to be certain of getting into the clothes. ‘But you can get into the clothes, Victoire! Can’t you see how thin you are? Look how you fainted because you hadn’t eaten anything!’ I smiled at them but said nothing. I didn’t want to offend them.
Maybe I was thin, but earlier that day Louis had called to tell me that I’d been chosen for at least three shows and that there would no doubt be plenty more. And here they were, going back to France empty-handed …
Three, Two, One, Go!
We could hear the murmur of the crowd on the other side of the wall. We were made up, coiffured and manicured and already in our clothes and shoes, all ready to go. And we were excited. The tension mounted by the minute, and then by the second. I had arrived three hours earlier with Seb, who for once wasn’t late. If he had been, I reckon I’d have killed him, or at least ditched him for good. The warehouse where the show was being held was opposite the agency and so I hadn’t needed his help getting there. But, all the same, it was good to have him with me.
I’d tried the clothes on two days earlier and hadn’t had any trouble getting into them. Jen Kao, the Japanese designer, liked flowing silks and airy fabrics. For my first catwalk, she’d assigned me a strappy dress which was very soft and had a very low neckline, with off-white lace and trimmings. And for the second, a large indigo-blue lace top which was very transparent and through which you could clearly make out my breasts, or what was left of them. This went with a very short white skirt and a shirt with an attached silk scarf printed with large blue and white flowers. My hair was swept back, as if I’d just come out of the sea, and my eyes were heavily outlined with dark black make-up. And like a gift from heaven, I also had little white ultra-flat sandals made of white lace! There was no danger I’d be breaking my neck on account of high heels. We’d been shown the catwalk a little earlier: it was a large triangle covered with sand and the public were sitting in the middle of it and around the edges. My first catwalk was going to have the look of a walk on the beach.
Everything had been made ready for me: my name was displayed on the canvas chair placed in front of a mirror surrounded by bulbs, and a make-up artist, hairstylist and manicurist were waiting for me. All I had to do was put on the dressing gown draped over the back of the chair and sit down. Then they set about me, initially one by one and then all at the same time, preparing me from head to toe. I let them get on with it, observing their every movement. I asked them to explain what they were doing, because I wanted to learn more about and understand these new professions, which were now a part of my own profession too. The make-up artist told me what colours I should choose to bring out my eyes. The hairstylist gave me something to help my hair stay in good shape throughout fashion week. The manicurist quietly went about transforming my fingernails and toenails into little iridescent seashells. I was one of twelve models, all of us lined up in front of twelve mirrors and each with a little team busying itself around us. Photographers were also flitting among us with their lenses trained. There was a growing buzz of activity and excitement.
The next stage was getting dressed. My outfits were waiting on hangers bearing my name and with Polaroids attached to them which had been taken two days earlier. All I had to do was put on the dress and sandals and put the scarf round my neck and I was ready. But even that I didn’t do on my own: there was a dresser there to help me. I was more than a little embarrassed when she got down on her knees to lace up my sandals. I apologised and she looked at me with big round eyes, saying with a laugh that it was the first time a model had treated her with such consideration! Her name was Joy and she was a student. She worked as a dresser during the fashion weeks to earn a bit of extra money. I confessed that I wasn’t used to having somebody at my beck and call like this.
‘Relax! Don’t feel as if I’m at your service, but rather that we’re both at the service of Jen Kao. My job is to make sure you don’t stain the dress with your make-up, mess up your hair when you put it on, or crease it by bending down or trying to put on your shoes.’ Put that way, it had a certain logic about it. ‘And you’ll see, you’ll be very glad to have me around during the show to help you change your outfit in two minutes flat in a little while, before your second catwalk.’ I thanked her and explained that this was my first fashion show. She wished me good luck with a friendly wink.
And now there I was with the others, behind the wall. We were under starter’s orders. Jen Kao, who came to inspect us discreetly, was visibly tense. We all tried to reassure her as best we could by telling her how much we liked her clothes, how happy we were to wear them and how we were sure that ‘they’ were going to love them. Personally, I wasn’t sure of anything any more, other than that we were experiencing something exceptional. And that even if it was all completely artificial, it felt really good to be sharing these emotions.
At the beginning of the corridor that led to the catwalk, a woman all in black, got up like a warrior in her combat boots, baggy trousers, T-shirt, walkie-talkie and earpiece, was holding firmly on to the wrist of the girl who was due to open the show. On the other side of the wall, the chatter gradually subsided. I felt a little nerve begin to twitch in my upper lip. Stay calm, Victoire! Focus! There was an almost religious silence and then the music suddenly boomed out, like a starting gun. ‘Three, two, one, go!’ The first girl was pushed out into the light on the other side of the wall. My heart was beating faster and faster. Second girl.
It was about to be my turn. Third. The woman grabbed my wrist firmly, and my chest was pounding. ‘Three, two, one, go!’ I felt the sand under my feet and the projectors blinded my eyes. I knew the public was there, all around me, but I couldn’t see them. Staying focused, I advanced in rhythm towards the point of the triangle. It felt great! I was filled with an amazing energy, which I could feel all around me and which was exploding in my legs, my stomach and my brain. Shoulders, arms, large strides, looking straight ahead. Going forward into the middle of the flashbulbs, overcome with this phenomenal strength welling up inside me.
I felt infinitely light, as if I were flying.
When I got backstage, there was only one thing on my mind: to do it over and over again! I wanted to go back out and get that unbelievable, dazzling jolt of lightning again! Joy helped me to change in silence. I had to stay focused. Retain the energy that was filling this warehouse with its magic waves. And here I was next to the warrior again. ‘Three, two, one, go!’ Yes, I’m off! It was so good, so intense, so wonderful. Louis had been right: it was a fireworks display, and I was one of the rockets!
But it lasted barely a moment, and then it was over. We all gathered again behind the wall, excited and relieved at the same time. Jen Kao joined us for one last parade all together, and we were greeted with applause. I felt so full of joy. I was happy to be there, I loved this world, I loved fashion and I loved the whole planet.
I loved my life full stop!
I wanted it to be brimming over with moments like this one, which was like nothing else I’d ever experienced before. Wow! It was incredible, magical and unique!
Joy was waiting for me backstage to take back the clothes, but the make-up artists and hairstylists had already disappeared from their posts. We all got dressed again, laughing with excitement. Seb appeared and laid it on with a trowel as usual. ‘My darling, you were ab-so-lutely fabulous! Sublime! Ex-tra-ordinary!’ I let him roll out his spiel while I savoured the moment for myself. Louis had just texted me: ‘Well done, Victoire! We watched you on the internet and you performed like a queen! We’re waiting for you.’
We crossed the street back over to the agency and when I opened the door, Louis, Émile, Mathilde and Quentin got up to applaud me. It gave me shivers of excitement and pleasure. That evening, all alone in my deserted apartment (I never thought I’d miss the girls!), I ca
lled Mum and described everything down to the very last detail. I was exhausted and both happy and sad, excited and depressed. I told her the day would have been just perfect if she could have been there to experience it with me.
The Heart of Fashion Week
When I woke up the day after my first show, I found a lot of sweet words and affectionate messages of love on my computer. Back home, they’d been able to watch me on the internet while I was sleeping. Granddaddy and Nan wrote to say that they were proud of me. Alex and Léo said that I’d been the most beautiful girl. Mum and Dad said that I’d been right to stick with it and that the whole thing was great. All that did me the world of good and I told myself that perhaps my beautiful life as a model was finally beginning.
But I didn’t really have much time to think about it: the days that followed were one long whirlwind. Louis was right: the requests to do shows started to flood in. ‘This is great, Victoire. You probably don’t realise it, but a novice never gets as many bookings as this!’
Everything unfolded at a crazy pace. The following day, after a show for Doo.Ri, the Korean designer, I had the pleasant surprise of receiving a lovely present: the assistant opened a room full of clothes and accessories from previous collections and invited each of us to choose $500 worth of merchandise! I thought that was very sweet, even though I was a bit frustrated: I didn’t really like anything I saw and everything was absolutely tiny. Even weighing 47 kilos, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to slip into the clothes. But I did find a pretty, very dainty black linen cardigan as a present for Mum and a very figure-hugging dress for me, which I’d only be able to wear if I didn’t put on an ounce. Which was ideal, because that was my objective: to remain at 47 kilos, because that’s what seemed to appeal to them.
Today was a madhouse! I had three shows in the afternoon. For Trías, a Spanish designer who makes very precisely structured clothes, I experienced the strange sensation of walking on a podium with my legs at the public’s eye level. And also the pleasure of doing my first interview, in English, in the wings just before going on stage! The journalist doubtless chose me after seeing that I spent the whole time talking to everybody else: I was filled with wonder at it all and genuinely interested in everything that was happening around me. Unlike the other models, who kept mainly silent with their headphones permanently clamped on and their eyes glued to their telephones, I chatted to the make-up artists, the hairstylists and the dressers with real enthusiasm. I so much needed and wanted human contact!
Next up after Trías was Custo Barcelona, which involved loads of extensions in my hair, off-the-wall multicoloured geometric dresses and completely hysterical music. It was odd to say the least, but we certainly had fun!
And then I hurried along to DKNY, the Donna Karan ready-to-wear brand, which was a must at New York fashion week. The outer garment was no problem – I slipped into a perfect night-blue trench coat, which was tightly belted up – but the shoes were a real nightmare! Gorgeous, original, sexy and completely unwearable. They were prototypes made out of a very hard material and were thoroughly uncomfortable, attached to the ankle by just a large ribbon and featuring Himalayan heels. How were you supposed to walk in such things? I felt the panic welling up as my feet turned into two little points of unbearable pain. I walked up and down in the wings trying to get used to them and to get my balance, before deciding that the best solution was to sit down and spare my poor feet until I had to go out onto the catwalk. What sacrilege! One doesn’t sit down when wearing catwalk clothes. My bottom had barely touched the seat before an assistant was telling me to get up again.
I set out on the catwalk trying not to think of the bloomers they were always showing on TV to entertain people, where you see the ankles of poor models buckling and them falling over to a chorus of belly laughs. The decor was a bit unusual, in that we had to negotiate our way through large coloured cubes on which the spectators were sitting. And so there I was walking among the guests without the protection of the darkness in which they usually sat, or the shield of the blinding light that normally prevented us from ever seeing them properly. The main thing was not to catch anybody’s eyes, otherwise I was bound to fall over. So I set my gaze on a distant point and tacked gracefully among them, hoping that I would make it safely back to port.
Everything went fine until the finale, when we all went out in single file to take the applause. I don’t know how the others managed it, but I just couldn’t keep up with them! I could see the distance growing between me and the girl in front of me and I felt ridiculous. I was sure I was going to get a dressing-down, but in the end nothing happened.
During those short moments of euphoria that always followed a show, when the tension dissipated and we congratulated each other on a successful event, nobody came up to me to suggest that I should learn how to walk. I took off my torture shoes with huge relief and a wonderful sensation of freedom.
As usual at the end of a show, a scrum of photographers was waiting for us. They were shouting, ‘Jacquelyn, Jacquelyn, smile please!’ and seemed to be addressing themselves to me. I stopped and smiled at them and was about to tell them that my name wasn’t Jacquelyn, when Jacquelyn Jablonski, a blue-eyed brunette like me and one of the media darlings of the moment, appeared. She shot me an icy look, struck three poses and then disappeared. And then they asked me, ‘What’s your name, honey?’ I told them, and they all repeated in unison, ‘Victoire! Victoire!’ And so I happily posed for them, while wondering if, with a certain inevitability, I’d just made my first enemy in the profession.
The next day I did a show for an English designer. Having got my make-up and hair done well in advance, I had the time to have a proper conversation with an adorable Russian model, who told me that this profession was her only means of escaping from the poverty of her family background. She explained that this was why most of the Russian girls were so competitive and aggressive: they had no choice, because this was their only hope of avoiding a desperate future, of getting a taste of luxury, however fleetingly, and of travelling around the world. We were in the middle of discussing all this when an assistant came to tell everyone that the TV people were here. I saw all the models head for the buffet – there was nearly always a buffet backstage, normally consisting exclusively of forbidden foods, except for some fruit – and start tucking into the cakes and the muffins, which did look particularly appetising, it’s true.
I couldn’t believe my eyes: how could they allow themselves such an indulgence right in the middle of the fashion show period, whereas I was constantly being harassed by that bastard little voice, which would force me to make amends for the tiniest bit of chicken breast with a whole pack of laxatives? The answer came soon enough. As soon as the TV crews had moved on, the girls rushed off to the toilets, obviously to make themselves vomit. Everyone knew what was going on, nobody spoke about it and life resumed as before, as if all this were normal.
The show must go on.
There was quite a surprise at the end of the show. I heard the photographers shouting, ‘Victoire! Victoire, a smile please!’ I may have made myself an enemy the day before, but clearly I was known by my first name now.
At Silent, they were delighted: it seemed that people on the scene were beginning to talk about me and that ‘everybody’ had noticed the little French girl who was on the rise. According to Louis, whose pronouncements struck me as more reliable than Seb’s (I really couldn’t bear his superlatives any more), it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that the brands would soon be fighting each other to have me in their campaigns. I could only hope he was right! This profession was only appealing when things happened quickly, when things sparkled, when things crackled! That was what I wanted – that, or nothing.
For the time being, I didn’t know how much I was earning from it all, but I knew how much it was costing me. The better the news was for the agency, the worse it was for me. Because although I would of course be returning to Paris, it would be for one night only. The very n
ext day, I would have to head off to castings in Milan, where I’d be holed up for nearly ten days, and then it would be back to Paris for October fashion week. I didn’t want to do it – I needed to rest, spend time with my parents and brothers, finally see Sophie again to tell her the whole story and go to the cinema with my cousin Thomas. I needed to spend an afternoon with Nan and with Granddaddy, whose health was deteriorating, to stroke my little Plume and to hug my darling mum …
I was having more and more trouble sleeping. I constantly had the very painful sensation that the skin on my back was going to crack up. When I went to bed, I could feel every one of my bones and just couldn’t find a comfortable position. And then there was my stomach, which was a constant source of suffering. High doses of laxatives were no longer enough to set my mind at ease. The moment I ate something, even if it was just a piece of steamed fish or a quarter of a honeydew melon, I felt as if I were swelling up like a balloon. And yet I’d seen the photos of my first shows and the film we’d made between two castings for Silent in the garden of a photographer’s house in Brooklyn. In them, I was thin, diaphanous and ethereal. And I liked what I saw – I preferred people to see my bones rather than my fat!
A slightly embarrassed Mathilde pointed out a little detail that greatly embarrassed me: in the photos of the Doo.Ri show, all my body hair was standing to attention! I had a clear memory of shivering in that room, where the air conditioning had been much too strong and I’d had goose pimples. ‘You have to shave yourself, Victoire. Your arms and your thighs.’ I agreed with her about the thighs: I’d never realised I was so hairy! Although, actually, I suspected that I wasn’t really that hairy and that it was probably the cold, the backlighting and the super-powerful camera lenses that had created that impression. But my arms? I wasn’t about to shave my arms! On the phone that night, Mum agreed that it was a very bad idea. If I started shaving my arms, I’d have to carry on shaving them for the rest of my life! It was out of the question.
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