I had another show for the very minimalist Matthew Ames, for which I wore some very beautiful pleated and draped fabrics. And then another for the exuberant Dennis Basso, who designs dresses for princesses with wonderful furs. I went to try them on a few days beforehand in his studio in the middle of the Bronx. I turned up in a huge chauffeur-driven Hummer ordered by the agency. I felt like I was travelling in an armoured vehicle! It was at this show, as I changed from a sublime silk mesh dress with white mink into an amazingly elegant black sheath dress with a neckline edged with fox fur, that I met a young model who was barely 16 and who was with her mother. It was possible, then? Perhaps Mum could come with me to Milan! I absolutely had to talk to her about it, and to Seb. I reckoned it was the only way I’d be able to carry on in this profession and feel genuinely happy. At least for the time being.
I rounded off my fashion week in style with Phillip Lim’s show. He was an absolutely adorable designer, and I loved his style. There was a sort of professional love at first sight between us. I immediately took to his chic, modern and inventive clothes and to his refined and discreet trademark look. But above all, I liked his sunny kindness, his gentleness and his thoughtfulness. When I went to try on the clothes, I was greeted with the same surprise as at the Doo.Ri show: a treasure room full of previous collections, and the girls in the show could choose $1,000 worth of freebies! I helped myself to two wonderful dresses, which I’d probably never wear because they were so original, a large pair of denim dungarees and a very attractive black leather and suede bag with a very refined finish, which from now on would never leave my side.
Phillip was the only one of the New York designers who had chosen to present his collection in a real-life setting, as they often did in Paris: we paraded at the American Museum of Natural History, and it was sumptuous! The outfits were magnificent and the atmosphere was in keeping with the man: gentle and elegant. The one source of anxiety for all the models was the prospect of slipping in our beautiful platform clogs on the mirror-polished parquet floor. A few minutes before we got under way, I saw him all alone in the corner, nervously biting his nails. Seeing him like that touched me so much that I went over to him and gave him my opinion: his collection was sublime, at any rate I loved it, and I was certain that all of ‘them’ would like it too. He seemed so taken aback that I wondered if I’d spoken out of turn, but then he thanked me warmly. I think that little dose of humanity, sincerity and kindness, exchanged between us in the midst of all the excess and the pervasive cynicism, did us both good.
There was another surprise waiting for me at the end of the show. In addition to the photographers calling out my name as I left, suddenly a bunch of rather shy but excited girls appeared and asked me to pose with them, wanting to know all about the clothes I was wearing. Slightly confused, I told them that I was wearing a little Ralph Lauren dress from the children’s collection (which really made them laugh) and Aldo shoes and that my beautiful bag was designed by Phillip Lim. All this seemed to fascinate them.
In the cab back to the apartment, Seb, who had witnessed the whole scene, explained that I’d just been spotted by the female bloggers who assiduously followed all the events and gossip of fashion week. ‘This is great news, Victoire. It means that you’re starting to be identified as the rising top model. I told you, sweetheart – we’re going to go down a storm!’
But for now, all I wanted to do was pack up my bags and go home. One last show was scheduled for the following morning with the Canadian Jeremy Laing, and then I’d be on my way to JFK airport. I packed that evening so that I would just have to pick up the cases after the show and jump straight into a cab.
I must have caught a chill, picked up some bug or eaten something I shouldn’t have done (though God knows, I only ate fruit), because I was sick all night. Or perhaps it was my body telling me to put an end to this exhausting diet of incessant stress and pressure. When Seb came to pick me up for the show, I was in the toilet throwing my guts up. He said we could cancel; models did sometimes fall sick, in which case they were urgently replaced. But I refused categorically. I wasn’t about to finish my New York fashion week with a cancellation! I took the appropriate medicine, drank a large glass of Pepsi Max and off we went to Jeremy Laing. I could hardly stand on my own two feet, but I knew I’d pull it off. Either you’re a pro, or you’re not.
Home Sweet Home
I spent the flight snuggled up in the big white sweater that Dad had bought me from Abercrombie when we arrived in New York. I caught my reflection in a mirror at the airport and I realised that I really did have the perfect figure for clothes like these, which I would never have dared to wear six months earlier. Big white sweaters are only pretty on thin girls. Fortunately it also had a fleece lining, because I was shivering even more than usual, no doubt on account of exhaustion but also because of the emotion of going home, even if it would only be for a few hours.
And I’d had to fight even to get that: Seb had been planning for me to fly directly to Milan from New York. I thought I was going to kill him there and then, but instead I said that if it was going to be like that, then I was quitting completely. Initially, he didn’t believe me, but he eventually realised that I was serious and, miracle of miracles, what had been ‘absolutely impossible, darling, it’s much too complicated’ suddenly became entirely possible. I needed to remember that for future occasions.
Mum and Dad were waiting for me at the airport when I arrived. How glad I was to see them again and how lucky I was to have such wonderful parents. The boys were there when we got home. I really did love them. I unpacked my bags and gave each of them a little present, which I think they were pleased with. Alex made fun of my curly hair, which was a result of Jeremy Laing giving us all African braids. He also showed me the search results when you googled my name – it was crazy! I saw the photos of the shows once again but, above all, I discovered what people had been saying about me. ‘Wait till you see the best comment of all,’ Alex said, and showed me a post where somebody had said that I looked like a man and called me the ‘yeti of the catwalks’ because of that photo where I had goose bumps and you could see my body hair. And there was another one from a girl who I didn’t know at all saying that she knew me and that I’d ‘always been a bitch’. All this made Alexis crack up, but what he didn’t realise was that, for me, it was hurtful. I made up my mind never to google my name and I asked them never to tell me what was being written about me.
My little Léo gave me a thousand hugs and Plume nestled his face up against my nose, with his paws on my neck, and spent the night purring. It felt so good to be home and I didn’t want to leave again.
I didn’t want to go to Milan. It was too much effort, it was too soon and I wanted to give up this profession.
Mum packed my suitcase, because I was crying too much to do it. She promised that she’d do her best to join me out there and reminded me that it would only be for a few days. On top of that, there was no time difference with Italy and so we’d be able to call each other much more easily. ‘It’s the 18th today, my love. It’s just one week. On the 25th, you’ll be back here for Paris fashion week. And then I’ll be with you all the time and it’ll be great, you’ll see. We’ll be able to do everything together.’
And so off I went to Milan. My spirits were low and my guts were in a mess, and I hated myself for my inability to decide what I wanted in life and to stick with the plan.
I travelled with Louis; Seb was already out there waiting for us. I liked Louis a lot and he was very sweet towards me. We talked quite a lot in the plane and he told me how he’d fallen in love with this world and this profession, but that he could tell that the same couldn’t yet be said of me. He shared his vision of things with me: he’d wanted to create an agency on a human scale, where quality was more important than quantity. He liked to take care of the girls he worked with and to bring out the excellence in them rather than sending them anywhere and everywhere. And he understood that for ‘girls like you�
�, it was difficult to adapt. ‘I realise that, most of the time, you’re with people who aren’t particularly interesting and who don’t have much to say for themselves. But I assure you it’s worth persevering. For a start, because you’re very talented and things could work out really well for you, so it’s a great opportunity. And also because if you learn to manage your career properly, you could lead a very exciting existence, earn lots of money and do what you dream of doing in life.’
I didn’t dare tell him that I really wasn’t sure what kind of life I dreamed of any more. What I wanted to be was an actress, but I wasn’t at all sure if the path I was on was going to lead me there one day.
There’s that incredibly moving scene in Andrzej Zulawski’s That Most Important Thing: Love. Romy Schneider plays a completely desperate actress who has to immerse herself in a stupid role that she detests. She says to the director, ‘I just can’t do that,’ and the director screams at her, ‘You’re under contract, you’re paid to do it. So do as you’re told.’ A photographer is snapping her and she suddenly turns towards him and says, ‘Don’t take any photos, please. I’m an actress, you know, and I can do good work. What I’m doing here is just to put food on the table, that’s all. So please don’t take any photos.’ I think I understood better than ever at that moment what she meant.
It was raining in Milan and Seb was waiting for me at the airport. He was totally different to Louis, who I said goodbye to with some regret. Now it was back to the endless stream of banalities uttered by ‘my’ agent. Louise was right: if I carried on in this profession, I’d have to do it without him. It was just all too unbearable. I was introduced to Riccardo, the student who would be my chauffeur for the whole week (‘So much more practical than a cab!’) and to his little hatchback, a Renault Clio, which really wasn’t ideal for my long legs. I had to fold myself in two, and even four, just to get into the back seat. Naturally it didn’t occur to Seb for a second to offer me the front seat.
Our hotel was quite a long way out from the city centre, but it was pretty. I immediately started wondering where I was going to be able to do my shopping and get hold of my fruit in this far-flung suburb. There was a big bouquet of flowers waiting for me in my room with a little message from D’ Management, my Italian agency, welcoming me to Milan. It was very kind, but I was none too sure that it would be enough to ensure that my week there would be a pleasant one.
Milan
Those eight days in Milan were so awful that I wish I could forget all about them. Despite the warm welcome from the whole team at D’ Management, who I met the day after I arrived, things kept on getting worse.
My initial fears were borne out: I couldn’t find anything suitable to eat close to the hotel. On the first evening, I ordered a platter of fruit and they brought me three sorry-looking apples which battled for space with a bunch of grapes, all for an exorbitant price. My little voice immediately raised its tone: ‘You’re going to get fat. Nobody’s going to choose you. Paris fashion week is screwed.’ Panic took over, and although I thankfully had a good stock of laxatives with me, I knew I should never have come here. The week was getting off to a very bad start.
First up, there was the Gucci casting, which took place in a sinister-looking old building where Riccardo dropped me off in the pouring rain. The clouds were so low that it felt almost like night-time in the middle of the day. I found myself waiting in a dark corridor among a group of completely silent and motionless girls, who looked half-dead as they stood in a line in their 7-inch heels. There was absolutely nowhere to sit down, and flopping onto the floor like in New York was out of the question. They were all good little obedient soldiers, standing to attention and simply waiting there for somebody to deign to call them.
When it came to my turn, the casting director beckoned me over without a word. I said hello and introduced myself, but she didn’t reply, and neither did the two lackeys at her side. With another gesture, which was very close to a snap of the fingers, she indicated that she wanted me to walk. I complied and executed a little round trip. Then she gave me back my book, from which she’d taken a comp card, and I left the premises, feeling a strong urge to turn around and find the courage to scream at them that we weren’t cattle and that they might bring themselves to treat us like fellow human beings.
I took it all out on Seb in the car and, for the very first time, he raised his voice with me: ‘Calm down this instant, Victoire.’ I screamed that I wasn’t going to calm down, that I hated this crappy city and that it was completely unacceptable to be treated like that. ‘You’re just going to have to deal with it, aren’t you? Who do you think you are? You’re just a model. You do as you’re told and you keep your mouth shut.’
Right! I’d made up my mind: I was leaving this city, I was ditching this loser and I was quitting this profession.
I packed my bags to return to Paris and called Mum in tears to tell her that I’d really had enough this time and that I was bailing out. She listened to me, consoled me and calmed me down. And then she said the magic words: ‘Don’t leave, Loutch. I’m on my way.’
She needed a day or two to organise herself, but the prospect of her joining me instilled a bit of courage in me. The next day I dropped in at the agency and Francesca, who was the assistant to the bookers and really adorable, showed me something that really pepped me up: a website devoted to models called the Fashion Spot had opened a fan page for me! I couldn’t believe my eyes! I skimmed through the very sweet and complimentary comments and wasted no time in sending the link to Alex to prove to him that not everybody thought I was a ‘hairy bitch’!
Chatting with Francesca, I also realised that their relationship with Seb wasn’t all that good either. I said I was surprised to have had so few castings – four or five a day, in contrast to the twelve to eighteen appointments I’d had every day in New York. Slightly embarrassed, she hinted that he was the one who was opposed to them sending me to all the places where I could have gone. This made no sense to me at all. ‘We don’t understand either, and seemingly Flo at Elite in Paris, who I’ve had on the phone a couple of times, is in the dark too.’ I realised that I’d need to get an explanation out of that imbecile soon, but I wasn’t sure that I had the strength to confront him.
I was still feeling really furious with him when Riccardo came to get me for my hair and make-up session at Prada, which my dear Russell Marsh (who wasn’t in Milan but who was continuing to look out for me from afar) absolutely wanted me to take part in. He’d contacted the very powerful and respected Miuccia Prada, who ran the great design house founded by her grandfather with an iron rod, to let her know that I was here. When Riccardo heard me slagging off Seb, he looked at me with a big smile and then came clean: he couldn’t stand having Seb on his back any more either. Always late, not exactly friendly, arrogant, pretentious, completely vague in his instructions and with a shaky command of the English language. ‘Vittoria, non so come sopportarlo!’ I don’t speak Italian, but I didn’t need to look in the little dictionary that I had purchased to understand: Riccardo and I were very much in agreement on the subject!
And now here I was, booked from midday until three o’clock for a make-up and coiffure session at Prada without even having had to go to the casting. I wasn’t sure if the omens were good: I remembered how Louise had been chosen for all Narcisso Rodriguez’s fittings without ever being selected for his fashion shows. And she’d warned me: ‘The hair and make-up sessions are even worse. They massacre your skin and hair with all their experiments, and then they go and choose perfectly fresh girls for the big day!’ But Francesca had calmed my fears: ‘On the contrary, if Signora Prada wants to see you, then that’s a very good sign.’
I was pleasantly surprised to see Pauline there, the Belgian model who I’d got on quite well with in New York, and also that very young American who’d been over there with her mother. We waited for quite a long while – in Italy, time-keeping is often somewhat relaxed – and Pauline had time to tell me a bit
about her experiences: her agency had sent her to China, where she’d worked non-stop for catalogues, ads and small fashion shows. ‘You learn the basics of the profession, you earn a reasonable living and living in China is great. But you get zero exposure. If you want to make it in the west or internationally, forget it.’ Duly noted, Pauline! Given that it was eleven hours by plane from home, I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it even if I was paid a fortune!
We were finally called into the studio, where a team of hairstylists and make-up artists was waiting for us. They were so wrapped up in their conversation, interspersed with gales of laughter and much hand gesturing, that they didn’t deem it necessary to say hello to us. Generally speaking, the hairstylists and the make-up artists were my best allies: I would chat with them and get them to recount their adventures in the business. They were always sweet and considerate, and genuinely surprised that somebody was interested in them. But not so at Prada. I’d never seen anything like it. They tormented us for three whole hours without showing us the slightest consideration: we really were models, or puppets even – dolls whose hair you could pull and glue extensions to, whose skin you could smear, brush and rub and whose head you could raise or lower by pressing on the chin – all to a constant babble of Italian that we couldn’t understand, which was probably just as well, because none of it was aimed at us.
And then all of a sudden a silence fell. We’d seen an old lady arrive, who was very diminutive despite her high platform heels and who had her greyish blonde hair pulled back into an austere ponytail. She neither opened her mouth, nor smiled. Our tormentors were petrified, and so were we. We weren’t introduced, but we immediately realised that we were in the presence of Miuccia, the big boss. She came up to me and the make-up artist pulled my arm as a sign to me to get up out of my chair. I looked down to meet Miuccia’s gaze, but she wasn’t looking at me, by which I mean that when our gazes met, her eyes didn’t express any sentiment towards me at all, as if I didn’t exist.
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