by Jill Dodd
He then pulls out several jewelry catalogs from Van Cleef & Arpels, Boucheron, and Cartier, filled with jewels a queen would wear. A necklace that looks like a ribbon is set with hundreds of emeralds and surrounded by diamonds. There are chandelier earrings dripping with sparkling diamonds that look like drops of water. He turns the pages and he asks me, “What do you think of this? Do you like this one? Emeralds or sapphires? Rubies or diamonds?” I never would have assumed he could be shopping for me. He hands me the booklets. “Tell me which ones you like.” I sit in my ripped T-shirt, jeans, and white moccasins, flipping through the “queen jewelry.”
“I don’t know. They’re all pretty. But I do like this one more than that one.” Was he seriously gonna buy this stuff?
He continues to read over his divorce documents. I’m sure the whole thing has got to be painful. I’m sorry for his pain, but glad he’s divorced, because how could I be with him otherwise? I love spending time with him above just about anything. After lunch, I’m driven home in a Rolls-Royce limo.
Three models, including me, two stylists, an editor, and a photographer all head to Halkidiki, Greece, on the Aegean Sea. Ruby, my red-haired ex-roommate, is one of the models.
On the first night, Ruby passes out cold with her head landing sideways in her bowl of soup and we have to carry her to her room. By the next morning, everyone in the hotel is sick, including the hotel staff. The photographer, Pierre, and I are the only ones who haven’t contracted this horrible bug. I decide to wait it out at the beach, waterskiing, windsurfing, and swimming in the crystal clear water. Thankfully the boat driver is okay.
Five days in, everyone’s still sick, so Pierre decides that we’d better start shooting. Since it’s only the two of us, he begins an intense flirting campaign with me. We’ve got a strong connection and I’m flattered by the attention, but knowing he’s married, I don’t act on the chemistry. Instead, I walk the narrow line between refusing his puppy-dog advances and not pissing him off. When he threatens to climb over the balcony into my room, I don’t know if he’s serious or teasing. He turned out to be harmless and a lot of fun to work with.
As everyone gradually improves, we pull together to finish the job. Heading to the countryside, we stop for flocks of sheep and shepherds crossing the road. A village behind the hills had been established close to the sea for fishing and trade yet hidden from pirates. Brightly painted homes look like they have survived earthquakes and bombings. With their entire facades ripped off and open to the sea air, we can see the modest furnishings inside many of them. In the village square, leather-skinned men smoke and drink espresso, play cards and dice. When I need a toilet break at a café, it turns out to be a plastic bucket in a wood shack. Their poverty humbles me, yet their spirits are generous and warm. A pack of kids follow us around, showing us photos of “Charlie’s Angels,” thinking we three models look like them.
We return to the sea to a bay filled with colorful, hand-painted fishing boats. Fishermen are pulling in their nets full of fish. While I’m changing my clothes in the open air, Pierre suggests we do a topless shot. In France, many summer fashion magazine covers are topless and I’ve always thought they were beautiful and tasteful. I’m nervous but I do it anyway.
A couple of weeks later, we all meet at the studio to view the photos from Greece. They’re all beautiful! Pierre is so talented. As I look through the slides, I come upon the topless ones. I try to see them objectively but can’t. I flash to my dad’s Playboy magazines and can’t stop drawing a parallel between the two.
I’m totally unable to look at them for what they are—beautiful, artistic photos of a young woman in Greece. Everyone thinks they’re pretty, but I can’t handle it. I panic and slice the slides up with scissors into the trash bin.
Shaken, I walk away from the light box and mill around the studio. Pierre’s wife tells me privately, “Many years ago, when my husband and I began this business, he never looked at the models in that way, you know what I mean? They were only a tool to him, like a prop, a table or a chair. But now he looks at them differently and he treats me like a chair.”
Boulevard Magenta just before my zipper broke, Paris, 1980
MY BROKEN ZIPPER
I haven’t heard from Adnan in a couple of weeks and am wondering if he has forgotten about me. I don’t understand these spaces in between. At last, Pepper calls saying Adnan has invited her and me to dinner at his Paris home.
I can’t wait to see him. I wear a strapless red velvet jumpsuit I bought at the Clignancourt flea market with matching red satin shoes. I braid the front of my hair and crisscross it on top, Frida Kahlo–style, leaving the back long.
Pepper and I are escorted to his reception hall, where four girls younger than me are waiting too. Why are they here? Pepper takes it in stride. Adnan joins us and we all have a drink around a small round cocktail table. After saying our friendly hellos, Adnan gets the conversation going by asking, “So, which of you girls has had a lesbian experience?”
One girl, who looks like she is in high school, is so embarrassed that she throws her jacket over her head. Then he says, “Oh, you must have if you’re so embarrassed—that means you have!” I was hoping he wouldn’t pull me into this again.
Right then, I feel my zipper slide down. Cool air hits my skin, and soon my entire backside is exposed. Cheap flea market clothes! I’m mortified. I whisper to Pepper, “Come to the bathroom, something’s happening with my zipper!”
She looks at my back. “Oh, shit! Your zipper broke!” She breaks out laughing.
“Will you help me hold it together please, and come with me?” I am trying to act sophisticated. Pepper follows, laughing, holding my outfit together.
She tries pulling the zipper up, but it’s broken. “This zipper is definitely not going back up.”
Adnan is listening at the door. “Girls, do you need my help?”
“Her clothes are broken!” Pepper says, giggling.
“What am I gonna do, Pepper?”
Adnan says playfully, “What’s going on in there? Open the door, girls.” I open it slightly and peek out. He’s standing there with a huge grin. He lives for this stuff. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me to a closet that’s as big as a bedroom. Each wall is an alcove and filled with beautiful gowns. “Let’s see, I bet we can find you something to wear in here.” I can’t believe the glamorous dresses before me. I see some of the tags—Paris Haute Couture. The inner fashion designer in me is freaking out. He starts pulling them out. “Do you see anything you like?”
“This is so embarrassing.” I stand holding the front of my jumpsuit with the back gaping open. I want to dive in and try on bunches of these dresses, but how am I supposed to act in this situation? I wait for him.
“How about this? It has tulips. Oh, here’s a red skirt that goes with it. Try it on.”
I take them to the bathroom and hang them up on a hook. I’m so excited! The blouse is completely covered in hand-beaded red tulips with green leaves and must weigh three pounds. The label sewn into the neck reads Emanuel Ungaro Couture Paris. Unbelievable. The skirt is made of red silk and light as a feather. Its label reads Christian Dior Couture Paris. It hangs from my waist like an upside-down tulip. I can’t believe I’m wearing Dior and Ungaro. They fit like they’re made for me. I open the door.
Adnan is waiting. “Darling, you look beautiful. I like this much better on you.”
“It’s really beautiful. Are you sure I can wear it?”
“Yes, of course. Come on, let’s join the party.”
Classical music fills the dining room. The long table is set with a feast fit for a king—candles, crystal, and silver platters of seafood, vegetables, and fruit. Two chefs enter carrying a roast lamb on a massive platter. They set the lamb in the middle of the table and carve it. It’s like the Roman Empire.
Adnan busily entertains everyone in the room. All of us girls waltz around together. Finally, Adnan and I dance alone, and somehow we wind
up chasing each other around the room, under the bar, and behind the tables. He does not act forty-four and is more fun than any guy I’ve ever met. At the door, at the end of the night, he kisses my cheeks and hands me an exotic-looking, prickly piece of fruit. “Do you know what this is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s a special fruit. Next time I see you, I want you to tell me what it is.”
He escorts me, tucking me into the back of a black Rolls-Royce limousine, instructing the driver of my address at 76 Boulevard Magenta. I can’t believe I’m being driven through Paris in this fancy car in this fancy dress. I never want tonight to end and I can’t wait to see Adnan again. I put my skeleton key into the big wood door and make my way through the cobblestoned courtyard, and up the dark stairway. I unlock the apartment, tiptoe down the hall, and get in bed. I take off my clothes and study the beading on the blouse, trying to figure out how many months it would take to sew all these tiny beads on by hand.
I lie back on my pillow, studying the mysterious, spiky, orange fruit. Why did he give this to me? What does it mean? Is it poison? I finally give up and pull my blankets around my neck in my tiny bed in my dirty room, feeling like a princess for the first time in my life.
Sparkly dress in Paris, 1980
BUTTER CROISSANTS
I have no idea I am in for a radical change. Like everyone else, I’m preoccupied with the endless details and tasks that fill my days. I’m finally enjoying modeling, but after realizing that success won’t instantly solve all of my problems or give me that magic feeling I’m looking for, I’m not willing to die for it. Or sacrifice my dignity and peace.
Every time I see myself in another magazine or on a poster, it is confirmed. The less I care, the more everybody wants to hire me. Go figure!
I keep up my daily practice of sitting for hours in cafés writing. As I walk alone through the streets, listening to my inner voice, I lend a hand and a smile to any- and everyone who needs one. Paris is starting to love me right back, and I am truly happy. I feel more and more that this is my home.
Oftentimes, I stop to pray and meditate in the beautiful and peaceful cathedrals. I light a candle and watch mine burn along with all the others that people have come to light. Even though I don’t know how I’m supposed to pray, I pray. I don’t rush through these meditative, peaceful things. I do them slowly, taking my sweet time. I can sit in a church for over an hour without being bored. These essential elements add up to peace and happiness for me. I feel more rooted inside myself than ever before. I’m no longer a directionless, dead, dry leaf blowing in the wind through the streets of Paris.
Now that I am in high demand as a model, I have the confidence to make changes that are way overdue. I’m done with the games at Paris Planning and decide to switch agencies.
I hear that Karin Models is good, and Jean Luc Brunel, head of the agency, signs me immediately. Pepper and Gerald are shocked. They warn that Jean Luc doesn’t have as much power as them. But they are dead wrong. Karin books me instantly for good French and Italian editorial. I should have switched sooner.
Work is going well, and I have made gains in my “personal peace project.” But as a young woman, I’m lonely. Scarlett is gone, and most of my time is spent traveling alone.
My sexual desires have been nagging at me, but I won’t have sex with just anyone. I have to be in a loving relationship. I want to date Adnan, but he hasn’t called me since giving me the thorny, yellow fruit. Does he even think about me? There are lots of male models around, but they seem like another species, too pretty and skinny. I have never felt comfortable with overly handsome men. Maybe I don’t think I deserve a man like that, or maybe I’m plain old intimidated.
Ruby invites me over to her boyfriend Will’s house for dinner. He’s an English photographer who changes my opinion that all photographers are grungy and grubby. He’s handsome, in his late thirties, funny, sweet, and can hire Ruby for jobs directly without even a go-see. Some of his friends from London come to the dinner too—sadly, none of whom I am attracted to.
After dessert, we play charades and his friend Benjamin pulls out a joint, lights it, and hands it to me. “Oh, no, thanks, I haven’t done that since high school.” They all take a hit and pass it to me again. “Okay, maybe a little.” We laugh uncontrollably until I fall asleep on Will’s couch.
In the morning, Will sweeps through the front door with a bag of warm croissants. Lucky Ruby—a boyfriend and breakfast. “Mornin’, love. Fancy a croissant? I swear they’re the best in Paris.”
The brown bag is butter-stained, and I can smell the croissants from the couch. “I try not to eat them, but I really want to.” He hands me one. I break it open and take a long sniff. “These are dangerous. Good thing I don’t live around here.”
“We have ’em every morning. Can’t start my day without ’em. Espresso?”
“No, thanks, gotta get ready for work. Thanks for dinner last night, and thanks for this.”
I leave Will’s pretty apartment and walk the narrow streets with the granite curbs, eating my personal piece of paradise.
The market owners are stacking crates of fresh vegetables, and baristas are starting their day by hosing off the sidewalks in front of their cafés. All I can think about is love. I want to be in love like Ruby and Will.
I approach my favorite, most beautiful bridge in Paris, the Pont Alexandre III. I stop halfway across and watch the rising sun reflect shimmery orange onto the Seine as I lean on the cold, damp stone. When I first came to Paris, love was the last thing on my mind. I never planned to stay this long, but now I feel differently.
Paris is my true home, and I may never live anywhere else but here. If I had a boyfriend we’d be here on this beautiful bridge together, watching the sunrise and the birds diving for fish. He would hold me and kiss me tenderly, and the beauty of Paris wouldn’t be wasted.
“Gilles! Le téléphone est pour vous!” Madame yells in her monotone Vietnamese French.
“Oui, allô.” Madame’s television is blaring in the background.
“Wow, Jill, look at you talking all French.”
“Jack? Is that you?” I am shocked to hear his voice.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m coming to Paris to see you.”
My heart sinks. “What?”
“I’m coming to bring you home. Let’s take this to the next level. I really miss you. I’m making a lot of money now. I can take care of you. I bought two machine shops.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me. How did you buy two shops?”
“I’ve been dealing and saving all the money.”
I never would have dreamed he would sell drugs. “You’re crazy. You’re gonna get killed or go to prison!”
“It’s okay. I sleep with a gun under my pillow, and when the shops are up and running, I’ll stop.” He sounds paranoid. This does not sound like the Jack I know.
“No, don’t come.”
“I already bought a plane ticket. I’ll be there in two weeks. You can’t stop me. I’m going to find you!” He laughs, but it isn’t funny.
I panic and try to act strong, but my heart is in my throat. “You don’t speak French, you don’t know where I live, you’ll never find me here. Paris is a big city. We broke up. I live here now.” He never takes no for an answer, and I am scared. “I gotta go. Don’t come. I don’t want you to come. ’Bye.”
I hang up the phone, with my heart beating in my ears. I don’t need this shit right now. I go back to my room and write in my Bible, asking for help. I have no idea where my life is going, but I know I’m done with him.
I am still writing when the phone rings again.
“Gilles, le téléphone est pour vous encore!” Madame giggles.
I run to her room. “Oui, allô?”
“Hey, it’s Dominic. We’re here in Paris and you’ll never guess who’s with us. Margaux Hemingway! But that’s not why I called. Adnan wants me to invite you to Spain and the Canary Islands with us
.”
My head is spinning from Jack, but I know I miss Adnan. “I’d love to come, but how much will it cost?”
“Don’t worry about it. Adnan will cover it.”
“Are you sure? I can pay my way.”
“Jill, I’m sure. He can afford it.”
Adnan and me in Marbella, Spain, 1980
THE CONTRACT
September and October 1980, Paris and Spain
Dominic’s wife, Ines, a Swedish former model, greets me at the door of their fancy 7th arrondissement apartment. It’s the picture of luxury, with polished marble floors and modern furniture. Dominic comes to say hello and then goes to finish packing.
The stairwell is plastered with glamorous party photos on boats and beaches, all the things I miss the most about California—except fancier. A guest room has photos and a modeling composite pinned to the wall. She’s my friend and fellow Wilhelmina model from Los Angeles. “That’s Gwen’s room. She stays here when she’s in Paris,” Ines says.
“I know Gwen. We worked together a lot in LA.” I’m confused why she has a room here.
Ines’s niece, Nora, joins us, and the four of us take a limo to the airport and board Adnan’s private DC-9. We just stroll right onto the plane—no ticket, no parking lot, no lines. We relax into tan leather reclining chairs, while we are served drinks and snacks.
We land in Málaga, Spain, and are driven through the coastal towns of Marbella and Puerto Banús. Images of my last trip flash through my head—the bomb threat, the Spanish army, the tanks, and the insane and probably fake photographer. Maybe this trip could cover up those memories.
We wind up into the hills of Andalusia to Benahavis, where Adnan’s home is set on five thousand acres of wildlife preserve. It is called La Baraka, “blessings of God.” The Spanish-style home has a curved driveway with a fountain and beautiful garden. On the porch stands a life-size giant taxidermy polar bear and lion. Elephant tusks form an arch in the entryway, and antelope and deer antlers adorn the walls. Adnan bought the property from Omar Sharif, Dominic explains, as he shows me to my room.