Size Zero

by Victoire Dauxerre

  I came out of the Ann Demeulemeester casting feeling a bit ashamed. I was in the process of leaving when one of the assistants caught up with me and said with a certain amount of embarrassment: ‘Victoire, we really want to choose you. But you absolutely have to shave your arms – all those hairs are really too much …’

  That evening, before I shaved them, I went onto a medical website to find out what might cause abnormal hair growth. Top of the list of possible causes was anorexia. It was as if the body replaced fat with hair to protect itself from the cold. Anorexia? All right, I didn’t eat much, but I did eat and I wasn’t ill. I just watched myself, that was all, so that I could get into those damn clothes.

  I felt very reticent about going to the Miu Miu fitting: I was really dreading that my tormentors at Prada and that witch Miuccia, who had given me such an unpleasant time of it in Milan, would be there. Fortunately, I had the pleasant surprise of running into Céleste, my Dutch friend who was living in New York and wanted, like me, to become an actress. We had plenty of time to resume our conversation while we were waiting for them to deign to call us. She told me that her man was a painter and she was his muse. It was my own dream to be so loved and idolised. She also told me about the relationship problems she’d had with a bashful lover who she couldn’t bring herself to leave and who would follow her from city to city, even when she asked him not to. I had imagined that the life of a model would be more pleasant if you had a partner and I’d been dreaming that it would happen to me one day soon, but Céleste disabused me of the notion. According to her, it was hell living with someone if you were leading an existence like ours.

  She also told me – in a low voice, because one didn’t speak of such things – that a girl had died in the wings during one of the New York shows. ‘She paraded as planned, but when she got backstage, she collapsed. The paramedics came but there was nothing they could do: she’d had a heart attack.’ A heart attack, at 17? ‘The stress, the fatigue, and of course we don’t know what she was taking to keep going, do we? Personally, at the casting, I found you really very thin, half-starved even.’ We changed the subject. I thought back to the day when I’d fainted on that New York crosswalk for lack of food, but I didn’t share that with her. What was the point? We both knew, like everybody else, that none of the girls ate enough to satisfy their appetite during the shows.

  And on the subject of food, Céleste shared a little detail that was very ‘Prada’: while we would have a disgusting buffet consisting of some dubious chicken drowning in an even more dubious sauce in aluminium boxes fit for the worst of canteens (I would never be able to understand how they could ask us to be sticklike but hardly ever lay on appropriate food for us), the team of designers was treated to a delicious buffet hidden in the next room. How very chic!

  When my turn came, I was pleased to meet Olivier Rizzo again, the Belgian assistant to the witch, who had been so kind to me in Milan. Off we went together to get massacred by Miuccia. Apparently, the first dress he got me to try on wasn’t suitable: she looked me up and down without a hello or any human warmth and then shook her head. Panicked, Olivier ran off to find another dress, which he begged me to put on as quickly as I could behind a folding screen put there for the purpose. I came before the learned judge again. With one finger, and still without a word, she pointed at a seam, which Olivier hastily rectified with a pin, being careful not to prick me. Then he attached a second and a third pin. She gestured to me to walk and so once again it was off, turn around and back to her. She gestured to me to turn around and I did so. And then I felt her push me in the back to get me to walk forward again. She really was an awful woman.

  They started to speak in Italian and then they got up and left. Olivier just had time to explain to me with an apologetic expression that they couldn’t think any more, that they were going to take a break and that I should wait. He didn’t say for how long or anything else, not even if I could fit in lunch while they were gone. I got dressed and heard them leave. I pushed open the door to the adjoining room and I discovered the hidden buffet that Céleste had told me about. She hadn’t been making it up: fruit, vegetables, meat and very fine and delicate fish prepared by one of the best caterers in Paris. I helped myself as an act of revenge, and too bad for the scales.

  When I was lucky enough to get home in time, I prepared Léo’s tea: big slices of toast with Nutella – much more than he could possibly eat, but I couldn’t help myself. He’d eat them while telling me about life at school and listening to my tales as the queen of fashion.

  At night, despite the exhausting days, I had trouble sleeping. I shouldn’t have done, given that I was at home in my own bed with Plume and surrounded by all my loved ones, but I was afraid, and I no longer even knew what of. I’d always been afraid: that something terrible would happen, that I wouldn’t be able to protect them all, that I would find myself alone and abandoned, that I wasn’t what people wanted, that I wasn’t loved any more and that they’d find a replacement for me.

  Nobody could understand that, except perhaps Granddaddy. I think Granddaddy was afraid too, and of the same things as me.

  When I was feeling really too frightened and the night was too long, I would get up without making a sound and go and make cakes in the kitchen, which I would then eat to overcome my fear, and perhaps my hunger too. I was back on an even keel, I was mastering my diet perfectly and the enemas were helping me to avoid putting on a single ounce. But when I wasn’t doing anything, I couldn’t help but feel hungry. I cooked muffins in trays of a dozen and I also made yoghurt and chocolate nuggets, again a dozen of each, and that kept me busy and provided the family with little hotel-style lunches. I delighted in the smell throughout the house and in seeing them feast. That filled me up for the day.

  The Holy of Holies

  I met up with Russell Marsh once more at the Céline casting and we gave each other a big hug. He seemed as happy to see me again as I was to see him. I thanked him for saying so many nice things about me and for making sure that everybody was clamouring after me here. ‘That’s my job, Victoire. And it’s a pleasure for me to encourage somebody like you.’ He introduced me to his right-hand woman for Paris, Bouba, who was a pretty mixed-race girl from the Vosges and who was every bit as adorable and charming as he was. Russell had selected just a dozen models; he addressed all of them by their first name and he wanted to present them to his compatriot Phoebe Philo, the young and brilliant artistic director of the fashion house. Flo had briefed me well: going into Céline was akin to entering the holy of holies. It was an achievement restricted to girls who had been hand-picked and who corresponded to the very precise idea that Phoebe Philo had of fashion and of Parisian elegance. ‘You’ll see, it’s the world of fashion as it used to be. You have to go through things stage by stage. It’s another galaxy.’

  I could sense that as soon as I walked in: they greeted me with warmth and respect in their huge modern offices situated in the district of Les Halles. There was no hysteria or agitation; everything was bright, calm, serene and elegant. Russell and Bouba received us in a pretty white room that served as the lounge. It was spacious and comfortable and in one corner they had prepared a refined buffet that was perfectly suited to our needs. The adjoining room had been turned into a fitting room, where we were able to put on a flesh-coloured body, a dressing gown and a pair of slippers before going back into the large lounge to wait our turn. When I came out, Russell winked and murmured, ‘You’ve got a perfect body, Victoire. She’s going to adore you.’

  I had to wait another little while for him to come and get me. I followed him into a huge white room with blond parquet flooring which was lined with racks full of Céline garments in off-white, beige, brown and blue and in raw silk and moleskin, all of them splendid. At the far end of the room there was a massive mirror and, sitting behind two tables covered with fabrics, was a very pretty young woman, as delicate as a bird and with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, who was looking at me with her ext
remely light blue and distant eyes. Russell introduced me: ‘Phoebe, this is Victoire, who is French.’ I said hello and she gave me a little smile. I took off my dressing gown and she carefully looked me up and down. Russell asked me to walk, so I took off my slippers and crossed the room barefoot. They went off into a corner and spoke in low voices. My stomach tightened: something was wrong, they didn’t like me; she didn’t want me. Russell came back over to me and politely asked me to walk more slowly and to move my hips slightly so that I looked gentle and nonchalant. I walked towards her, she scrutinised me and then turned to Russell and gave him a little nod.

  First stage passed! ‘Come on, Victoire, we’re going to try on some clothes.’ Russell chose an outfit for me and I turned to Phoebe, who came up and made a few adjustments herself. Her delicate hands flitted around me like swallows, hardly touching me as she spoke very quietly to her assistant. Before positioning her needles, she slipped a finger under the fabric to make sure she didn’t prick me! It was all gentle, light, tranquil and unbelievably respectful. Then it was on to the second outfit and a second session of adjustments which was just as delicate. She stepped back to contemplate her work and smiled at me: ‘Goodbye, Victoire, and thank you very much.’

  I came out of that session on a cloud. I adored Russell and I adored that woman.

  An hour later, Flo called me: ‘Well done, Victoire! I had Russell on the phone and he told me that Phoebe Philo just adored you! Wouldn’t it be incredible if you did the Céline show? You realise it’s the thing that everybody dreams of?’ I didn’t realise, no, but I could understand why. She explained that the next stage would be hair and make-up and that Russell would no doubt do his best to ensure that I was involved, because that would considerably increase my chances of being chosen for the show. She told me too that I’d been chosen for the Miu Miu show and so she’d said no to Paul & Joe, whose show was on the same day at the same time and who had booked me too, as they’d promised me. I was extremely disappointed – I liked them as much as I detested Miuccia. ‘Victoire, what you like is neither here nor there. The key thing is that it gets you work. Miu Miu is Prada, and you don’t say no to Prada.’

  It was great working with Flo because she spoke to me adult to adult. She might have been the one making the decisions, but at least things happened quickly and everything was organised and precise. It was very professional. I was discovering another way of working which suited me much better. Seb did everything behind my back as if I were his possession, announcing the schedule higgledy-piggledy and at the last minute, which drove me crazy. And now I was driving him crazy: I’d blocked him on my phone, I didn’t answer his calls any more and I didn’t even listen to his messages. As a result, he’d started harassing my parents, who had built an unbreachable rampart between him and me. He told Dad that they were in the process of ruining my career and that it was criminal. And then after a while, he got fed up and we didn’t hear from him again, or at least I didn’t.

  For the time being, my ‘career’ didn’t really seem to be in ‘ruins’: I was starting my Paris season with a show for Taralis at the Palais de Tokyo, squeezed into ripped black jeans, a camouflage short-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck and soldier’s boots, all in an end-of-days atmosphere shot through with the sinister chiming of the bells of the apocalypse. I followed that up with Damir Doma, a Belgo-Croatian designer who I didn’t even have a casting for – it was Samuel Drira, the French designer who had summoned me in the middle of the night in New York, who had been in charge of selecting the models. He chose me automatically, without even seeing me again. We paraded in one of the halls of the Museum of Natural History amid an array of fabulous minerals.

  Next, at the Cordeliers Convent, I had to wear the very hazardous, exclusively leather ‘graphic abstractions’ of Ann Demeulemeester, who had taken the trouble to make a map of the catwalk for us to make sure we didn’t walk in the wrong direction! Doubtless she thought that these very carefully selected bodies were not equipped with brains.

  Between the shows, the castings continued; everything was very condensed here. I failed the Sonia Rykiel casting, because I didn’t know that she hated as much as I did those models who walk in a straight line and look miserable – I hadn’t taken the risk of showing her my personality. I didn’t dare to slam the door on the Vuitton casting either, where they asked us to present ourselves wearing only a thong and high heels in an atmosphere that was heavy and stifling. I loved the Castelbajac casting, which was as vibrant and colourful as the walls of the room to which we were summoned. And I was desperate to be chosen for Wunderkind, which was the brand of the Dutch designer Wolfgang Joop, who had created a magnificent collection, very reminiscent of Tim Burton’s universe and themed around Alice in Wonderland.

  I took a break to take part in the hair and make-up session at Céline, which Flo was so hopeful about – ‘Great, Victoire! I’m telling you, you’re going to get it!’ – and which was almost a fairy tale compared to the violence of the session at Prada. The make-up artists and hairstylists were all French and they were gentle, charming and considerate, in keeping with the image of the major fashion house. Everything unfolded in an atmosphere of calm serenity. And Phoebe Philo greeted me with a ‘Hello, Victoire,’ and a really lovely smile.

  On that particular day I met another French girl, Suzie, whose thinness made an impression on me and in fact genuinely frightened me. She told me that she’d been in this profession for four years and, despite all her efforts, she’d never managed to get her hip measurement down below 36 inches. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it – my skeleton is too wide. And so they never choose me for the shows: I can hardly get into a size 6, so you can imagine what it’s like with a size 4.’ I was speechless when she confessed that sweet little Solène, her booker at Elite, had said to her: ‘The best thing for you to do is to find yourself a rich man and marry him.’

  Meanwhile, I had been chosen for the Miu Miu fitting – an entire day at the mercy of the witch! But in fact it was in striking contrast to the last time: fortunately Olivier, her right-hand man and my guardian angel, was putting in the needles under her instructions and so I escaped the worst. He even kindly invited me to have lunch; I got official access to the buffet that I had raided a few days earlier. He defended his boss as best he could: ‘You know, she’s a wonderful person. She perhaps comes across as a bit harsh, but she’s really very talented. And the thing is, she’s a stellar designer, she has a status to maintain, and she can’t be seen to be accessible. That’s all part of the game.’ I thought back to the delicate elegance of Phoebe, but I didn’t dare contradict him: he’d been working with, and enduring, Miuccia for ten years, so there must have been something there that appealed to him.

  On the evening of 2 October, I was at home preparing tea for Léo when Flo rang. ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news – which do you want first?’ I always preferred to save the best till last. ‘Well then, I know you’re going to be disappointed, but I’ve cancelled Wunderkind tomorrow, because you’ve been chosen for Vuitton, which is happening at the same time. Keep your phone close to you and I’ll ring you at dawn to give you the details.’ Oh no! I had so wanted to take a stroll through wonderland and I so didn’t want to see those louts again who had made us go topless to assess us. ‘But you’ve been chosen for the Leonard, Vanessa Bruno and Collette Dinnigan shows.’ OK, that wasn’t so bad. Together with the ones I’d already done, that would make for a respectable season.

  ‘And above all, Victoire, you’re also booked for … Alexander McQueen and CÉLINE!!!’

  Into the Light

  When I arrived at the venue for the Céline show, the technicians were putting the finishing touches to the hall, where they had constructed a very large, completely white space through which a catwalk snaked, lined with tiered seating. The wings were hidden behind a false wall, where the team was busying itself around Phoebe Philo, who was calm and focused. I was greeted like a distinguished guest by the st
age manager. ‘Hello, Victoire, how are you? Follow me! Phoebe has prepared a present for you.’ In my allotted place, and in those of all the other models, there was a huge wrapped present with my name on it. When I opened it, I found a sumptuous bag from the new collection – the bag that all the fashionistas would be dreaming of possessing when it went on sale. Phoebe had chosen it specially for me – we were each given a different model – and had slipped in a little handwritten message to explain her choice: ‘For Victoire, the elegance and character of the Parisian woman.’ It was already a wonderful gift to be one of the lucky few doing the show, and now on top of this we were going home with a collector’s item!

  I got to know my dresser Lola, who was stunned that I chatted to her. ‘You know, most of the models treat us as if we don’t exist. Or worse … Follow my gaze!’ Two chairs further along, Agnes, the darling of the designers and Karl Lagerfeld’s muse, was looking as blasé unwrapping her huge Céline bag as I had looked amazed when I was unwrapping mine. Lola winked at me. Clearly Agnes was maintaining her status as an elite model by cultivating that superior and condescending attitude that seemed to be de rigueur in the wonderful world of fashion. I told Lola that I was constantly amazed to see the models, who were treated so badly by the designers, stylists and casting directors, in turn treating the make-up artists, hairstylists and dressers so badly. It was as if you had to perpetuate the tradition, making them endure what we ourselves endured.

  Agnes was staring at me, perhaps because I too couldn’t help staring at her very bizarre body. All her bones were sticking out of her skin, which sported tattoos all over. She was topless and all that remained of her non-existent breasts were pierced nipples. That, together with her endless untoned arms and legs, ultimately gave her an extraordinary, almost monstrous appearance. She was fascinating. ‘You wouldn’t believe how she treats us,’ whispered Lola.