The fact of the matter is, there are American girls in Milan who have been there for years and years. They get rough around the edges, fast, but they’re still pretty. You can find some of them in the Yellow Pages.
The night before we returned to Paris, a young girl overdosed in the rest room of the nightclub where we were celebrating. The paramedics carried her out, trying hard to be discreet, but there’s nothing discreet about early death. I was thinking about that poor girl on the plane back to Paris. What lies would they tell her family, home in the States? Whatever they needed to hear, I guess. “Your daughter was a wonderful girl. Very gifted. She was on the verge of making it. Another month or two and she would have been a major star.”
Bourdin was seated next to me. I turned to look at him. “This business is pretty tough, isn’t it?” I said.
“It’s just business,” he said. “No worse than any other. When the stakes are high, people get nasty. It’s inevitable.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes. I have a friend in real estate. You should see the backstabbing that goes on there. And another friend who moved to Hollywood a few years ago. The things he tells—it’s wild.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“He told me something funny the other day,” Bourdin said, clearly trying to cheer me up. “He said, ‘In Hollywood, it’s not dog-eat-dog. It’s dog-doesn’t-return-other-dog’s-phone-call.’”
I laughed. I’ve never forgotten that line. It’s funny but it’s also pretty sad. I didn’t understand it then, but it really goes to the core. If you’re not even important enough to get your phone call returned, you must be next to nonexistent. It made me think of my father. You’ll never amount to anything.
Fuck you, Ray. Wait till I get home.
I arrived back in Paris to find that Debbie had had a very good week. Without me. Imagine that! The couture show had gone so well that she’d already lined up her next gig—for Elle. And she was being courted, in high style, by a bunch of local photographers.
I had mixed feelings about Debbie. This was my little sister, after all. Why had I gone and invited her to Paris? To corrupt her? No, she’d done a perfectly good job herself, growing up in sunny Hollywood, Florida. So why did I feel so much conflict, for God’s sake? I was helping her big-time. If anything, I was making things too easy for her. I was proud of her, and jealous and angry and protective, all at the same time.
I took her to the Maison du Caviar for beluga and champagne and told her I was going home. I had a portfolio the size of a fucking phone book, and I was ready. I wanted her to fly back with me.
“I only just got here,” she whined.
“You’re fifteen years old.”
“So what?”
“Debbie, you’re a child.”
“I don’t want to go back. I love it here. I love the agency, I love the people, I love the men. I love my life—for the first time in my life.”
What can you say to that?
Guy took me to the airport for the flight home. I liked him. I’d been in Europe for seven months and he was the only man I’d slept with. (Okay, I let one other guy go down on me, and maybe there was some fellatio one night when I was blindsided by some excellent cocaine, but what’s a girl to do?) I hadn’t wanted anything from Guy except sex. At the time, that was a good thing. Later, as my life became increasingly complicated, I would demand much more from men…Unconditional love. Validation. Approval. I went prospecting for everything my father had never given me. No, that’s wrong. I was looking for a man who could undo the damage my father had done. He’d ripped a huge hole inside me, and I needed someone to fill it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
I had things to look forward to in New York. And one thing I wasn’t looking forward to. I didn’t tell anyone to meet me at JFK because I wanted to take care of the unpleasantness first. I took a cab to 14th Street—God it was nice not to have to think about money!—and went home to Ron.
When he first opened the door, my husband didn’t immediately recognize me. I thought for a moment he was going to ask me who I was, but then the synapses clicked in and he said “Jesus!” and he hugged me. There was something frightened and tentative about the hug. He was a mess. And the place was a mess. I stepped through, literally watching where I put my feet, and turned to look at him. He had lost weight; his clothes hung loosely on his frame. His beautiful hair had lost its luster. His teeth were brown, stained with nicotine. And his eyes—I don’t know how to describe it—there was no light in them. His eyes looked dead.
“You look good,” I lied. “You could gain a little weight, but you look good.”
He knew I was lying.
I stole a look toward the bedroom. The door was open, but the bed was empty. I guess I half-expected to find him with a woman.
“Jesus, Janice. I can’t believe it’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“I missed you, girl. God how I missed you!”
I knew he was lying.
We ordered Chinese from the roach-infested place around the corner—a long way from the Brasserie Lipp—and Ron worked hard at making conversation. He asked about some of my adventures and talked about some of his own. The band was off again the following afternoon, he mentioned with feigned regret.
After dinner we sat on the couch, and Ron oohed and aahed over my portfolio. It was getting pretty good, and Ron was clearly impressed, but his mind was drifting. He started getting antsy as the evening wore on. I told him I was exhausted, and took a shower and got into bed next to him. Propped up against two pillows, sitting on the covers, he looked miserable. It was a Sunday night. He’d been watching 60 Minutes without really seeing it.
“What’s this segment about?” I asked.
WORKING THE MODEL/WAIF LOOK. THE POLAROID WAS BRAND NEW AND I COULDN’T STOP TAKING THEM.
“I’m not sure,” he said. He smiled a nervous smile and put his arm around me and told me again how much he’d missed me, how glad he was to have me back, and how upset he was that he had to leave the next day. There was no feeling in the words, and the gestures were just gestures. It was excruciating.
A few minutes into this he got up and went into the bathroom. I muted the volume on the TV. It was awfully quiet in there. Then I heard some strange sounds that I wasn’t sure I could identify coming from within. Next was the clink of a spoon falling onto the tiled floor. I turned out the light and tried to blink away a tear. When he came out of the bathroom, groping through the darkness and whispering my name, I pretended I was asleep.
In the morning, I was up early. Everything looked so shabby. I missed my buttery croissants and those French cheeses and the porcelain mugs the size of soup bowls. Ron stumbled out of the bedroom as I was making the coffee.
“Try to get home early, babe,” he said. “I leave tonight.” B.B. and the boys were heading south, to the Chitlin Circuit, for what promised to be a very long trip.
I dressed up like a French whore and went off to see my agents. I was received like the queen I had become. Everyone was fawning—and you know how I feel about fawning. It’s right there on the Top Ten list of things that make me happy. Wilhelmina herself came out and hugged me and whisked me into her office. She had three cigarettes going at once.
“Well, you did it,” she said.
“I guess I did, didn’t I?”
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook for weeks. ‘When is Janice coming back?’ ‘Can we get Janice?’ ‘We want to hold this for Janice.’ Janice Janice Janice.” She named names. Most of them belonged to the same people who’d spent the previous year slamming doors in my face. “How does it feel?” Willie asked.
“Fucking great,” I said. “When do I start?”
“Well, I have someone who has been calling for weeks. He knows everyone in France, and they’ve gotten him all worked up about you.”
“If you say Mike Reinhardt, I’ll kill you,” I said. I was smiling broadly.
Here is the fucking thing about Mike Reinhardt. He didn’t even fucking remember. He walks over and shakes my hand and does the usual I’ve-heard-so-much-about-you shit and starts talking about how he’s going to change my life.
“My life doesn’t need changing, honey,” I told him. “I’m here because you know how much I can do for your career.”
Mike smiled. But he seemed a little wary. “Everyone told me how nice you were,” he said.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“I was here once. Last year. You treated me like shit.”
“Did I?”
“Yes,” I said, mustering my dirtiest look.
“In that case, I apologize.” He lit a joint and offered me a hit—a huge improvement over my last visit—but I declined. “Maybe I can do better this time,” he said. “You mind sitting over there? I want to test the lights.”
“I don’t test,” I said. I was being a major bitch. And loving it. “That was last year. You should have had one of Willie’s testers come over earlier. Obviously you’re not prepared for me.”
“Was I that bad?” he asked. He was smiling. Motherfucker knew I liked him. Could I help it? He had the nicest eyes.
“You were awful,” I said. We were sitting in a haze of smoke.
“I’ve improved with age,” he said.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-eight,” he said. Not quite old enough to be my father, but close. “You?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Nice age,” he said. “But way too young for me.”
“You ready?” I said. “I’ll give you half an hour. I’ve got real photographers waiting.”
He laughed and got to work. The man was a master. Remember I said that shooting with Guy Bourdin was like having sex? Well, this was like having sex and coming. And by the way, I hate to break it to you—but all that shit you see in the movies: Yeah, baby. Camera loves you, baby. Fuck me, baby. You make me so hard. It’s bullshit. The truth is closer to, Very nice, Janice. Yes, Janice—perfect. A little more, Janice. A little less. And I don’t know about you, but I think straight talk can be pretty hot. I had to fight the urge to fuck him then and there. I wanted him so bad my Little Flower barked.
I hailed a cab and hurried home. I was in a great mood, Ron notwithstanding. I’d been in New York twenty-four hours and was on top of the world.
I found my husband in the bathroom, stoned or drunk, I wasn’t sure. He looked up at me, glassy-eyed, and mumbled something that sounded like an apology. He looked like a dog that had messed the carpet and knew trouble was coming. Tears welled in my eyes.
“I was just on my way out,” he said. It was true. His suitcase was packed and waiting by the bedroom door. He struggled to his feet. Looked at me. Didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
And I said, “Good.”
Then he kissed me—once, lightly, on the cheek—and picked up his suitcase and walked out. I heard the front door close. I listened to his fading footfalls. Growing fainter. Making their way down the stairs now. Then I went into the bedroom and cried myself to sleep.
In the morning I went to see Willie and spilled my guts. She gave me the number of a divorce lawyer and told me not to look back. I didn’t know what to do. Somehow, that didn’t feel right.
The secretary buzzed her. It was Mike Reinhardt. I reached for Willie’s phone and took the call.
“What?” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What’s it to you?” I said.
“I’m at Kennedy Airport,” Mike said. “I have to go to Paris. Why don’t you come with me?”
“You have a lot of nerve.”
“I’m on assignment for French Vogue.”
That gave me pause. He pressed on. “Come on, Janice. You know something happened between us yesterday. Don’t pretend it didn’t.”
“Good luck,” I said, and hung up.
I did a shoot for Bloomingdale’s later that day and made a few calls between setups. One of those calls was to Ron’s mother. I guess you could call it a telephone intervention, though that was in the days before the word became part of our everyday vocabulary. I told her I was worried about Ron. It broke my heart, but he needed help and he wasn’t listening to me, and I knew he loved his mother. It also broke her heart, but I knew how tough she was. I’d seen her put my rat-bastard father in his place the night we got married; I figured she was up to this.
“You’ve always been good to me,” I said. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for Ron and me. I really am. I tried. I hope you can do something for him.”
I finished my shoot and got back to the office. Mike had called twice more; Ron had called a dozen times. Mike was in love. My husband was out of control—and he called again as I was leaving the agency. I took the call and couldn’t understand a word—he was cursing and screaming at the top of his voice. He sounded possessed. Fucking whore cunt, and a hundred other things. He reminded me, at that moment, of my rageaholic father.
“I’ll kill you, you bitch! How could you tell my mother!? What the fuck did you tell her? I will fucking kill you.”
I hung up and dug out the lawyer’s number and called to tell him I needed a divorce. He was on his way out, but since I was a friend of Willie’s he took a moment and listened. I told him I needed nothing from Ron. I could take care of myself.
“All I really want is my name back,” I said.
He seemed surprised. Surprised and impressed.
Mike called again the next morning, this time from Paris.
“How did you get my home number?” I asked.
“Patrick Demarchelier gave it to me,” he said. “He thinks we should be working together.”
“Is that what he thinks?”
“Yes.”
“This is my home,” I said. “In the future, I’d advise you to call my booker.”
He ignored that. “You know,” he said in that beguiling voice of his, “it’s crazy…I can’t find a single girl in Paris that’s right for this Vogue shoot. And the pity is, it’s a cover.”
I took a beat. “I travel first class,” I said.
There was a flight later that day. He told me he’d be waiting for me at Orly.
I hung up and called Willie.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“I don’t want to be here right now,” I said. “My husband is out of his head. I hate that dump on 14th Street. I miss Paris.”
“You just got back,” she said. “You’re a star. You are solidly booked for the next three months.”
And I said, “Something happened at Mike Reinhardt’s studio.”
“Watch out for him,” Willie said. But I could feel the smile in her voice. “He’s trouble.”
I didn’t care. A little French trouble sounded pretty good.
Arriving at Orly was like a replay of the first time, with Reinhardt in the Dominick Silverstein role, red roses for daisies, and a limo with Cristal waiting for me outside.
“That’s a lot of props you’ve got there,” I told Mike. “Flowers, champagne, a limo. Are you really that insecure?” Mike laughed. He knew I was just messing with him.
“If you think I’m trying to seduce you, you’re wrong,” he shot right back. “I’m simply apologizing for past sins.”
The limo dropped us in front of a gorgeous building on the Left Bank, near Notre Dame. I half-expected to see Quasimodo loping past, on his way to the bell tower.
Mike took me upstairs. The apartment was bright and cozy, but it had only one bedroom. Hmmm. I wondered where poor Mike was going to sleep.
I showered and we went to the Brasserie Lipp for lunch. I sat there drinking white wine from one of their green-stemmed goblets. If he was trying to get on my good side, he was doing a pretty good job. I loved this place. I smiled at him.
It was more of a tease than a smile. He smiled back, hopeful. “What are you smiling about?” I asked. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to get lucky. I’m here to work.”
He laughed and paid the bill and we spent the afternoon walking around Paris. It’s the best walking city in the world.
We didn’t get back to the apartment till nightfall. I was hungry again from all the walking. Mike opened a nice Burgundy and I sat with him in the kitchen and watched him get to work. He made a simple pasta with haricots verts and tiny tomatoes. It was delicious. I liked the way he handled himself in the kitchen. I like men who cook. Men who cook are generally good lovers.
“So,” I said, “I get the bedroom, right?”
“If you insist.”
“I insist.”
I got the bedroom. I wondered how long it would be before I heard his footfalls. And I must tell you, Dear Reader, it wasn’t long at all…
MIKE REINHARDT LOOKING GORGEOUS. SOUTHAMPTON, 1981.
I couldn’t get enough of Mike, but—and I’m genuinely sorry about this, Mr. Reinhardt—it wasn’t about sex. It was his mind I fell in love with. He was all about culture and good breeding. He spoke flawless English, of course, along with Italian, French, and German. He gave me tours of the city’s finest museums—in four languages. He explained expressionism and impressionism and degenerate art. He took me to see the Mona Lisa. He spent hours showing me how much he had learned about light and composition and depth of field from Leonardo Da Vinci.
Here I was, a Florida pom-pom girl, getting a real education from a man who actually knew what he was talking about. Who cared if sex was an afterthought? It was over fast, anyway.
I was in awe of him. I didn’t speak; I listened. He was flawless. Mike Reinhardt was the man I’d been waiting for my whole life. (Love has some side effects, including tremors and delusions.) And there was an added bonus: When those first proofs came back, I looked better than I’d ever looked in my life.
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