I let the gentle waves lap around me and take me where they wanted, thinking to myself, If I float, so much the better. If I sink, too bad. Wrapped in silk and swayed by the sea, nothing else mattered or was even real.
Benny seemed enchanted: ‘You are so marvellous, Victoire! Unbelievable!’
By the time we were done, it was broad daylight and actually starting to get very hot. They all got undressed and we laughed and swam in this extraordinary place where we’d all just had an equally extraordinary experience, and then we went back to the hotel for lunch.
Even after showering, oiling my skin and getting dressed, I was still rather intoxicated by this very special experience. Drunk, even, on all the weeks that had led up to this point, on the floods of tears I’d endured and on the endless fasting that had exhausted my body and my brain. Now I’d thrown everything overboard: my fears, my anxieties, my desires and my fits of anger, and even the bastard voice had shut up for once. There was nothing left of me but this virtually empty body which they all found so ‘perfect’ and an irrepressible urge to laugh at the slightest thing, as if I’d smoked an enormous joint. We met up in the hotel restaurant and I tucked into a delicious mahi-mahi which was perfectly marinated in … Well, who cared what it was marinated in.
Then we set off in a pink caravan, which looked like it belonged to Barbie and was fitted out as a make-up studio, and they spent the afternoon photographing me in Fendi dresses in a gallery full of contemporary artworks. I began to feel increasingly out of it, I couldn’t stop laughing and I was feeling shakier and shakier on my feet. Benny encouraged me to keep going until he had what he wanted. ‘Victoire, do you want us to get you something to eat?’ I didn’t want to eat – I’d already eaten more than enough. I was feeling ever more fragile and insubstantial, as if I were in the process of disappearing altogether. We did one last series and then they took me back to the hotel before heading off to get the last plane home. My plane was leaving the following morning. We all hugged each other as if we’d known each other for ever and loved each other like mad. And that was exactly how I felt: they were like a little family who I loved very much and who I’d shared one of those incredible moments with that I would never ever forget.
But that family was disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared; they left and I collapsed on my king-size bed, all alone.
The Bitch
I was still out of it the following day when I took the plane to New York. But I was no longer alone – the little voice had returned and was on top form. It had completely taken over my mind, my body and my thoughts. Its refrain was still the same: ‘You’re too fat. Stop eating. You’re too fat.’ And it was right: I had to stop eating.
I arrived at the hotel that Silent had booked me into in Times Square. I had a small suite on the fifth floor, which you accessed with an electronic card. There was a big mirrored bathroom, a pointless kitchen area and an attractive bedroom with a large bay window looking out onto the city. I unpacked, put my scales in the bathroom and got undressed. The mirrors reflected the image of my enormous body: fat around my stomach, fat on my arms and fat on my buttocks. I weighed myself: 49 kilos. I would stop eating until I got back down to 47. And to speed things up, I’d do all my travelling on foot. Sport was forbidden, but walking was allowed. In any case, Mum wasn’t there yet and so I had nothing better to do than to walk from one appointment to the next until she arrived.
Louis had sent me a schedule: I had meetings with some big-name fashion photographers so that they could get to know me, have a look at my book and get a sense of my personality. They would then hopefully think of me the next time a magazine commissioned a shoot from them. ‘All you have to do is turn up with your book and your comp cards and be yourself.’ I showered, put on my skinny trousers and my model’s high heels, wrapped myself up in my big puffa jacket to ward off the late autumn cold and headed out once again to conquer New York.
I walked for miles on end, taking big strides to keep me warm and to lose my excess fat. The photographers I met greeted me with a certain indifference. ‘There’s not an awful lot in your book.’ Well no, I’m just starting out. That’s why I’m here. There were sweet ones and mad ones, healthy types and drugged-out guys. It was back to the spectacle of the assistants dancing to the tune of their masters and clicking the shutter for them like with Mert and Marcus. I really suffered from the cold. When I couldn’t put up with it any longer, I’d stop off at a Starbucks and drink a large and disgusting coffee, heavily watered down. ‘You’re too fat. Stop eating. You’re too fat.’ I also gave up the chewing gum and the Pepsi Max to lose weight more quickly. I couldn’t see New York any more or the people or anything else. I was simply alone, with my bastard little voice, striding around the city to lose my fat.
Mum arrived on 3 December at around three o’clock. I had appointments that whole afternoon. I’d let the hotel doorman know that she’d be coming to see him for the electronic card to get into my room. When I got out of my meetings at about five, I found my voicemail full of messages from Mum: he hadn’t allowed her up to my room and she was waiting for me in the hotel foyer. I virtually ran back to the hotel in an unspeakable rage. I arrived at the hotel like a vengeful goddess and made a beeline for the doorman, with murder in mind. I bawled him out, telling him he was an incompetent, an idiot and a halfwit, that he didn’t have to be a genius to give the card to a woman who had the same name as me, that I had reminded him about it that very morning and that it was his job to follow instructions.
Mum, whom I hadn’t even said hello to, came over and told me to calm down. No, I wouldn’t calm down, I couldn’t believe how inept the guy was and I was going to write to the hotel management to get him fired! He was completely at a loss and kept on saying, ‘Sorry, miss, sorry,’ like an automaton. Mum was horrified and kept saying sorry too, but to him, as she tried to usher me towards the lift.
When we got to my room, I opened the bedroom door, went over to the bay window and said, ‘If there wasn’t any glass, I could fly away.’ I felt hollow now, as if my anger had completely emptied me of all emotion. Mum began to cry. ‘Loutch, you’re in a really bad way.’ I lay down on the bed. I wasn’t in a bad way. In fact, I felt just fine, because I couldn’t feel anything any more.
What I needed was a bath.
And so I went into the bathroom and while the tub was filling up, I conducted another inspection: fat around the stomach, fat on the arms, fat on the buttocks and 48.4. Mum knocked on the door and I told her to come in.
She opened the door and I saw her eyes in the mirror, looking me up and down. Then she collapsed sobbing to the floor. ‘Just look at yourself, Victoire! You look like you’ve just got out of a concentration camp!’ She couldn’t see that I was huge. I showed her the fat all over me. She couldn’t stop crying. ‘You have to stop this, you’re killing yourself.’
I couldn’t understand what she was talking about.
She got up, came over and took me in her arms. I recoiled – I didn’t want to be touched by anyone, not even by her. I didn’t want to be touched by anyone any more, I didn’t have a body any more.
I wasn’t real any more. I just wanted to vanish so that it would all be over.
I think I fell asleep. At one point, I heard her talking to Dad: ‘We’re going to come home, it’s out of hand. She has to stop. It’s too dangerous for her.’
I said no: I was here for my appointments, and I’d go to my appointments.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt extremely hungry. When I said so to Mum, she offered me some fruit, but I didn’t want to eat fruit – I wanted some proper food. ‘How about some chicken? Do you want me to go and get you some chicken?’ And so she went down to find me some chicken.
The wait was unbearable and all the time the little voice was saying, ‘Stop eating,’ while my stomach was saying, ‘Eat, eat, you’re hungry.’ When she got back with a whole roast chicken, I pounced on it and ate it with my hands, stuffing it into my mouth and
devouring it down to the bones to satiate my hunger, to fill the void inside me, to soothe my pain and to silence the little voice.
It didn’t work for long. The voice started screaming again: ‘You’re too fat. Stop eating. You’re too fat.’ I went into the bathroom and weighed myself: 48.5. I looked for the enema tube in my sponge bag.
Mum appeared and started crying again:
‘Victoire, what are you doing?’ She took the enema tube and threw it in the bin. I went and got it back out of the bin. She took it off me again. We almost got into a fight. She kept on saying, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’
She managed to get me onto the bed, and both of us cried together for a long time. And then I stopped crying, for good. I got up to get ready for my appointments. ‘Victoire, we’re going home.’
No way, I said. I’m here for my appointments, and I’m going to go to my appointments. She said she thought I should give up this profession. I felt the rage and the hatred welling up inside me again. I looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Do you remember in Milan when I called you to say that I was going to quit? You said to me, “Don’t quit, I’m on my way.” So there you go, and now it’s too late. You wanted me to carry on, and I’m carrying on. I signed up for a year. And a year is what I’m going to do.’
I had become the little voice. Now I was the bitch.
I went to my appointments, one after another, like a robot. I had the following afternoon off and so we went to see the Frick Collection opposite Central Park on foot. It was bitterly cold when we came out afterwards and Mum was shivering. She wanted to take a cab back, but I said no – we would walk. ‘Victoire, don’t speak to me in that tone of voice. I’m freezing cold and exhausted. Let’s get a cab back.’ I refused categorically. I had to walk in order to lose all this fat. If she couldn’t understand that, that was her problem. She started crying, but I didn’t give a damn. We returned on foot.
The following night, when she thought I was sleeping, I heard her speaking to Dad. ‘You should have seen her, as thin as a rake, crouching in front of the window, her hair all over the place, devouring the whole chicken right down to the bones. She looked like a feral child.’ I heard her, and yet I didn’t hear her. I was there, but it wasn’t me. Only the worst of me was left, all that was really bad in me. Hatred. Rage. Fat. Death.
I no longer existed.
On 6 December I had an appointment with dear Phillip Lim to model for his lookbook. Mum came with me and he greeted us in his customary kindly way. I asked if Mum could stay with us. ‘Of course you can, please make yourself at home.’ Once again I thought of that idiot Seb, who’d claimed you weren’t allowed to turn up with your mother. He introduced us to the photographer, KT Auleta. She was a big name in the profession and yet she was just as friendly and uncomplicated as he was. The Vogue USA team were also there to do a feature on him, as he was one of the rising stars of the fashion world. ‘This is Victoire, my special favourite model.’ I adored this man.
For the lookbook, there were just the four of us: the photographer, Phillip, Mum and me. When he wasn’t quite sure, he asked her for her opinion, which delighted her, and he was delighted too. For lunch he ordered some Thai food to introduce us to the cuisine of his native country. We went into an office and ate – well, they ate, I didn’t – around a large table while we chatted. He told me a bit about his life and his career as a designer. It was a pleasant interlude, free of tension and with nothing on the line.
As we left, he hugged me. ‘Thank you for everything, Victoire. We’ll see each other in February for the show.’
We jumped in a taxi back to the hotel, packed our bags and went home to Paris.
I Quit
The journey home was dreadful. Once again I reduced Mum to tears several times. I wasn’t doing it on purpose, but I couldn’t help myself. I said what was on my mind and it just came out, uncensored.
It was as if I were no longer me, and in fact I wasn’t me any more. I wasn’t even that bastard voice – I wasn’t anybody at all any more, and it was somehow so very soothing …
When we got home, I immediately shut myself in my bedroom – I didn’t want to see anyone, not even the boys. I just wanted to be on my own with Plume and to be left in peace.
The next day my parents were waiting for me in the living room. I told them I’d honour the photo shoots planned for that month and then my mind was made up: I was quitting this profession.
Mum sighed: ‘Yes, Loutch, you’re right. You should quit.’
I looked at Dad and it seemed that he didn’t agree. ‘Victoire, you’ve signed a one-year contract. When you make a commitment, you stick to it. As soon as you get a campaign, everything will take off. Don’t clip your wings before you get that far, Sweetpea.’
If only they could have made up their minds, it might have helped me to make up my own mind.
On 9 December I had an appointment with the photographer, his assistant, Céleste and Yohji Yamamoto’s team at a caravan under I forget which bridge in Paris. Céleste and I quickly realised that the day was going to be a trying one. It was bitterly cold, the clothes to be presented were in fact items of underwear, accompanied by nothing but some little capes and some light tulle petticoats, and the photographer and his assistant were evidently more preoccupied with their love affair than they were with our presence.
And so there we were half-naked under the bridge waiting for these two little lovebirds, wrapped up in their puffa jackets, gloves and scarves, to find a moment amid all their billing and cooing to take a photo or two of us occasionally.
Glancing at their computer screen as I went off to change outfits, I noticed that they were erasing all the images in which you could see our faces, meaning that we’d been spending hours getting frozen for photos in which we couldn’t even be identified! I felt the anger welling up inside me. Céleste tried to calm me down and reassure me: ‘You know, he’s a great photographer. One of the best.’ But did that give him the right to treat us so badly and to dispense with our faces?
At lunchtime, meals were delivered to the lovers, but there was nothing for us. Still, everybody knew that models didn’t eat.
Things got under way again after a ‘nice hot coffee’. Virtually naked, we went back out in front of the lens of these sadistic lovers, who took all the time in the world to unleash their creativity. By the time we got to the final series, I couldn’t bear it any more. We had been waiting for too long and I thought I was going catch my death of cold. I absolutely had to get warm and so I headed off in the direction of the caravan. The idiot photographer couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘But Victoire, what are you doing?’ I replied that I was going to go and sit in the warm until he got himself ready and I slammed the door behind me to avoid any arguments.
We did the last photos and then they let us know that they couldn’t take us home and that we’d have to take the metro. I was walking down into the station when my phone rang – it was Flo.
‘What happened with the photographer, Victoire? He called me to say that you were rude to him.’
I replied that I’d merely spoken to him in the same way that he and his bitch of an assistant had spoken to me and that I’d gone back into the caravan to avoid freezing to death.
‘But who do you think you are? He’s one of the best in the profession! He takes sublime photos.’
I told her that I’d seen his photos and that there wasn’t a single one in which you could actually recognise us.
‘You know nothing about fashion, Victoire. He’s the professional, not you. And if you don’t like it, then all you have to do is quit.’
And I replied, ‘You’re right, Flo. I quit.’ And I hung up.
So that was it – I’d done it. I was free at last.
As I was coming out of the metro, she called again. ‘Listen, my dear. It’s not a big deal. You’re knackered, you’ve just got back from New York, you got a bit cross and we said things we didn’t really mean.’
‘No, I did mean
it, Flo. This profession really pisses me off. I’ll do tomorrow’s shoot and the Céline lookbook as planned, and then I’m quitting.’
‘Victoire, don’t get carried away. I’ve got nothing but good news for you. I got the photos from Miami and you look wonderful! The photographer adored you!’
‘Just now it was “who do you think you are?” and now suddenly I’m “wonderful”? This industry really makes me want to throw up.’
‘You know, the annual rankings have just come out: you’re one of the top twenty models of the year, which means you’re booked up to the hilt. Everyone’s calling to book you for the February shows. And Mario Testino, one of the photographers you met in New York last week and who works with Vogue regularly, is telling everyone that you really caught his eye.’
‘I don’t care, Flo. I’ve had enough.’
‘Listen, go home and talk to your parents about it.’
Well, well, suddenly it was my parents’ business. But it was too late now and in any case, since I’d told Dad I was quitting, he wasn’t talking to me.
‘Think about it, Victoire, and call me back.’
I had thought about it and she’d just have to get used to the idea.
The next day I had my final shoot for Grey Magazine, an Italian magazine that was so hip that nobody had ever heard of it. Mum came along with me. ‘You can sit down there.’
‘But Victoire, shouldn’t you ask if they mind if I stay?’
‘No.’
The photographer came and said hello and I didn’t reply. The designer, a very young Italian who looked barely 15, came over in his turn to greet me. ‘Hello, Victoire, how are you?’
‘Listen, can we start? I’m tired.’ This had an immediate effect: the more hateful I was, the more they catered to my every little need. It was just what I’d always suspected: I’d observed this phenomenon a hundred times over the last few months, and this time it was my turn to act like that.
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