The next morning in the hotel lobby, I discovered that I wasn’t alone: two other models, a Dutch brunette and a Russian blonde who seemed to be as surprised as I was, were also waiting for the chauffeur. We got into the car without a word and headed off to a warehouse in the suburbs.
As soon as I walked in, I could see that nothing was ready. The technicians arrived at the same time as us and started unrolling their cables and putting up the set, which was a huge red-lacquered stage placed in front of an attractive black wall. The studio manager confirmed that everything would take at least two or three hours to set up and that Mert and Marcus weren’t due until early afternoon. When I asked why, if that was the case, we’d been asked to come here so early, she looked at me as if I had asked an incredibly stupid question and just got on with what she was doing without even bothering to reply.
The heat was absolutely stifling. I looked around the premises to pass the time. Downstairs the entire Miu Miu collection was waiting for us, carefully arranged on tables and clothes racks. Next door was the make-up room with three tables, three mirrors and three armchairs, and then upstairs there was the hairstyling room, manned by a pleasant and talkative hairstylist who I had a long chat with. When I pushed open the door to the adjoining room, I discovered an amazing and terribly appetising buffet. My little voice instructed me not to touch it and to go straight back downstairs.
I got the first modules of the marketing course that the National Centre for Distance Education had sent me out of my bag: I’d figured that I might as well take advantage of all these hours spent waiting in order to learn a thing or two, but it was impossible. Since all the revision for Sciences Po, I was just no longer able to concentrate on a book, a newspaper or a lesson. I used to digest pages and pages of books of all kinds, and now I was reduced to reading the same paragraph five times without any of it sticking in my head. Fortunately I had my iPhone. Mum was sending me texts and photos of her day: a visit to the Tate Gallery, exhibitions in Mayfair, shopping in Carnaby Street …
When Olivier arrived at around midday, I made a superhuman effort not to let him see how annoyed I was. ‘Hello, Victoire! It’s so nice to see you here! Everything OK?’
No, everything was not OK. I’d got up at six in the morning and had done nothing but wait in this rotten warehouse for those two bastard photographers to grace us with their presence and maybe to photograph me one of these days. But I took the more prudent option and answered with a smile.
The studio manager announced a lunch break – a break within a break before going back to the waiting – and we all gathered around that evil buffet. My two little comrades sensibly prepared themselves a bowl of muesli without sugar or fat or anything else, which they mixed with a sugar-free, fat-free yoghurt, while I went for a plate of breaded fish with French beans. Olivier sat down next to me to eat his steamed chicken and vegetables. I carefully removed the bread crust from my fish and pushed it to the edge of the plate.
‘Don’t you like breadcrumbs?’
‘No, not really.’
After the meal, everyone returned to their posts. I went back up to the buffet to retrieve my plate, which I’d hidden in a corner, and ate the precious bread crust like it was a slice of cake – it was delicious. And since there was no one there watching me, I also got to taste the caramelised chicken brochettes which had been tempting me throughout the meal. I’d never eaten anything so tasty, so succulent or so divine, at least not for a long time.
Mert and Marcus finally arrived at around four o’clock. Everything was ready, but they decided to start with the Dutch girl. I went back upstairs to eat a couple of chicken brochettes while I was waiting my turn. When they’d finished with the brunette, they summoned the blonde and I returned to the buffet. Even cold, those brochettes were a knockout.
When my turn finally came, it was past eight o’clock and the brochettes had all been polished off. I got my make-up retouched, put on a dress – the same one I’d worn for the Palais-Royal show – and Olivier took me over to the stage to offer me up as a plaything to the gods of the camera. I didn’t even want to do their bloody campaign any more, and here I was, plonked in the middle of the red stage while these two gentlemen, who didn’t even say hello to me, talked to each other in low voices. One of them, I didn’t know if it was Mert or Marcus because they hadn’t introduced themselves, came over to me with his hand outstretched.
Ah, that was more like it! I held out my hand and said, ‘Hello, I’m Victoire.’
But instead of taking my hand, he took my arm to move me over to the rattan chair placed next to me. ‘Can you sit down please?’ I wasn’t sure if I was more embarrassed about having greeted somebody who clearly didn’t give a damn about me, or more angry about being treated like shit by these two nonentities, for the pleasure of whose company I’d been waiting for twelve hours. Anyway, I sat down. ‘Look to your left.’ And I did. An assistant was pressing the button on the photographer duo’s camera, which meant that they weren’t even taking the photos themselves. He gestured to me to look right. Another click of the shutter. ‘Stand up.’ And I did. ‘Look at me.’ At which one? Him or him? ‘OK, thank you.’ And it was all over.
I’d been careful to count, and the assistant had pressed the button four times. So I’d been waiting twelve hours for four lousy shots? I came down off the stage and glanced at the assistant’s computer screen: he was busy pasting my image next to the image of the other two. So why hadn’t they got us all to pose together? God only knows. I noticed on the photos that I had a very stern look, much more so than the other two. I fretted about this to Olivier: they hadn’t given me any instructions, but perhaps they would have preferred me to have had softer eyes? ‘No, no, it’s perfect like that. They want something strong, something different.’
It was nearly ten o’clock when I got back to the hotel. I collapsed in tears into Mum’s arms; she’d been waiting for me since six as planned. I told her about the overheated warehouse, the day of waiting and the four lousy photos. I didn’t say anything about the fish, the breadcrumbs or the brochettes – or about my anxiety over not being able to take an enema to get rid of it all. I said that I didn’t want to be in this profession any more.
She was furious to see me in such a state and to learn that they could treat me in such a way. ‘It’s totally unacceptable. I’m going to call Florence!’ My gentle pretty mother turned into a ferocious lion on the phone – it was almost scary. You didn’t mess with her little ones.
I took a very hot bath, set the alarm for six o’clock to be ready for seven, swallowed a sleeping pill and a tranquilliser, and fell asleep in Mum’s arms.
The next morning at seven I joined the girls in the hotel lobby. The chauffeur arrived and uttered a name. The Dutch girl said, ‘Yes, that’s me.’ He gestured to her to follow him.
The Russian girl asked, ‘What about me?’
The chauffeur said, ‘No, just her.’
And off the two of them went.
I called Flo, who was gobsmacked. She called Russell and then called me back to tell me that Miu Miu would, it transpired, be doing their campaign with just the Dutch girl and that I could come back to Paris.
‘But Mum and I have got Eurostar tickets for tomorrow. We can’t exchange them.’
‘Listen, Victoire, that’s not my problem. Stay in London if you want to, but the client won’t pay for the hotel tonight.’
We decided to return to Paris. Dad was apoplectic when he found out. He called Flo to demand an explanation. After they got off the phone, Flo’s call to me lit the blue touchpaper: ‘Victoire, I work with you, not with your parents. Either you manage to handle things yourself, or we’ll have to reconsider your position.’
I had already reconsidered my position: I didn’t want to be in this profession any more.
Weightless
I signed up for introductory classes at all the drama schools that offered them; it gave me the chance to spend a few hours observing at the Cours Galab
ru, the Cours Florent and the Studio Muller to find out what life as a budding actress might look like, and I liked what I saw. It was exciting and it was what I wanted to do.
During a stormy meeting with Flo, she slyly suggested entrusting me to Solène, who looked after the new faces. ‘I wouldn’t be offended, if that’s what you prefer. She’s more used to dealing with the parents and the anxieties of the novices than I am. You ask lots of questions, far too many. You want explanations. I haven’t got time for all that.’
I was the one who felt offended, but I didn’t say so. I wasn’t stupid and I could see that if I agreed, I’d be demoted from the status of rising top model to that of novice model. It would be a crushing setback.
Once I got home, I had a long talk with Dad, who told me to keep my chin up and to soldier on. ‘Sweetpea, you’re not going to give up at the first sign of difficulty, are you?’
The first? With rare exceptions, these last few months had been nothing but pain and hardship. I knew Dad wanted the best for me, but he just didn’t appreciate the situation. He didn’t spend his days with me and so he didn’t see or realise what was happening. Plus, he himself always saw things through, even when it was tough. Whether it was studying to get into college, his university studies or his job, when he started something he always finished it.
He insisted that I call Louis at Silent to see if he could find me that much touted campaign that would mark the start of my career.
Louis was adorable and comforting and consoling. ‘Don’t fret, Victoire, you’ve only been on the circuit for three months! Unfortunate things like this happen, but you’re preparing the ground for a terrific future. Everybody has noticed you: Phillip Lim is interested in you, and you alone, for his lookbook and Calvin Klein have taken out an option to have exclusive rights to you in February. You’re being talked about throughout the industry. I thought you wanted to take a bit of a breather, but if you’re interested, we can organise a week of castings and photo shoots in New York at the beginning of December to really cement your presence.’
It seemed like a good idea to me, providing Mum could come with me; returning to New York on my own was out of the question.
‘OK, I’ll call you back. Until then, get some rest, Victoire. And stop worrying.’
I ran into Samuel Drira again at a Lacoste shoot and we had a lot of fun. We spent the day pretending to play sport in little striped white and navy blue outfits and trainers, caps and sunglasses. I tried on a size 8 tracksuit and it was much too big for me, despite the fact that I weighed 50 and a bit kilos. I scrutinised the figure I could see in the large changing room mirror: no cheeks, no breasts, no stomach and no buttocks. My thighs were distinctly separated from each other by a nice hollow thigh gap. That was me – that ultra-thin and ultra-determined girl, who was in perfect control of her body, her appetite, her weight and her life. And now I was going to ruin it all.
At lunch I ate with the crew and I had a bit of everything, just like they did. An assistant watched me polish off my plate with admiration: ‘So it’s true, then? There really are girls who can eat normally without putting on an ounce. Do you realise how lucky you are, Victoire?’ Oh, shut up.
Things really started picking up on 26 November. Flo left a message to say that a Turkish magazine had booked me for a photo shoot in Wales. ‘You leave tomorrow and you come back on the 29th, just in time to take the plane to New York.’ I just didn’t want to go – I didn’t give a toss about the Turks, their magazine or Wales and I was going to stay at home. Mum took care of the phone call to Flo to break the news; it was the first time I’d said no. ‘You must understand, Florence, she’s really very tired. She needs to rest.’
Flo must have been furious, but that was too bad. On the 27th, there was another message: ‘Victoire, great news! You’re off to Miami for a shoot with the Australian photographer Benny Horne for Fendi and another one into the bargain for the magazine Wonderland. I’ve arranged things with Silent: I’ll take care of the Miami–New York leg so that you’re there on 1st December as planned.’
I burst into tears in front of a disconsolate Alex, who had just got home and who couldn’t understand: ‘You’re crying because you’re being “forced” to go to Miami?’
Before packing my bags, I called Sophie to cancel our Paris meet-up for the umpteenth time. ‘Sophie, I’m sorry, but I can’t make it tomorrow after all.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘No, I’m off to Miami.’
‘OK, have a nice trip.’ And she hung up on me.
That evening, Léo came and lay down in bed with me. ‘Don’t worry, Vic, you’ll get through it.’
I told him that although Mum and Dad didn’t know it yet, I’d decided to quit this shitty profession which was driving me up the wall and which, more than anything, was making me more and more brain-dead.
‘I find that hard to believe. You know perfectly well that you’re not remotely brain-dead.’
Through my sobs, I explained to him that I’d just lost my best friend, that I wasn’t even capable of reading a newspaper any more, that I was afraid all the time of everything and that I was fed up of feeling hungry, of being alone and of people expecting me to behave like an adult and then treating me like a child, like a piece of shit, like a clothes hanger.
‘You’re not a clothes hanger, Vic. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. And whatever you decide to do, we’ll always love you to bits.’
And so off I went to Miami on my own, with just Yùki for company. The chauffeur wasn’t there when I arrived. I called the number Louis had given me and yelled down the phone like a madwoman. He turned up all contrite half an hour later, apologising profusely, and I behaved hatefully towards him. I jumped into his hicksville car with its leopard-skin seats and teddy bear collection on the back shelf and heaped contempt on him. The more he apologised, the more I did him down.
I eventually calmed down at the sight of the palm trees through the window and the yachts, the dream villas and the huge hotels lining the beach. It was summer in the middle of winter. The weather was splendid and I was a little 18-year-old girl who thought she had the right to put this poor man, who could have been my father, through the wringer just because he’d kept me waiting for half an hour before taking me to a superb hotel which was being paid for by the client. I felt ashamed. I was in the process of becoming a bitch, just like the other girls.
I apologised, he said it was ‘OK’ and then he dropped me off at an amazing hotel like the ones you see in the films: a wonder of colonial architecture with its white wood, tropical flowers, palm trees, array of terraces and staircases that led down directly to a sublime sandy beach. In the indoor garden, which was as lush as a jungle, there were white birdcages full of multicoloured birds.
My bedroom was huge, with a large four-poster bed and a balcony from which I could observe a parade of immaculately tanned swimmers and nymphs with perfect boob jobs.
The photo crew welcomed me like a princess. The dresser took me into the suite, which they had turned into a changing room, to show me her treasures: Dior, Chanel, Versace and Emilio Pucci dresses which were more beautiful than any I’d ever seen. We got to know each other while sharing a fabulous buffet from which I picked out some wonderfully fresh and exotic fruit, and then I went off to bed, completely shattered from the jet-lag and all the emotion of recent days.
‘Sleep well, Victoire! See you at four tomorrow morning on the beach, just before sunrise, to do some photos in the dawn light.’
It was too hot to sleep. I went downstairs and settled myself in a deckchair by the softly lit emerald-green pool. I was feeling in a really bad way, jet-lagged and lost. Here I was in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I just didn’t exist. I was devoid of feelings and thoughts.
It was as if I were dead.
I called home and Alexis picked up. I described what I could see from where I was sitting and he replied, ‘Wow – that’s just amazing! Can yo
u imagine, it’s snowing here!’ No, I couldn’t imagine. It was like I was weightless. I couldn’t picture in my mind that I was here in summer and they were over there in winter. I hung up and went for a walk on the beach with my feet in the water, just like I used to in La Baule. I thought of Granddaddy, of the boys and Mum and Dad, of Sophie who didn’t want to see me again, and of my life before, when everything had been so much simpler.
I went back up to bed and took an enema to eliminate all that fruit. I sent a photo of my room to Mum, who responded with a: ‘Wow! How lucky you are! Amazing!’ And then I curled up in my huge four-poster bed and went to sleep, hugging Yùki tightly and completely on my own.
The alarm clock went off at half past three. I took a quick shower to wake myself up, drank a large glass of water and headed down to the beach. They were all already there; there was a table and a chair set out under a parasol for doing my make-up and hair and those sublime dresses were hanging on a rack and floating in the night-time breeze. There were croissants and fruit on another table as well as hot and cold drinks. In the light from a projector, they styled my hair and applied some light make-up. Standing barefoot in the almost lukewarm water, I put on my first dress, which was a silk one. The glow of dawn was turning the horizon red. Benny Horne, the photographer, asked me in a very gentle voice, so as not to spoil this magical moment, to walk into the water in my dress. ‘Do what you think feels right.’ I’m not too sure what I did – I was there but elsewhere at the same time, as if I’d dissolved and was outside time among these adorable people on a paradise beach at sunrise. I changed dresses and a bright red sun appeared on the horizon. I had the impression that I could have taken it in my arms. I danced and floated in and on the water and in the wind, this way, that way, my arms and legs and hair and hips all in motion. My body was so light that I couldn’t feel it any more and so empty that it could almost have floated away.
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