When I looked in the mirror all I saw was fat. I was eight stone by this point, medically underweight for my height, but this was considered a ‘normal’ weight in my mind. I wasn’t thin enough. The Brain Deviant told me I needed to weigh seven. When I look back at photos I can see how prominent my hip bones and ribcage were, and yet at the time it didn’t reflect in the mirror. I was just fat and flaws. I’d grab any squishy bits of my body and wince with embarrassment and shame.
I remember putting on a pair of designer jeans on one shoot for a magazine, which were a UK size eight, and they just fell off me. They were so baggy that the stylist had to clip them from the back.
I didn’t get it. The label clearly stated they were a size eight, but when I looked in the mirror I saw the reflection of someone at least three times bigger. It was as though somebody was playing a trick on me. I was beyond confused, yet still felt a rush of excitement through my veins. Losing weight was a thrill far bigger than anything else I’d ever experienced – better than any drug.
If I saw my family and they told me I’d lost weight or that I looked ‘too thin’, I got my high again, feeling as though I was drifting through the clouds. But if someone said I looked ‘well’, I lost it. It was a compliment, and yet the walls around me would feel like they were caving in. As far as I was concerned, if I looked well, that meant I looked healthy, and if I looked healthy, that meant I was fat. How’s that for logic?
Anorexia and bulimia are cries for help, which is certainly true in my case. I wanted help, I really did, but admitting I had a problem was like admitting I was a failure, that I couldn’t keep up with the other models. And believe me – a lot of them had problems, too. They just wouldn’t admit it, either.
Even if people thought I had an eating disorder, they certainly didn’t say anything. People might’ve said I looked thin or bony, but I’d take it as a compliment. Even to this day, I still believe that in modelling terms I didn’t look thin enough. People saw thin models every day, and I simply wasn’t on their level. I was unhealthy, yes, and small for everyday standards, but didn’t look malnourished by fashion standards then. I may have had a lollipop head, but my body didn’t shock.
I wanted to be saved from the demons inside my head. But the words just wouldn’t come out. Why was nobody listening? Why could nobody see how lonely I was? Perhaps by dieting further, my body would look frail and small, and my body would speak for itself. Maybe they’d finally see how fragile I felt inside.
‘Your body is really holding you back,’ I was told in a meeting one day, very matter-of-factly. My heart dropped. It was the first time anyone had directly told me what I felt deep down to be true. Every negative thing I thought about myself when I looked at my reflection was clearly not a lie. ‘I can’t send your pictures to clients looking like this, Charli.’
‘You failure!’ the Brain Deviant screamed.
I looked down at my lap feeling absolutely mortified, as other bookers listened nearby. I knew they had a point. I may have been a UK size six/eight but I clearly wasn’t doing enough. I was trying to exercise or leave the house as much as possible, but it’s hard when you have zero energy to do anything. A two-minute trip to the local shop felt like a mission in itself, let alone a walk around Tesco. I was getting excruciating knife-like cramps in the arches and soles of my feet that made it difficult to stand.
‘You always look so tired,’ another booker chipped in. ‘Whenever I see you, there are dark circles under your eyes.’ This wasn’t new. I’d been paranoid about this since receiving a couple of emails from people at the agency telling me how tired I looked, and how I needed to rest. But with barely any work offers or castings, all I seemed to be doing was resting. I could sleep and sleep for hours, sometimes twelve hours or more, and the skin around my eyes would still look puffy and dull when I woke up. I’d got into the habit of holding frozen packets of peas on my eyelids every morning in an attempt to wake me up a bit, to no avail. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had truly felt energized or capable of doing anything. ‘I think you should get tested for your iron levels.’
My iron levels? I’d never had any problems with them before.
‘You’re twenty-three years old,’ an agent said. ‘You should be in cracking shape – the best shape of your life.’ I could feel one creepy man’s eyes on the back of my head and my cheeks flushed bright pink. My hands began to feel sweaty. Was this it? Was my modelling career over before it had really begun?
‘You need to get to your goal weight in the next month or so,’ they said. ‘You have to take this seriously. As you’re not working much in London, let’s see if other countries suit you better. And in the meantime perhaps you should get a part-time job.’
As a model, your agency will ‘place’ you with different agencies abroad so that you can work in foreign markets. Each fashion market has its own beauty ideals, which means girls may work more in one city than another based on their body type or appearance. For example, New York and Paris are considered high fashion – skinny, tall runway girls. London has all the cool and edgy girls (and sadly I don’t think I was interesting enough to make an impression, even with my wonky teeth).
In fact, because of how much of a misfit I was, no one seemed to know where to place me, even abroad.
One Monday afternoon, I had a meeting with an agent from Miami, where the beauty standard is busty, toned beach babes. I was a pale, flat-chested, skinny white girl.
That Friday, the same week, I met a Japanese modelling agent. The looks they wanted couldn’t have been more different. I had pale skin and big eyes, which they seemed to like, but the moment he put the measuring tape around my hips I realized how much of a waste of time this was. He smiled at me patronizingly, swiftly moving on to the next girl.
It’s hard trying to hide the fact you’re making yourself sick from someone you live with, especially someone who likes things neat and tidy. I’d rush through food as though I’d never have another meal again, eating and eating and eating until I felt physically sick. Then I’d go upstairs to the bathroom, turn the shower on and position it in the bath so that the noise of the water drowned out the sound, then would stick two fingers down my throat until every last bit of food had gone. Every time I threw up I’d inspect the toilet bowl rigorously, making sure the remnants of the last meal I’d eaten weren’t splattered about the place. Then I’d wipe away my tears and check my eyes didn’t look red, brush my teeth and head downstairs again, pretending everything was all right.
I couldn’t stop. Throwing up as a means of de-stressing was part of my routine now. A bitchy comment from my agency, a bad casting, arguments with Scott, wishing my parents were nearby, worrying about a potential job or lack of money … it would all disappear in a blink of an eye (well, blink of a BLEURGH!). I was losing grip of my life more and more.
Want to know how much control I had over my career? A friend of mine messaged me on Facebook, congratulating me on my new signing to a Parisian modelling agency. Huh?
‘I think you’ve got the wrong person!’ I wrote back. But then he sent me a link straight from the French agency’s Facebook page: a giant photo of my face, with the words, ‘BLAH BLAH BLAH CHARLI HOWARD BLAH BLAH’ written underneath it (I don’t speak a word of French). What the hell was going on?!
I confronted my London agency about it the next day.
‘Oh yeah, you’ll be going over there soon,’ a booker said, totally unbothered. ‘They’re one of the biggest agencies out there. It’s a great thing. They really like you.’
‘But … but … shouldn’t we have discussed this first?’ I asked. My anxiety began to calculate the worst possible scenarios that could happen.
‘I thought you’d be happy,’ she scoffed in an attempt to make it look like I was being ungrateful.
Then another booker piped up. ‘You’re also signed to an agency in Denmark and in Stockholm.’
If this doesn’t prove how much of a commodity I was, I don’t kno
w what does. I was a human being who just wanted to be on top of what was happening in her life, and I was being treated like an object.
Paris was, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst place I have ever, ever, ever modelled in. Yes, it’s a nice city, full of culture and fit men, and, yes, these days I am partial to a good old croissant or macaron from time to time, but the body image standards over there are nigh on impossible to meet. Some model friends told me that when it came to weight, you could never be thin enough for these agencies. This, I’d later discover, was true.
I was given a week’s notice about my trip to Paris and, while we’re not exactly talking Australia here, it was my first solo trip away from home – or, more specifically, Scott. How was I going to cope without him for three whole weeks?!
I had no clue where I’d be staying or what I’d be doing while I was there. None of this was explained to me. A good agent will tell you what your schedule is like and what is expected on your trip away. But not mine. Every time I dared question where I was staying, I was made to feel that I was p*ssing them off or being a nuisance. Want to know how this helped my anxiety? Oh yeah – it didn’t.
‘What do I wear in Paris?’ I remember asking beforehand.
One of the bookers sighed. ‘Black,’ she replied, not looking up from her computer. ‘Just lots of black.’
So, with this knowledge, I went to H&M and bought a few black things with what I could afford – bearing in mind I had practically no money in my bank account to live on for three weeks; at most, I had £150. I didn’t know if the clothes I’d picked were any good or not, but they were black, so they must’ve been OK. Right?
Because my anxiety was through the roof, and because I was beyond stressed, my skin broke out. So then I ended up stressing myself out more, worrying what the French agency would say about me when I arrived.
Well, this time, it turned out that I was right to be worried.
I got into Paris at around 10 a.m., having been up since 5 a.m. to get the Eurostar from King’s Cross. It was a boiling-hot day in June and the start of Men’s Fashion Week, so I had coincidentally been sitting next to a male model on my way there, who was trying to give me the lowdown on what to expect. Safe to say, he wasn’t really selling it. Once I arrived at the station, I got a text from one of the French bookers, saying he’d meet me at the end of the platform.
‘Ah, bonjour!’ I heard a voice say. It was my French booker – and he was lovely. He made a couple of phone calls in French, which I assume were to say I’d actually arrived and hadn’t legged it, and we set off on the Metro to the French agency, making small talk.
As we walked through the door, the most horrifically anorexic woman walked past me, floating by like some sort of Dementor from Harry Potter. Her legs were as wide as my arms, her cheekbones like razor blades. I was awestruck.
‘That’s one of ze bookers,’ my new friend whispered, and he guided me through into the main office while I tried to pull my jaw off the floor. Despite the fact I knew she was terribly ill and needed to be sectioned – her arms looked like they could snap off at any second, and any hint of muscle or fat had dissolved completely – I couldn’t help but envy her. How on earth did she maintain the willpower to stay that thin? How many calories must she eat a day? I know that sounds sick, but, hey, I was sick myself.
‘Bonjour!’ another man said, double-kissing me on the cheeks, and then he eyed me up and down, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. His name was Victor, and I later discovered that he was the head of the women’s board. A bossy older lady came out and did the same thing, then they started muttering away in French. I was rather glad I didn’t understand what they were saying, as judging by their facial expressions I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to see they weren’t pleased with the thing that stood in front of them.
Still, despite the fact my heart wanted TO RIP OUT OF MY CHEST, I kept smiling. I didn’t want them to latch on to how insecure and nervous I was, despite the fact I could now feel beads of sweat around my hairline.
Victor got out a measuring tape in the middle of a busy office and measured my waist and hips.
‘Sirty-six,’ he said, tutting, and suddenly I felt like I was in trouble. Thirty-six? I could’ve sworn my hips measured thirty-five inches. That’s what my latest modelling card in London said I was anyway.
‘Zis is not good,’ he said. ‘You need to be sirty-four. In France we like … we like … thin.’
‘Oh, right,’ I replied, pretending this was the first time I’d heard such a thing.
Victor sighed loudly. ‘You need to lose two inches in a week,’ he said, without batting an eyelid. I was waiting for the punchline to drop, but nope – he was deadly serious. I’d massively wasted his time. But come on! Two inches? Was he mad? Did he know I’d been struggling to lose that for a year?!
‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ I replied honestly.
‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘I know girls who do zis.’
‘O … kay …’ I replied slowly, debating whether or not I was the delusional one. Then he started to get mad, his voice getting louder.
‘I am angry at your London agency!’ he said in this big office full of people. ‘You are too big for Paris. Why ’av they sent you ’ere, when your ’ips are a sirty-six?! You cannot work!’
I felt like such a huge disappointment. In all honesty I didn’t know why my London agency had sent me here, either, and truly wished they hadn’t. I already hated it, and I’d barely been in the country an hour.
Victor emailed my agency in front of me, typing furiously. Soon my phone rang.
‘Why are your hips thirty-six inches?!’ the London booker asked furiously.
‘I … I don’t know,’ I replied.
‘For God’s sake,’ she said. ‘How have your hips gone up in size? He’s saying there’s no point in you being there.’ There was a pause. ‘I must admit, you didn’t look like you were a thirty-six when I saw you the other day … but then again I probably should’ve measured you.’ I couldn’t help but think if my hips didn’t look thirty-six inches, why was it a problem? Another pause. ‘Victor’s saying you should probably leave Paris at the end of this week, but he’s not sure. He’s going to feel it out. Oh well. You might as well give it your best shot.’
In that moment I hoped I gained a ton of weight so I’d never have to deal with these French arseholes again. It was my first spark of defiance. People with anxiety need certainty, and while modelling probably wasn’t the best career for someone craving consistency I felt I at least deserved to know when I could or couldn’t go home.
Without a clue about how to use the Metro and with barely any money, I made my way to the model apartment, which was up a very steep hill in a posh part of Paris, using a printed-out map. Had I known my account was due to be charged eighty-five euros a night for staying there, I would’ve just got a hotel. But I didn’t know this, because NONE OF THIS WAS EXPLAINED TO ME.
Thankfully, I had a room to myself, but there was an extra bed in there should another girl come and stay. I desperately hoped I wouldn’t have to share my room with a stranger. Two of the other rooms in the apartment were occupied by other girls, but I had yet to meet them.
I was unpacking my things when I heard the front door open. Clip, clop, clip, clop. The bedroom door next to me slammed shut, and I suddenly heard a loud sobbing. I could make out a Spanish voice, which soon turned into epic wails and yelling. I couldn’t help but burst out crying, too. I wanted to go home.
Still, there was no time to feel sorry for myself. I had a casting across the other side of town to get to: French Elle, which I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get based on the comments I’d received earlier.
I managed to get to the casting in the nick of time. I sat on the floor in a corridor clutching my new portfolio, next to beautiful girls who were ten times prettier, taller and thinner than I’d ever be. When I flicked through the photos, I noticed they’d picked
the pictures where my bones were most visible, or where I looked thinnest. I scowled at my model cards, which lied and said my hips were thirty-four inches (wishful thinking, eh?), and hoped this was all just a very bad, very depressing dream.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a bloody nightmare. As the days rolled on, and I did a couple of shoots and incessant running to and from castings, no one could tell me whether I was coming or going. Victor kept telling me how many castings he’d had to cancel because of my ‘weight problem’ (his words, not mine), yet he couldn’t tell me if I should go back to London early or not. I think he genuinely believed I could lose those two inches in a week and didn’t want to book my return trip home in the hope the miraculous would happen – that I would be perfect.
He said that he’d told some big French brands that I’d come down with the flu, but that I would see them when I was ‘feeling better’. Looking fat, apparently, was worse than being ill. I’d call my London agency about coming home early and they’d say, ‘Talk to Victor about when you should leave,’ or not answer my emails at all. I was in total limbo.
The day of my so-called departure came, and it became quite apparent that I wasn’t leaving. I was in such a bad mood. I just wanted to go home. In fact, I told Victor there was no point in me being there, and he got defensive, asking why I wasn’t taking my stay in Paris seriously enough. I couldn’t win!
He may have cancelled some castings because of how ‘fat’ I was, but over the period of the next two weeks I kept going to huge castings for the biggest French magazines and brands. It should’ve been a dream come true, yet this wasn’t how I’d envisioned my dreams unfolding. Victor couldn’t hide his surprise when a few of the clients actually optioned me for things (which is when a client keeps you on hold for that job as a potential model). This pleased me secretly. It meant people thought I had something. It meant I couldn’t have been the troll he was making me out to be.
Misfit Page 16