Annabel vs the Internet

by Annabel Port

  I immediately say, “Yes.” This could be the key to any number of secrets. Then he goes to pick up the phone, presumably to call Tamsin, and I panic.

  I blurt out, “I’m not really. I’m lying.”

  He’s really confused and still has the receiver in his hand.

  “So, sorry, you are or you aren’t here to see Tamsin?”

  “I’m not. I was lying.”

  It’s extremely embarrassing. And I still don’t know where the stage door is. I add, “I just wanted to know where the stage door is.”

  He tells me and I walk round to find you can’t access the actual door because of a big metal gate. But there’s an intercom system, so I press the buzzer.

  A man answers. I say, “Hello. I’m doing a project on West End stars. Could I come and ask some questions?”

  The voice replies, “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to speak.”

  This is puzzling. He is speaking. I politely don’t mention this and instead say, “So you can’t answer any questions?”

  He says he’s not allowed to. He’s clearly been hushed up. He’s probably been given hush money. What is going on in there? Something, I’m sure of it. But I can’t find out any more.

  I move on to another theatre nearby. At this stage door, I get to see the face of the man I’m talking to. I tell him I’m doing a project on West End stars and he reluctantly agrees to answer some questions.

  I plan something very clever. I’ll ask him several bland, innocuous questions to give him a false sense of security. Then hit him with the killer question when he’s so relaxed he answers without thinking. It goes like this:

  “What time do the stars arrive?”

  “Has anyone ever been really late?”

  “Do they bring their own lunch with them?”

  “Has one of the stars ever murdered anyone?”

  Unbelievably it doesn’t work.

  I’m feeling really down and I can’t stop thinking about the first theatre where the stage-door man was told he wasn’t allowed to speak. I’m desperate to know what’s going on there. I need to go back and I can try again because he hasn’t seen my face. All I’d need to do is disguise my voice.

  There’s a slight problem in that I’m not great at accents. I could probably make a better stab at brain surgery than convince someone I’m American, for example.

  But I press the buzzer again and say in an American accent, “Hi, I’m here to clean the dressing rooms.”

  I have an anxious wait of around one second before the man says, “Okay. I’ll open the gate for you.”

  The gate is now automatically opening. I enter, walk a little way down a pathway and then through the stage door. There are two men behind a counter.

  “Hi, I’m here to clean the dressing rooms,” I drawl in an accent that’s somewhere between American and Welsh but not recognisable as either.

  “What’s the name of your cleaning company?” one man asks.

  “CCC,” I tell him. “Cleaning Company Services.” I quickly realise my mistake and add, “They spell services with a C.”

  The man says, “Okay, I’ll just check.”

  He speaks to someone on the phone and then hands it to me. It’s another man. He wants to know my cleaning company name and tells me that’s not the one they use. I ask him which one they do use but he won’t tell me.

  I can’t leave yet though. I ask to use their Wi-Fi so I can check I’m at the right place.

  One of the men says, “No,” but his accompanying facial expression suggests he actually meant to say, “Are you insane? Of course you can’t use our Wi-Fi. Can you please now leave.”

  I start reading the signing-in book. It’s a bit of an awkward moment. I’ve been exposed as someone pretending to be their cleaner but I’ve still not left and the men are staring at me.

  There are no famous people signed in to the book but I do see that someone came in this week to fix a leak.

  Then I hear a woman singing “You’re the One That I Want” to a piano accompaniment.

  “Is that the girl who came third on Over the Rainbow?” I ask excitedly.

  They tell me it isn’t as she’s left the show now.

  My eyes widen. “Under difficult circumstances?” I ask.

  “No,” they say.

  “Who’s that singing then?” They won’t tell me. My mind is racing. Who could it be? My best guess from the sound of her voice is Samantha Cameron.

  I think they really want me to go as they’re saying, “The door is just over there.”

  I leave and reflect on what I’ve achieved, which is not quite 137 leaks an hour. Close though. Pretty close.

  11

  The Challenge:

  To become a top model

  “You know full well I could never become a model. This is the most insane task you’ve ever set.”

  I’m thirty-six and five foot three with bandy legs and a double chin.

  Geoff has some advice though. “Just practise balancing a book on your head so you get your poise right.”

  I’m worried he’s getting modelling confused with graduating from Swiss finishing school.

  I don’t know anything about modelling. Yes, I watch the modelling TV shows, but I’m not sure how representative of the industry they are. In the last series of Britain’s Next Top Model there tended to be a lot of naked and faux-lesbian shoots.

  I do know that supermodels say things like, “I don’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day.” Whereas I got out of bed for £7 a week for six years when I was a papergirl. I need some advice from famous models.

  I go to the renowned Select modelling agency. I’ve no plan as such, but surely models will be going in and out all day, and I’ve brought some rice cakes with me as an icebreaker.

  I stand outside. After a very long time, I see a really tall, thin, blonde girl coming out, who is very obviously a model. She’s also very obviously about thirteen and with her parents. I start feeling a bit seedy.

  Maybe this isn’t the best place. I try another agency. They look after Gisele, Lara Stone and Miranda Kerr, so maybe they’ll all be there being weighed and having their hair length measured and things like that.

  As I approach I see a real-life model having his photo taken outside. It’s very exciting. I stand and watch. It’s a male model with pillarbox-red hair and he’s just posing against a wall.

  I’m trying to think of a way to start up a conversation.

  “Why don’t you try putting your hand against your face?” I suggest.

  Both the model and the photographer laugh. I’m surprised. It’s a great idea. I’ve seen this done on the modelling TV shows loads of times.

  But at least I’ve got his attention. So now I offer him a rice cake.

  “I’ve already eaten,” he says, like I was offering him lunch. Very telling.

  I need to come straight to the point so I ask him outright for some modelling advice.

  “Be natural,” he tells me, and politely doesn’t add, “Grow taller, get younger, have your legs straightened.”

  There’s a bit of a silence now, so I break it with, “Do you want to open a burger bar with me?”

  He looks at me blankly, so I add, “You know, like when Naomi Campbell, Elle Macpherson, Claudia Schiffer and Christy Turlington opened the Fashion Cafe.”

  He doesn’t remember that. Now would be the time to just leave it there but I don’t. I say, “It’s just that I’m looking for another model to open this burger bar with me.”

  He’s very polite. “Sounds interesting,” he says.

  “Have you got funds to finance it with?” I ask.

  He doesn’t. I feel like the conversation really is over now. The photographer has been fiddling with her camera throughout. I really want to ask her to take my photo but feel too shy.

  I know this is weird. That I can ask a stranger if they want to open a burger bar with me but I can’t ask a photographer to take my photo. It shows how far I’
ve got to go to become a model.

  I have to go now and put some money on my flat’s ­electricity meter key. I’m sure Kate Moss often has to go off and do this.

  But I’ve got advice: be natural. The next step in becoming a top model is to get an agent. However, being thirty-six and five foot three, there is strong potential for humiliation.

  I need to build confidence. I turn to my boyfriend. He must find me attractive in some way. I ask him, “Do you think I could be a model?”

  He replies immediately. “Yes!” There’s a pause. Then he adds, “A hand model.”

  I’m strangely thrilled by this answer. I had no idea I had such nice hands.

  “Do you really think I could be a hand model?” I ask him.

  He snorts. “No. I was joking.”

  It’s now I recall something my mum once said to me when I was twelve. My secondary school, Westcliff High, held a charity week every year. One of the fundraising events was a Miss Westcliff competition. Miss World was a must-watch TV show then. It was the eighties; different times. I’d told my mum I’d entered. There was a long silence. Then she said, “Well, of course I think you’re very pretty, darling.”

  With all this going round my head, I go off to get myself a supermodel agent.

  I’m at one of the most famous agencies in the Covent Garden area: Premier Model Management. It’s described as “The original pioneers behind ‘supermodel’ branding”.

  I’m nervous. For many reasons. But I can do something about two of them: my age and my height.

  Firstly, I can lie about my age. Models are really young. So I opt for seventeen. More than half my age. I got away with it before in the youth club. In that nobody bothered to challenge me. Secondly, I know a way I can look taller.

  I arrive, open the door and walk in on my tiptoes. To the right is big table where all the bookers appear to be sitting. Nobody looks up so I announce myself with a “Hello!” Just one person looks up. A man.

  “Hi, I’d like help being a supermodel,” I say to him.

  He laughs faintly. I don’t. He then looks a bit confused and directs me over to a receptionist a bit further up the room. She sends me over to a seated area opposite.

  After a short while the receptionist comes over. “Okay. How old are you?”

  “Thirt—” I start saying my real age. It’s a terrible error. But I cover it up well with, “Well, I was thirteen a few years ago but now I’m seventeen.”

  There is no discernible reaction to this. “And how tall are you?” she asks.

  “I’m five foot six, five foot seven.” It’s probably good to be a bit vague in this area.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll get someone to come and see you.”

  I wait a bit longer. Then the man by the door – the one I originally spoke to – comes to sit with me.

  “How can I help you?” he asks.

  I tell him again that I want to be a supermodel. I get asked again how old I am. This time I get it right. “Seventeen,” I say with confidence.

  “And how tall are you?” he asks. Before I get a chance to answer he says, “Well, let’s measure you.”

  It’s quite possible that he’s pre-empting another lie. He takes me round the back to a tape measure fixed to a wall. I’m still on tiptoes. I’m pushing myself up as high as I can.

  “Oh,” he says. “Just five foot five. We can’t take you.”

  I really wish I had bigger toes. I try not to sound desperate as I say, “Oh, that’s okay, I don’t want to do catwalk. I’ve got bandy legs. And I’ve got blisters at the moment. I could do beauty.”

  “We don’t do just beauty,” he says quickly.

  I can’t leave it there. I can’t just give up. I ask, “How can I get taller?”

  “I don’t know,” the man says.

  “I’ll come back when I’ve got taller.”

  He was really lovely to me. But I’ve not been taken on. Now I’m thinking, Do I really need an agent? Maybe I can go out and become a supermodel and get supermodel jobs on my own.

  I head to New Bond Street with all the fancy stores that employ top models in their campaigns and go into Mulberry. I’m short, but I can model a handbag. I have a wander round until I find one that I think I can work well with. It’s plumcoloured, with a short hand strap.

  In the window, there’s a display of two headless mannequins alongside a fake tree with fake birds on it. There’s a lady who works there standing by the door.

  I move towards the display holding the plum-coloured handbag. I get right in with the headless mannequins and strike a pose. I put my left hand on my hip and my other hand has the bag hanging off my wrist. My head is to one side and I’m doing a “smize”. This is smiling with the eyes, as recommended by Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model.

  Nobody stops me. People stare. A small crowd gathers, if two girls constitute a small crowd. The sun is pouring through the windows and I am starting to get hot and achy in my pose.

  After about five minutes I can hear muffled talking behind me. A man appears by my side.

  “Are you okay there?”

  “Yeah, I’m a model. A Mulberry model.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says.

  I keep posing. I hear more muffled talking behind me. After another minute, there’s a woman beside me.

  “Do you have a note for this?”

  I’m thinking, What, from my mum?

  She continues with, “A note from head office?”

  I tell her, “No, they just sent me here without a note.”

  She gestures over to the first person who spoke to me and asks him to call head office.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  “Annabel Port,” I tell her.

  I’m a bit worried about this man calling head office with my name, but the lady is speaking again. “Can you step away from the window while we’re calling?”

  “Oh,” I reply. “But I get paid by the hour.”

  She tells me to take a seat over in the folly. I have no idea what she means as we’re in a shop, not some stately home gardens. She points to an area in the middle of the shop floor, a circle with seats around the outside. It’s kind of a fence. It’s probably the closest she can get to a cage in this situation.

  I head there saying, “Okay, well, I’ll keep modelling.”

  I sit down and model the handbag. I’m waiting a while. The staff are really staring at me. After a time, a man I’ve not seen before sits next to me. He says, “Annabel, who sent you?”

  “Head office,” I tell him.

  “Got a name?”

  I say the first one that comes into my head. “Christine.”

  “There’s lots of Christines at head office,” he tells me. Really? I think.

  “Got a surname?”

  “No.”

  “And are you from an agency?”

  “Yes, I’ve come from Premier Model Management.” This is not a lie. This is exactly where I’ve just come from. “Have they not got confirmation from head office yet?” I ask.

  “Just trying now,” he says. “It’s just that sometimes the communication isn’t great between head office and us, so that might be the problem.”

  This is a very generous-hearted and polite man. Unless he’s actually starting to believe me, which means that if they can’t get hold of head office I’ll be stuck here holding a plumcoloured handbag all afternoon. He goes off again and I keep posing.

  After another five minutes he’s back with the news that there’s no Christine at head office, which is strange as before he’d said there were lots. He asks to see my time sheet. I tell him I don’t have one. I’m also not sure that any supermodels have time sheets.

  Then it gets worse. “I tell you what,” he says, getting his mobile out of his pocket, “Let’s call your agency to find out what’s going on.”

  “No!” I practically shout. “Actually, I’ve got to go as I think I’ve left the oven on.”

  I get out of there
quickly. But it’s undeniable that I did model for Mulberry. And I’m sure top models are always popping into shops for an unplanned, impromptu shop-window modelling session. So today I was a top model. And not one person mentioned my double chin.

  12

  The Challenge:

  To create some conceptual art

  The winner of the Turner Prize is about to be announced, and who hasn’t looked at conceptual art and thought, I could do that? Actually, I haven’t.

  I don’t have any artistic abilities. Apart from yesterday, when I drew quite a good horse’s head by following the outline of a kite shape. That’s probably not enough, though.

  I look to works from this year’s Turner Prize shortlist for inspiration. Here’s what I saw:

  • Painting of a shed

  • Scrunched-up bit of paper

  • Some hung-up polythene

  • A thing

  • Another thing

  • One more thing

  • Hanging projectors and pictures of bits of the body

  I don’t feel inspired. But I’m reminded of the time I went with my parents to Tate Modern and my dad was complaining that he didn’t like the art and my mum said, “Your lack of enjoyment isn’t the artist’s failure, it’s your failure.”

  I try harder and I look at the winner, Martin Boyce’s work. It includes a wonky bin and I am quite excited by that as we used to have them at work. Bins that were on a strange slant. When Jeremy Kyle did a late-night show here, he once complained about them in a DJ meeting. And the bins went the next day. The power this man wielded, even back then.

  The wonky bin piece of art is called, Do words have voices?

  I can’t help thinking that what’s happened here is that he started with the title and worked backwards. I’m not sure how he got to the bin.

  But it seems that in conceptual art, that the idea is the most important aspect. That it’s all about expressing yourself. I ­haven’t really expressed myself since around 1978.

  I think really hard and admit to myself that something I’m finding difficult at the moment, is keeping on top of my to-do list. I feel a bit overwhelmed by everything that I’ve not done yet. Like pick up all the post and junk mail from my doormat before it starts becoming difficult to open the door, get a pension and formulate any kind of career plan.