We lined up in the order we were due to go on and Phoebe inspected us thoroughly, rectifying tiny details in her bird-like way. I was just behind my friend Céleste. ‘That’s not right,’ said Phoebe, ‘could you swap tops?’ I gave my white top to Céleste, who gave me her blue one. Phoebe’s unerring eye had got it right: it was much better that way round.
Then silence, music, lights. Russell had warned me: ‘For this show, don’t walk too fast. Everything has to be gentle, even your gaze.’ I walked amid the unbelievable crowd of spectators (Carine Roitfeld, Anna Wintour and other personalities from Vogue), following the undulating curves of the catwalk in Phoebe’s soft and flowing clothes. I was focused and happy, genuinely happy!
At the end of the show after the applause, Phoebe finally relaxed. I got a chance to talk to her and to thank her for her wonderful gift. ‘You’re wonderful too, Victoire.’ And then I went to embrace Russell, without whom none of this would have happened.
When I left, I was greeted by a small crowd of photographers and some highly excited bloggers, who begged me to pose with them as if I were Marilyn Monroe and asked me what I was wearing. Seb had warned me: ‘Never tell the truth, you have to keep the dream alive!’ And so I told them that I had found my 100 per cent H&M blue cotton outfit ‘in a second-hand shop in the Marais’ and my shoes at Aldo in New York. As for my brand-new Céline bag, it spoke for itself. ‘Something vintage and something classy is what creates the magic balance in fashion, baby’: on that point at least, Seb had been right.
The next day I did the Leonard show on a fluorescent pink catwalk beneath Alexandre-III bridge, which had been transformed into a multicoloured set. I was topless in a beige thong when a TV crew turned up backstage with their camera! It was rather a strange way to treat models, and there were other surprises in store for me: after the show, which was all veils and flowery patterns, Leonard’s guests spilled over into our changing rooms like a human tide in order to feast to their heart’s delight on our undressed bodies, as if we were part of the spectacle!
Mum picked me up outside and we sped off, jumping several red lights (I wasn’t about to relive the Francesco Scognamiglio episode in Milan!), to the Palais de Chaillot for the Vanessa Bruno show. She greeted the models in person as if we were her friends. ‘Victoire! How are you? How did you get here?’ I told her that Mum was waiting for me in her Mini. ‘Oh, bring her in! I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you parade!’ So a delighted Mum joined us backstage and was there with me when I discovered the pretty bag that was waiting for me as a gift. And then I paraded to a punchy soundtrack, my heart full of joy, beneath the Eiffel Tower and in front of Mum! In the large fluorescent orange bag, which was bound to go down a storm in the women’s magazines the following summer, I found an envelope containing a €500 voucher and a little handwritten message: ‘You’re superb! Thank you to my find of the season for doing my show!’
The following day I had an appointment at the sublime Hôtel Meurice in front of an audience of celebrities and starlets to present the princess dresses – satin, lace and rhinestone – of the Australian Collette Dinnigan. I found myself surrounded by a horde of Russian models who were ready to trample on anyone who tried to edge them out of the photo. Mum was allowed in too. ‘Oh, sweetie, your mother is so nice!’ And to think that Seb used to loudly proclaim that under no circumstances should I be accompanied by my mother, because ‘they’ hate that! Whether at D’ Management, at Vanessa Bruno or here at the Hôtel Meurice, ‘they’ all seemed delighted to welcome her with open arms and were touched to see us together.
Two days later I turned up at the Musée de l’Homme for the Alexander McQueen show, my heart pounding: I loved this designer and Flo had said that doing his show could open a lot of doors for me in future seasons. Mum dropped Alex and me off at the entrance: I’d decided to try to get him in so that he got to see at least one of my shows, but, despite my pleading, the security staff firmly refused to allow him backstage: see you at the exit in a little while, then!
Amid all the hustle and bustle in the wings, Sarah Burton, the English designer and former lieutenant of Alexander McQueen who was presenting her first collection since the death of the master, was biting her nails and desperately looking for someone who could wear dress number 6. ‘Would you like to try, Victoire? Don’t worry if you can’t get into it. There’s always the dress you wore at the casting, but I really adore this one. We made a mistake and made it too small: nobody can get into it.’
The dresser and I set about the challenge and, miracle of miracles, I managed to slip into the complicated get-up of the short little dress, with its flounces and colourful pattern, without too much trouble. It was tightly cinched at the waist with a sophisticated leather shackle with gold buckles. I couldn’t believe it myself: enormous though I was, I’d managed it! Shout it from the rooftops: I was the only one who could get into dress number 6! My joy lasted for as long as it took me to sit down – which exceptionally was allowed, because the dress was so short that there was no danger of me creasing it – and put on the incredible matching shoes, half normal boots and half ski boots, that completed my outfit. They were a size 6 with 7-inch heels – a nightmare.
I got out of the dress and shoes to go and get my hair and make-up done and that’s when I realised it was much worse than a nightmare: I immediately recognised my Milanese tormentors from Prada. And they hadn’t changed: not a word, not a glance, totally absorbed in their conversation. They attacked my scalp with a hair straightener with their customary brutality, which was enough to bring tears to my eyes. They showed no consideration towards me and offered no apologies.
But the result was incredible: my skull was on fire but my hair was perfectly braided, my face was subtly whitened, my waist was clamped with the buckles and snap links of my dress, my nails were painted with golden motifs and my feet were held in the vice-like grip of my shoes. I looked like a sublime Amazonian warrior ready for battle. A few metres away from me, the young American elite model Karlie Kloss, squeezed into the most beautiful dress of the collection, was moving everyone out of the way so that she could practise walking!
When I went out into the light with my undulating gait to the sound of grandiose music, I couldn’t feel my tortured feet any more or my slaughtered skull. I was a queen – a goddess parading in the heart of the Musée de l’Homme who had been made larger than life by a wonderful designer who was offering the public a spectacle of staggering beauty.
The show came to an end and I went backstage to get the dresser to help me out of those shoes and put me out of my misery. We were still at the task when the scrum of photographers erupted into the dressing rooms. It was unbelievable! And amid the lenses and flashbulbs I recognised Alex who, with a big smile, was snapping me like a true pro – amazingly he’d managed to get in! I quickly got dressed while he described how he’d managed to pass himself off as a photographer, thanks to his huge camera and his laid-back demeanour. I took him to the buffet to mingle with the beautiful people to round off the party. I sidled up to Sarah Burton, who was deep in conversation with a very beautiful woman dressed entirely in McQueen, to thank her for the extraordinary experience that I’d just had thanks to her. They both turned towards me smiling and I recognised the actress Salma Hayek. Stammering a bit, I told Sarah how happy I’d been to do her show and to wear her sublime debut collection. When Salma replied, to the wide-eyed amazement of my brother, ‘You’re the one who’s sublime,’ I felt myself filling up with joy and pride.
I watched Alexis tucking into the delicious petits fours which my bastard little voice had prohibited me from touching, but I did allow myself a glass of champagne to toast this beautiful show with him. And then we went home to recount our McQueen afternoon to the others.
The Miu Miu show was closing the spring/summer season that year in the gardens of the Palais-Royal, which had been privately hired out and covered with an immense tent for the occasion. Having once more passed through the hands of my Mi
lanese tormentors, I was very happy to see Olivier Rizzo again, who embraced me as if we’d been friends for ever under the attentive and irritated gaze of Agnes, who was getting ready two seats further along. When my dresser appeared with my shoes, which were spectacular see-through sandals with green and pink stripes and fluorescent laces, Olivier intervened: ‘Let me do it!’ And so there was I sitting on my chair and Miuccia Prada’s right-hand man was at my feet putting on those implausible stilts! He was setting about the laces of the left foot when I caught a reflection in the mirror and for a fraction of a second I glimpsed the furious expression of Agnes, who was observing the scene. She was jealous! I saw her immediately take it out on her poor dresser, who she dismissed with a brisk tap. I discreetly described the scene to my trusty knight, who murmured, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ before getting up and innocently turning round to Agnes: ‘Hello darling, how are you? Let me help you with your shoes …’
Half an hour later, my first season came to an end in the gardens of the Palais-Royal amid thunderous applause for Miuccia Prada, the witch of the catwalks. I took a glass of champagne over to Mum, who Bouba had got in as a guest, so that she could enjoy a bit of the backstage atmosphere before taking me home. I was both happy and unhappy, exhausted and galvanised. And in truth, completely lost …
The Photo Shoots
It was a massive relief, before going back to work, to have two days off in which to do the things that normal people do when they have time off. I spent a long afternoon catching up with my friend Sophie, who I hadn’t seen for far too long. She didn’t actually reproach me, but I knew that she found it difficult to accept that we’d had so little contact in recent months. I thought to myself that you had to be a model to understand what a model’s life was like. I also went for a walk in the Parc Monceau with my grandparents and spent an evening with my cousin and his friends, one of whom performed in a lot of comedy sketches and improvisational theatre. I helped Léo with his homework, went to a matinée with Alexis the film buff and had a siesta with my little Plume …
I did actually go to the agency for a little party to celebrate the end of fashion week. Flo greeted me with a big smile and was full of enthusiasm. Vladimir also came over to embrace me and congratulate me: ‘Well done, Victoire. You went down a storrrm! Twenty-two shows, including Céline, Miu Miu and Alexander McQueen. For a firrrst season, that’s a verrry rrrare thing! Febrrruary is going to be epic, my darrrling! They’re alrrready starting to call.’
Flo and I found a quiet corner to review the upcoming schedule. Now that the fashion shows were over, it was the photo shoot season for the front or inside pages of the magazines or for the various brands that had noticed me in recent weeks and wanted to include me in their lookbook, the catalogue for presenting their collection to the print media and the retail buyers. And all the while we would be waiting for the jackpot: a contract for a brand campaign, which I would represent on posters and in ad pages. I had heard enough girls dreaming of that in the queues at the castings to know that it was these much trumpeted campaigns that made a model’s fortune, and that of their agencies.
Speaking of agencies, Flo kept on hinting that it was about time that I clarified the situation with Seb and chose Elite as my primary agency. I could see that she also wouldn’t be averse to the idea of me reconsidering my commitments to Silent and D’ Management and I knew that she was right. Seb had introduced me to them and both Silent and D’ Management had been kind to me, but I wasn’t obliged to be dumbly loyal to people just because I owed them something or because I liked them: ‘It’s business, Victoire. It’s not about good intentions.’ While she waited for me to get around to tackling these issues – I would have to talk to my parents to get their opinion and advice – Flo went through my schedule for the coming weeks: photo shoots in Paris, Milan (‘Oh no, not Milan!’) and London, test photos with photographers selected by the agency to pad out my book, and reshoots in London. ‘Not to mention all the other stuff that’s going to come in!’
I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to do all that. I was tired, I felt cold all the time and now that I wasn’t living life in the fast lane, I was also starting to feel hungry all the time. And I was getting bored too: what was I going to do between now and February fashion week? What goal could I aim for, now that I’d achieved the first goal I’d set myself? I knew this was stupid: for several weeks I’d been dreaming of slowing down, having time to myself and catching my breath a bit, and now that I could, instead of taking advantage I felt empty and sad, very sad.
What was I going to do with my life?
After two days’ rest, I started the photo shoots. The first was for Busnel on a sunny day down by the Canal Saint-Martin. A photographer, an assistant and a designer from the brand were there to help me coordinate and put on the outfits and there was also a woman to do my hair and make-up. It was a small crew and we took four hours in the bright sunshine to wrap up all the pictures for the forthcoming collection. The very sweet photographer encouraged me to take the initiative: ‘Suggest things to me. Invent situations, toy with me and with the clothes!’ I did what I could, but I got bored very quickly. Fashion, when there wasn’t the stage fright of the shows, the buzz of the crowd, the flashbulbs, the set, the music and the designer’s stress, was suddenly distinctly less interesting!
The following morning it was off to the Marais for a photo shoot for Untitled, a cultural magazine whose existence I wasn’t even aware of! The photographer Amira Fritz greeted me warmly and Lotta, the Dutch designer, transformed me into a curious creature who was half childlike and half disturbing in a tulle dress and striped socks, complemented by really bizarre make-up and a very striking backcombed hairdo. It was in this rather remarkable get-up that I got the metro with them to the Bois de Boulogne. It was a fun and intriguing adventure and would be something to tell the boys about that evening! As I watched Amira work and looked at the proofs that she showed me on her screen, I understood that she was composing strange, slightly baroque and magical fairy-tale images with the woods and me as the leading characters. It was meticulous and time-consuming work where every detail counted: a little flower, the position of my fingers on the trunk, the fold of the tulle on my thigh, the shape of the branch and the shadow it cast … The whole thing took hours. I was cold as usual, a bit more than usual in fact – it was after all autumn and we were in the Bois de Boulogne.
At around one o’clock, the assistant went off to buy some sausages and chips in the little hut she’d spotted at the previous crossroads. Amira held out a portion to me which I declined, instead getting an apple out of my bag. With a smile, she insisted, ‘Don’t tell me you’re on a diet! I’m against diets. Eat some chips, Victoire! You’re much too thin.’ I said that I really couldn’t, and I felt fear gnawing away in my stomach. ‘I’m not asking you to be fat, just normal. A couple of chips aren’t going to make you explode!’
And yet the very idea was making my brain explode and my bastard little voice was yelling at me. Didn’t she know that chips were the ultimate poison, that they were death, my death? She was against ‘models on diets’, but what she didn’t consider for a moment was why I was there and not Madeleine or Olympe. How did I end up at Elite and why had her client chosen me for her to photograph?
She told me that a few years ago she had worked with a model who had been called a ‘fat cow’ by a casting director even though she was completely scrawny. After giving up the profession, her body had been so knackered that it took her five years before she managed to conceive. I kept quiet, ate my apple and then did some more posing. My teeth were chattering and I wanted to go home.
I was present, but I had the feeling that I was absent, absent from myself.
When I got home that evening, I begged Mum to call Flo: the next day, I was due to fly off to Milan for two days to do a shoot for an article in a women’s magazine and to feature on their front cover. I really didn’t want to go back there and find myself all alone in a hotel again. I wa
s afraid and I didn’t think I could manage it.
Mum put the phone on speaker and Flo sounded annoyed: ‘Why doesn’t Victoire call herself?’
‘Don’t be hard on her, Florence. She’s very tired. She got very cold in the Bois de Boulogne and is resting.’
‘I can’t cancel tomorrow’s shoot, I can’t do that to the client.’
‘But don’t you think one day would suffice? She could leave early in the morning and get the last plane back.’
Mum was brilliant! An hour later, Flo emailed to confirm that my plane tickets had been changed and that I’d leave at dawn and return that evening.
And so I did go to Milan and the day spent with an attentive and friendly team was calm and relaxed. I posed in my sublime light blue silk dress from Dior and everything was easy and straightforward. I even had time to pop into D’ Management and say hello to Francesca and the team before I got the last plane back home to my own bed.
Before I went off to the agency, the photographer had shown me the photos and I watched him begin to retouch them: in a few clicks, he plumped up my cheeks, thighs and breasts and erased the bones of my sternum to give me an attractive cleavage. So that was how things worked: we lost kilo upon kilo so that they chose us, only for them to put it all back on as they saw fit.
But there was no arguing with the before and after test: I had to admit that I was prettier with all those curves.
Back home, they asked me how the day had gone and I changed the subject. I was fed up with talking about this profession.
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