The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  “I thought the agency was paying for that,” I say.

  “Non.”

  “But the hotel is so expensive! We never would have chosen to stay there,” Scarlett says.

  “Sorry . . . pardon, mais, I have work to do.”

  “How much commission do you take out? Because we’re only getting maybe thirty percent of our billings,” I ask.

  “Zee agency take twenty percent, vous payez fifty percent French tax, and the rest c’est pour vous.” She says this like it’s no big deal.

  We are in shock. Evidently, we had started out in debt to Paris Planning. We thought we had been scouted with a full ride by the agency. And the French taxes! How could they be that much?

  I’m lucky to have the $2,400 in traveler’s checks to lean on, from selling my car. Scarlett doesn’t have a cushion like that. We go straight to the bank to open accounts and deposit our meager checks. I deposit my traveler’s checks too so they can’t be stolen from our hotel room.

  I want to buy clothes that will make me more marketable, but I’m too afraid to spend money. My big splurge is an umbrella and cheap plastic rain boots molded to look like cowboy boots—they’re so stupid, but I love them. A badass motorcycle jacket, a plain white T-shirt, cooler jeans, and some real leather boots would have made a huge improvement in my image, but I was far too responsible. Everything is so much more expensive here than at home, and I can’t blow my money on clothes when I need food, lodging, photos, and a ticket home. We’ve got to move to a cheaper hotel.

  I find us a tiny room at Hôtel Andrea. It has an armoire for our clothes and a three-foot-square bathroom with a sink and toilet. The shower is down the hall. Our bed, slightly wider than a twin, is opposite the radiator and window that overlooks a courtyard, four stories down. The dark room with the dirty peeling wallpaper, holes in the floor, and rusty sink doesn’t bother me. I’m becoming accustomed, even starting to enjoy aging Paris. I unpack my stuff into my half of the armoire and set Scarlett’s suitcase on the bed.

  We celebrate by going to Les Bains Douche. Being models, the bouncer motions us right into the dark club. When my eyes adjust, I see guys dressed as girls, and girls dressed in vintage, like I do at home. One girl is in a pink, off-the-shoulder, fifties dress with black lace covering her face. She smokes from a long black cigarette holder, with pink Playtex rubber dishwashing gloves. I’m totally jealous of her look.

  Scarlett and I jump onto the dance floor, but when we take a break and try to sit down, a woman comes and yells at us. Finally, we figure out that we aren’t allowed to sit unless we buy drinks, which we can’t afford.

  We wander to the other side of the room and see bubbles foaming in a Jacuzzi. A man and woman take off their clothes, climb in, and start having sex. No one seems to think anything of it. We try not to act shocked.

  By 3 A.M., we’re tiptoeing up our creaky hotel stairs. I turn the skeleton key and open the door to pure warmth. What a relief. Our other hotel never had heat.

  Scarlett pulls her suitcase off the bed and climbs under the covers. When I follow her in, the middle of the mattress sinks all the way to the floor. We roll into the middle, laughing and whining at the same time.

  “Now I know why this place is so cheap!” she screams.

  “I’m sorry, you find the next one. I’m obviously bad at this!”

  I throw my leg over the edge, clinging to the side of the bed, while Scarlett sleeps in the middle. But we always wake up tangled in the ditch.

  With all the deductions the agency takes out of my paychecks, I have to make three times the money I made in Los Angeles just to survive. Catalog jobs are easy and pay better than magazine work, which I am not getting much of anyway. On catalog jobs I make around a thousand dollars a day—even though I only receive a small percentage of that. Magazines only pay around twenty-five dollars a day, even Vogue. I don’t care if I get paid a big fat zero if it’s shooting for Vogue! But I’m not.

  The biggest mail-order company in Europe, 3 Suisses, sends me by train to work in towns all over France and Belgium. I rise before dawn, with Scarlett still asleep. She stays up late reading romance novels in the tiny bathroom, so as not to disturb my sleep. It isn’t easy living in such close quarters, especially when we’re sleeping on top of each other. I try not to wake her as I leave.

  Freezing winter air hits my face. The only people crazy enough to be out this early are the café waiters who are busy hosing off the sidewalk and the prostitutes who hang around the train station. Other than them, it’s silent.

  I stare up at the massive Gare du Nord structure, trying to imagine what it would look like if someone cleaned the grime off. I can picture a beautiful cathedral of sculpted metal and glass.

  A first-class ticket to Brussels costs slightly more than the regular fare but is totally worth it. It includes a seat in the dining car at a table with white linen tablecloths. After the train departs, a waiter serves me a café crème and a warm, flaky, buttery croissant. I write postcards and absorb the beauty outside my window. Fields of bright green, tall, wet grass and charming farmhouses seem right out of a fairy tale.

  The one and only challenge of catalog work is the sheer volume of clothing that needs to be shot. Two women work all day long, steaming and ironing garments within an inch of their lives, while I am pinned and duct-taped to hide the wrinkles. Then I pose, stomach in, shoulders back, and wait for the shutter to click and the lights to pop.

  Look left; look right; look straight at the camera like I’m enjoying the hell out of these ugly clothes. These pictures will not go in my book, but I love the clients. They pay me well, feed me, and even put me up in an adorable hotel that I could never afford to stay in on my own.

  After five days of work, I take the train home from Brussels and arrive at Paris’s Gare du Nord around midnight and board the bus along with all the other immigrants, back to my neighborhood. I’m exhausted and my whole body hurts from holding those stupidly unnatural catalog poses, but I feel productive after doing a big job instead of going on endless go-sees. I feel a sense of accomplishment, and the money makes me feel safe. As I finally sink into the ditch of our bed and wrap up in the thin red blanket, I realize that I’m actually happy. I’m creating my own life in Paris and, even though it’s not perfect, I’m doing it my way and I love it.

  Scarlett focuses on finding us a better hotel, even splurging on real bath towels for both of us. Our new place, Le Bon Hôtel, is near the Seine, with a view of Notre Dame if you lean out the window. The room is bright and sunny, but the best feature is two separate beds. No toilet though, so we’re back to peeing in the bidet.

  It’s been over two months of Pepper’s second-tier castings and catalog work. I thought I’d be gone by now. And since I won’t go to their parties, Gerald refuses to help me get magazine editorial. I decide to have a serious talk with him. He holds the power, not Pepper. I fret about what to say as I go about my morning routine.

  A huge Saint Bernard naps in the doorway of my favorite café. I pet him, speaking to him in French, but he just ignores me. I step over him to get inside. The waiters, who a couple months earlier were pissed off at me for not speaking French, now teach me new words every day. They generously write them on my paper placemat, sounding them out over and over for me. I tear them out and keep the word scraps in my purse until I’ve got them memorized. My grammar isn’t as good as my vocabulary, but I’m getting around much better.

  I sit with my café au lait and hard-boiled egg, as I practice what to say to Gerald—a million versions of “you’re not taking me seriously.”

  I rehearse my speech all the way to the agency, march in the door, and wait in front of his station. Finally, he gets off the phone.

  “Pardon, Gerald? Puis, je—vous parler?” I ask if I can talk with him.

  “Oui, qu’est-ce que vous voulez chérie?” He asks me what I want in a sweet tone that takes me totally by surprise.

  “Gerald, nothing against Pepper, but I haven’t
been on magazine go-sees in weeks. Can’t Jacqueline and Evelyn and you book me again?”

  “Oui, chérie, why not? I will send you to the big magazines again. There is absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t make it in Paris, Gilles. I will work you very hard until the end of April. If by then you still don’t have the right amount of work, I will send you to Milan. I am behind you, chérie.” He smiles that wide smile, where even the smile lines at the sides of his blue eyes smile too.

  He’s done punishing me for complaining about the parties. Or maybe it’s just because my hair has grown out from its hideous phase. I immediately land a shoot for Jardin des Modes, one of France’s best fashion magazines.

  Risking our lives for the perfect editorial shot!

  That’s me on the top left. Jardin des Modes

  JARDIN DES MODES

  Eighteen models, including me, meet at Jardin des Modes’s office at 10 rue Thenard at 5 A.M. The room is packed with models, stylists, makeup artists, and hairstylists. I love everything about this whole scene. I check out the rolling racks crammed with colorful dresses and feel totally honored to be looking at each one. No one else seems to be as obsessed with the clothes as I am. I read every tag on the rack—Yves Saint Laurent, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Claude Montana, Thierry Mugler, Issey Miyake, Sonia Rykiel . . . I can’t believe it—finally. Paris Couture!

  The next two hours are a flurry of activity. The fashion editor chooses which designer dress each of us will wear, while at least a dozen hair and makeup artists attack us with foundation, colored shadows, eyeliner, lipstick, curling irons, hairpins, gel, and hairspray.

  I love the dress the editor picks for me—a Jean Claude de Luca Couture lace corset tutu with yellow embroidery. When the final touches of accessories are complete, we all cram into white vans and race through the still quiet, dark, foggy streets. We are let out at the Place du Trocadéro apex between the two wings of the Palais de Chaillot, which creates the perfect frame for the Eiffel Tower just beyond.

  There’s obviously a construction project going on because there is a tall scaffolding structure. The photographer, Michel Momy, takes out a megaphone and directs all of us to climb the scaffolding. This command was met with a lot of “Hell no!” “I’m not climbing that!” “Is he crazy?” But I can’t wait to climb it.

  Realizing this is the shot he wants and there is no way out, the girls finally relent and we all climb the metal structure in heels and gowns, while Michel sets up his camera equipment. The foggy air is drizzling and freezing cold. Everyone is screaming and slipping on the poles, hanging on tight to not fall off. We are up at least fifty feet in the air. One of the girls, from Louisiana, cries in her southern accent, “I’m freezin’ and I’m bleedin’! This metal dress is cuttin’ me all over!” Drama queen, I think.

  With Michel directing us into position, yelling at us through his megaphone, we climb and shinny into place. Finally, he starts shooting. Just as we get going though, a crew of angry, macho construction men arrives. They wave their arms in Michel’s face, trying to block his camera! They’re obviously pissed off. He ducks and dodges trying to shoot around them. Eventually, he picks up his megaphone and orders us to come down. We descend the wet slippery poles, and when we reach solid ground we break out in nervous, relieved laughter.

  We pile back in the van, huddling together, shivering. The poor girl from Louisiana is dripping with blood from that gold lamé dress.

  Wearing Jean Claude de Luca on the Seine for Fashion 2001 by Lucille Khornak, 1980

  LE PALACE

  At the time, I was totally unaware of Gerald’s reputation.

  What I know now is a different story. There are a pile of articles, books, and stories you can easily find about his deplorable behavior, including accusations of rape. But I didn’t know any of that then.

  So I am thrilled when he invites Scarlett and me out dancing at Le Palace, the popular nightclub. The massive dance floor is packed when we arrive. A glowing thirty-foot mermaid is rolled onto the stage as bubbles fall from the ceiling. I am trying to learn the new eighties dance moves, but Gerald has them totally mastered, and looks so damn sexy in his black leather motorcycle jacket.

  The three of us return to Gerald’s apartment around 4 A.M., where he indulges us with soft music and drinks. Where is my moody boss? I relish the pampering and attention.

  Suddenly, Scarlett stands up and says she’s leaving. “Are you coming, Jill?” with emphasis on the Jill.

  “No, you go ahead. I’ll see you at home.” I kiss her cheeks and she whispers, “Come with me. Seriously. Now.” I had no appreciation for her wisdom and foresight then, only thinking to myself: How dare she tell me what to do.

  I whisper back, “I’m gonna stay awhile. I’ll be home soon.” Gerald didn’t stand up to say good-bye to Scarlett or even offer a taxi. I tell myself she’ll be fine. After all, we walk around alone at night all the time.

  Gerald and I are sitting talking on the steps between his living room and hall when he leans in to kiss me with his warm, soft lips. I haven’t been kissed in months—certainly not like that. His kisses make me feel drunk, even though I haven’t had a drop of alcohol. After a while, he stands up. “Can I make you a bath, chérie?” he offers, opening a door to reveal a beautiful marble bathtub.

  “Oh, god yes!” I say. I’m sleepy, not to mention naïve. And I really want a hot bath. As he turns on the water, I recline on a velvet couch, thinking, So this is how a French person with money lives—nice apartment, velvet furniture, fireplace, stereo system, even a refrigerator. I am seduced by the luxury of it all.

  “Gilles, your bath is ready, come.” The room smells like lavender and honey. Bubbles spill over the side and sparkle in the candlelight. I can’t believe it. He goes to his bedroom next to the bathroom. “I’ll be watching television. I left you a robe. Why are you standing there, you don’t like it?”

  “No, I love it. I just can’t believe it. It’s beautiful, I’m getting in.”

  He watches me take my clothes off. I try to pretend I’m at a photo shoot, where I’m comfortable being naked. I step in, sink down, and feel every inch of my body relax. I lie submerged up to my chin until I almost fall asleep.

  I get up slowly as the blood rushes to my head. I dry off and wrap myself in the white terry cloth robe.

  “Come watch American television with me. It’s a Western, you know John Wayne?”

  “What? You’re kidding!”

  “No, look!”

  I edge into his bedroom, hair dripping, my body warm and rosy. His bed is on the floor with white sheets and a fluffy white down comforter. Piles of pillows line the wall where he rests his head. He opens the blankets for me and I climb in nervously, trying to focus on the French John Wayne movie. It’s in black and white, and the high-pitched French voice they use to dub John Wayne is ridiculous. I can’t stop giggling.

  After a few minutes, Gerald turns and kisses me and I melt again, relishing his tenderness. I’m lost in my fantasy of a romantic haze, when all of a sudden he grabs my hips and flips me onto my stomach. He quickly gets behind me and pulls me up from behind, so I’m on my elbows and knees. It happened so fast, and before I can catch my breath or say a word he shoves himself inside me, thrusting crazily, digging his fingernails into my flesh, thrashing me around hard, and hurting me. His hands grip my hipbones so tight I can’t move or get him to stop.

  “Oww! Stop!” I scream, but he won’t stop until he comes inside me. Then he flips over and lays there, satisfied. I’m paralyzed. My body is buzzing all over, even my ears buzz. My first thought is Oh god, I’m pregnant.

  Gerald passes out while I lie numb and confused, my eyes wide open in the dark, tears trailing down into my ears. Hours pass, and the pillow soaks. Finally, a little light starts beaming through the window over our heads.

  I roll out of the bed and creep into the bathroom to find my clothes. I have to pee so badly, but I can’t relax my bladder enough to go. Gerald lays there, sleeping soundly,
as I tiptoe out his door.

  I walk home in pain, and can’t tell what hurts worse: my bladder, vagina, or mind. The sun isn’t up all the way and everything is gray. The air is gray, the buildings are gray, the streets are gray, even the trees are gray. I am gray. I can’t hear a sound. I can’t feel the cold. I can barely focus my eyes. I put one foot ahead of the other. I try to separate from my body. Don’t panic, keep quiet, stay still inside, and keep walking.

  The next three days are a blur as I peel back each layer of shock. I can’t accept the truth of what happened, so I twist the story line around in my head. I’m a pro at this due to my childhood. I tell myself that he acted that way because he was nervous or maybe got too excited. It could mean that Frenchmen are just lousy lovers. He was a good kisser. . . . Maybe he really likes me.

  At the agency, Pepper gives me the great news that I got the Vittel water commercial and I’m going to Saint-Tropez to film. As I turn around, Gerald is coming straight toward me with his big smile, blue eyes, and gorgeous tanned smile lines, and he’s looking me right in the eyes. He kisses my cheeks slowly and passionately, hugs me tight, and takes my shoulders in his hands, pulling me close, saying, “You know, Gilles, I have been thinking to have a girlfriend, yes? What do you think? I am ready for a girlfriend, no?” The agency is deserted. It is just him and me, and Pepper behind me.

  “Really? You want a girlfriend?” I laugh, but my face is flushed with flattery. What if he were my boyfriend? I’d have a lover, a friend, and a charming man to go on dates with. Then a selfish, calculating thought pops into my head. Gerald Marie is the most powerful modeling agent in France.