Size Zero

by Victoire Dauxerre

  After the show, I went to see Francesco Scognamiglio to apologise to him. He received me very kindly and said that he’d had a big fright but that fortunately we’d managed to avoid disaster.

  Seb was in the car waiting to take me back to the hotel. He said, ‘You see, we pulled it off.’ I chose not to reply and to keep my mouth shut rather than hitting him. I concentrated on what Dad kept telling me: make use of that idiot as the ideal exercise in maintaining your self-control. While coming across as an amateur might not have bothered Seb, I couldn’t afford or bear to be amateurish. I was never going to arrive late for a show again and I wanted to have nothing more to do with this guy.

  The next day, while they were giving me directions to my last show, the agency sent me the mail that Stephan Janson had written to all the girls in his show, in which he took the trouble to mention each one of us by our first name. He said how ‘terrific’ we had been and thanked us once again for this ‘magnificent’ gift we had given him. There was a P.S. addressed specifically to me: ‘To Victoire: I’m sure your dad is going to be very proud of you. I can already imagine him seeing you on the catwalks. He really does have an amazing daughter.’

  That day’s show was taking place in the open air on the Piazza del Duomo. Francesca had managed to find a pass for Mum, who was so happy and emotional about being able to accompany me backstage for the first time and to watch me parade. It might have been a lovely grand finale to a week which even my encounter with the wonderful Stephan hadn’t been enough to salvage, but the heavens were against us: like practically every day since I’d been there, it was pouring down and was bitterly cold. The dressing rooms were set up under tents down one side of the square; they were unheated and there was a constant draught. While I was getting ready, I had to argue with the hairstylist so that I could keep on the jumper I was wrapped up in so as to avoid freezing to death. He got his own back by pulling on my hair like crazy.

  I wore a very long brownish dress with a very low neckline and peep-toe platform sandals. The hem of the dress soaked up water as it brushed against the wet ground. In the space of two minutes, my feet were soaked. A partially covered corridor led to the catwalk, which was also only partially covered, and the stands where the public, including poor Mum, were sitting, freezing in the rain, were not covered at all. It was a disaster, made worse by the ever-increasing risk that I would get my heels caught in my sodden train and fall flat on my face live on Italian TV, whose cameras were stationed all along the catwalk. Dad had announced enthusiastically that he’d found a way to watch the show live from Paris – well, he’d certainly have something to watch.

  All the situation was lacking was a bit of wind, which duly turned up. We started to parade, with Elizabeth Jagger leading the way, in an apocalyptic atmosphere. I could feel my damp dress sticking to my thighs and prayed that it wouldn’t wrap itself around my ankles. I did what felt like an endless circuit of the slippery catwalk and then quickly got back to shelter. And only then did I notice that one of my straps had slipped and that I’d been parading with one of my breasts exposed – how delighted my father must have been!

  Before we flew back to Paris, we dropped in at the agency to thank them for all their kindness and to say goodbye. Francesca greeted me with her usual warmth and played the show to me: you could very distinctly see my strap fall and my breast pop out, nice and pert in the cold and rain. It made her laugh. ‘But it really doesn’t matter. You put on a really good show in really extreme conditions. And your gaze was perfect. Wow – what a gaze!’ She didn’t know me well enough to realise that what she found so ‘perfect’ about my eyes was massive anger.

  In the plane on the way back, Mum showed me the photos she’d taken from the stand: blurred, shaky and wet. ‘I was so moved. I was shivering, but I had tears in my eyes. You don’t realise, do you? I’ve got an extraordinary daughter!’

  And Now for Paris

  My bed, my Léo, my Alex, my Plume, my dad, my mum, my house – I was back home! What sweetness and bliss. Everything was getting better and I was doing better too. Things would improve now, because they were there with me and I would finally be able to sleep at home every night. New York was of course great, but Paris was Paris!

  Before the castings got under way at breakneck speed – Flo had warned me by email that my timetable was going to erupt in the coming days – I went over to Avenue Montaigne to visit ‘my’ agency again at last. I know it sounds stupid, but when I pushed open the door and entered the Elite beehive, which was completely buzzing, it felt like I was coming home. Flo was the first to spot me. ‘Oh, Victoire, you’re looking gorgeous! Look how much weight she’s lost, look how beautiful she is!’ They all turned to look at me and started applauding, which made me blush. I felt so proud and happy to be applauded by the Elite team!

  Vladimir came over and hugged me: ‘Well done in New York, my lovely. You were staggerrring!’

  Flo gestured to me to sit down next to her. ‘He’s right. You had a crazily good season in New York. Now you need to do the same thing here!’ She said that as if it were already in the bag and I felt a knot growing in my stomach. She thought I’d lost a lot of weight, but what she didn’t know was that the scales that morning had read 49.1. I’d put on 2 kilos in a week. I might not even be able to get into the clothes any more, especially here in Paris. All the girls had told me: here it’s size 4, end of story. And for an elite model, Paris is the centre of the world, the centre of fashion, the occasion not to be missed.

  Flo said we’d have to sort out the situation with Seb: she had sung my praises everywhere and she really couldn’t understand why he’d refused half the castings that I’d been offered in Milan. I replied that for me the situation was sorted and I just wanted to drop the subject. But it wasn’t as simple as that, of course; I’d signed a contract and he wouldn’t let me go just like that. We agreed to deal with it after the shows because, right now, we had to knuckle down. ‘Russell Marsh loves you, he speaks to everyone about you, which is great! He never gets it wrong. You wouldn’t believe how many doors he can open for you.’ That afternoon I had a casting for Dior and then for Chanel, followed in the coming days by Céline (‘Céline is the top of the tree: if they choose you, it’s instant glory!’), Balenciaga, Paul & Joe, Miu Miu (‘That’s a Prada brand, Miuccia will be there’, ‘Oh please, not Prada! Not Miuccia!’), Ann Demeulemeester, Givenchy, Yohji Yamamoto, Leonard, Valentino, Vanessa Bruno, Sonia Rykiel, Collette Dinnigan and Alexander McQueen.

  I’d planned to head straight to the Dior casting when I left, because they were also in Avenue Montaigne, but Flo warned me that John Galliano was mad about legs. I just had time to go back home, give my legs a close shave and change from my skinny jeans into an ultra-short little dress so that he could admire my pins. Mum took me there in her Mini – she would be my private chauffeur for the day and Dad would take over that evening when he got home from work. It couldn’t have been better. We parked the Mini outside Dior and, still sitting in the passenger seat, I swung my legs out onto the pavement and was busy carefully oiling my skin so that it would shine dazzlingly when a very elegant elderly gentleman stopped in the street to voice his outrage: ‘A little decency please, mademoiselle!’ I answered him with my best smile. This fine gentleman was unaware that my career as a supermodel was on the line!

  I wasn’t the only one who had come to try her luck: the foyer was crawling with girls perched on their finest high heels, busy putting cream on their legs while they waited for their turn. I waited too, but not as long as I’d feared; everything was well organised here. And the girls who were sent by Flo were treated with respect and sometimes given priority, even at the big fashion houses. At the top of a staircase, I was ushered into a huge room filled with racks sagging under the weight of clothes and tables covered in accessories. It was an Ali Baba’s cave! A dresser handed me a pair of navy blue denim boots with massive heels: Galliano wanted to see us parade in the boots being used in the show. The good news w
as that they were a size 7, so I wouldn’t have to go through the torture session again that I’d endured at Prada in Milan.

  But it wasn’t good news for everyone, apparently: a girl came out of the room where the designer was receiving us, yelling in English. She was furious because she’d tripped up in her size 7s; she took size 5 and was demanding to do the casting again in shoes of the right size. The assistant calmly explained to her that the boots only came in size 7, but the girl insisted on doing the casting again. I had never seen a model rebel like that, and so noisily too! And then suddenly I recognised the harpy: it was Bianca, a sublime Brazilian muse for Victoria’s Secret who had inspired such dreams in me in New York! Looking at her closely, you had to say Photoshop worked wonders: she was 5 foot 8 inches at the very most and had short legs, wide hips and dreadful skin. And her behaviour was completely out of order. That was definitely one myth that had crumbled!

  I remember having spoken about her to Louis in the plane to Milan and admitting that I would love to have that job. He replied with a hint of reproach in his voice: ‘You’re worth more than that, Victoire! All right, she earns $2 million a year, but you’re a top haute couture model. Victoria’s Secret is for the Yanks.’ I hadn’t really understood him at the time, but suddenly I saw what he meant! ‘Those girls dream of doing Céline or Chanel. They’d be prepared to pay for the privilege, but it will never happen: they’ve had it. You can’t compare apples and oranges, you know what I mean?’

  John Galliano’s assistant nevertheless let her go in once more, giving me a knowing glance as if to say sorry, and I could understand her: it was probably the quickest way to put an end to the situation. When little miss came back out, I entered in my turn. Perched on my star’s boots, I steadily descended the three little steps that led down into a large room with beautiful parquet flooring. The room was very long and empty and at the end of it His Majesty Galliano was sitting regally behind a desk. He was faithful to his image: a ridiculously tall hat, white-blond hair, a big ring in his right ear, the Don Diego moustache and a huge crucifix hanging down over his shirt, which was unbuttoned a long way down and featured all the colours of the rainbow.

  The woman sitting next to him asked me to come forward and so I went up and handed her my book under the completely impassive stare of the master. She opened the book, held it out to him and turned the pages for him. He didn’t react at all – he was like a wax model at Madame Tussauds. ‘Walk, please.’ I turned round and my bottom was right in Galliano’s face. I crossed the room again, taking care not to slip on the parquet, which wouldn’t have been out of place at the Palace of Versailles, and back again I came. She took my comp card and gave me back my book with a smile. There was still no sign of life on John’s face.

  On my way out, I called Flo to tell her about it. ‘Oh, Victoire, I forgot to tell you: he likes girls who walk very energetically, who take big strides and really plant their heels on the ground.’ Too late, Galliano was a write-off then! Next it was off to Rue Saint-Honoré and Chanel. Perhaps I would have more luck with His Eminence Lagerfeld?

  I didn’t have the honour of being introduced to the man himself. I got there to find a crowd of some 200 girls, maybe more. Flo had told me to go straight up to see the casting director, who I had no trouble identifying: a small, slightly plump brunette who wasn’t friendly at all. I said hello, introduced myself and said that I had been sent by Flo. She didn’t reply, took my book, looked me up and down and gave me back my book without even taking my comp card or asking me to walk. So that was the end of that.

  When I called Flo to report back, she wasn’t surprised. ‘I sent you there because it’s Chanel, but Karl Lagerfeld doesn’t like breasts. Your 32A is still too much for him. His number one model is Agnes. She’s extremely flat-chested.’

  Before I went home after this less than encouraging first day, Mum dropped me off at my grandparents’, who I hadn’t seen in ages. It was really lovely to see them again.

  Nan took me in her arms and then stepped back to look at me. ‘You’re very beautiful, darling, but you’re much too thin. Are you sure you’re eating enough?’

  I sidestepped the question by telling her that in a few days’ time I would be doing a casting for Yves Saint Laurent, which was the very definition of French elegance in her eyes. Her face lit up. I knew that she had always admired his work, because when I was little she had told me once, when I was admiring her sketches, that she had studied at the École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne, the private Paris fashion college, a few years after he had been there. In fact, her fashion sketches, which I’d often flicked through, were very reminiscent of what I knew of the great designer, as were the very elegant clothes that my darling grandmother always wore.

  I spent a long time with Granddaddy telling him about New York, Milan and all my adventures in the wonderful world of fashion. He listened to me with a worried air. ‘Make the most of your life, Victorinette. It goes by so quickly. And above all don’t do what I did. Have the courage to do what you love.’ I was worried by his state – he seemed so sad and tired. Before I left, I had a little look around the bathroom. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: in July in Marseille, Granddaddy had had serious stomach problems. A doctor eventually prescribed him some enemas, which relieved his symptoms almost immediately. If it had worked for him, it would surely work for me. My laxatives were having hardly any effect any more and I had 2 kilos I urgently needed to lose.

  Earlier on, when Flo was telling me that I should have the legs of a goddess for Galliano, Léonce, an adorable booker who was as funny as he was crude, had interrupted us: ‘Victoire, have you seen the legs you have? It’s a disgrace to be so hot! I’d kill to have a body as unbelievable as yours.’ Everybody laughed. ‘And let me tell you, Victoire: we don’t ask you to be fit, but it has to be said that you are well fit.’ To me, it was amazing that they couldn’t see how enormous I was.

  I scrutinised my ‘unbelievable body’ in the mirror. My legs and arms were very slim, there was the thigh gap that I liked, and my ultra-flat stomach and my ribs. Then the bones of my pelvis and sternum, and my breasts which were still too big for Lagerfeld. I had hollow cheeks, which gave me huge eyes. I was pleased that they liked all that, but personally I couldn’t understand it. They couldn’t see the folds on my stomach if I didn’t hold myself up absolutely straight, or the folds under my buttocks. My thighs were too flabby, as were my forearms. I had a double chin when I lowered my head. That was the effect of the 2 kilos I’d put on in Milan. They couldn’t see that there was a danger I wouldn’t be able to get into the clothes.

  I spent some time with Léopold. We cuddled up together on his bed, told each other secrets and tickled each other. He said he was happy that I was home and I said he could have no idea just how happy I was to be home too. And then I went to bed with Plume, leaving open the door that separated my room from Alex’s so that we could talk to each other as we fell asleep, just like we used to do.

  The merry-go-round of the castings resumed at an infernal pace. Mum took me everywhere and we visited all the chic districts of Paris. She would wait for me in the car and then afterwards I’d tell her all about it. There was this guy, clearly on coke, who recognised my little Ralph Lauren dress and started to shriek: ‘Oh, but what a good idea! I’ve never seen that – take a photo of her! You’re so beautiful, I just want you, want you, want you for my show.’ There was also the guy at Yves Saint Laurent – when I told Nan about him, she was going to be devastated. He was a huge vulgar oaf, buttoned up in a badly tailored suit and eyes hidden behind gold sunglasses, who chewed gum while he took photos with a huge camera in front of a large roll of white paper, like in Sergei’s studio, and he kept saying, ‘Look at me, sweetie. Be sensual.’ I tripped in my high heels on the edge of his paper, which wasn’t fixed to the ground. He immediately reacted, but not, as I thought, to stop me from falling, but rather to check that I hadn’t torn his damn white canvas. ‘For
fuck’s sake, watch the gear!’ I reckoned things were screwed for Yves Saint Laurent too.

  I also crossed paths again with Nikki and Ashley, the double act from Calvin Klein, at a completely chaotic casting. Like in New York, they picked girls out of the patiently expectant crowd as their crazy whims took them, without respecting at all the order in which we’d arrived. At Balenciaga, I met an adorable Dutch girl who was as thin as a stick and was studying at the École des Beaux-Arts and we had a chat about painting and museums while we were waiting our turn. Like me, it was her first season. She confessed in a whisper that she had to lie about her age: as soon as she said she was 20 instead of 27, everybody found her more attractive!

  I bumped into Kate the Canadian and Mum ferried her around with me in her Mini when we had the same castings lined up. And then I met Maud, a diaphanous Dutch blonde who was very young and who confided in me, as if it were a big secret, that she’d found a trick to keep her figure in shape: she would eat one biscuit a day and nothing else. We took her along with us in the Mini too. They were very pleased to be pampered a bit by a mum, even if it wasn’t their own mum.

  At the casting at Paul & Joe, whose clothes I loved, I was welcomed enthusiastically by the designers (a young guy and a young woman), who thought I was ‘exactly the image of the brand’. They wanted me to open their show and to do their campaign – at last it was happening to me! I appreciated their spontaneity and the fact that things could happen so straightforwardly, even in that world.