In a twist of fate Victor and I gradually seemed to like each other. Not in a romantic kind of way, but as … well … friends, almost. He would tell me my hips were big each and every time I saw him, but aside from that he wasn’t too bad. Despite the cultural barrier, he thought I was funny, telling me how much he liked me and how he just knew I was going to land huge campaigns one day. I began to feel like I could be cheeky around him, despite the fact I was shy and introverted with my agency in London. Perhaps this was down to the fact I’d stopped caring or taking the job too seriously, just like when I used to play up in school.
Funny things happen when you stop caring too much what other people think.
On my actual last day – which, by the way, may have been the happiest day of my life – he gave me a big hug and told me he’d see me soon. Yeah, right, I thought to myself. I’m never coming back here again.
‘I don’t want to go to Paris again,’ I announced to my London agency the minute I got back. They agreed. They bitched about Victor and the agency for a bit, saying how weird he was and how ridiculous the French modelling standards were (which is funny, because theirs were just as bad), then told me I didn’t have to go again.
Three weeks later, they told me I’d been booked for a big hair campaign in France, and that I needed to stay in Paris for another two to three weeks; they couldn’t be certain for how long. So much for never having to go back, eh?
‘How long do I need to stay for? Is it two weeks, or three?’ I said nervously, frustrated that yet again no one could give me a straight answer.
‘I don’t know. You’ll find out once you get there.’ That was all the information I was given, and my stomach churned, worrying about whether I would, once again, look too fat.
This job was worth 3,000 euros. Want to know how much I got from it? Nothing. Nope, not a cent. By the time you added up the costs from my stay at the model apartment, my new portfolio and cards, and the massive cut the agencies took from my earnings, I was actually indebted to them instead. What a great start!
This was just one of a few French jobs I didn’t see a single penny from, not to mention I would be treated quite terribly during them. I was made to feel like a prude for not wanting to go topless. People ignored me, speaking French around me.
Once, on a scorching hot Parisian day, I almost fainted on a shoot. I hadn’t eaten properly since lunchtime the day before, unless you count two squares of dark chocolate ‘dinner’. The photographer ran over to me and held me up by the arms while the make-up artist fetched me water.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, fanning me with his hands. I smiled meekly, sipping water.
‘You look great, though,’ he said, showing me the screen of the camera. I suppose he was right. For the first time ever, my chest and collar bones were prominent. Even the Brain Deviant was impressed.
My latest model apartment wasn’t as nice as the last one. For starters, I was sharing a room with a bulimic fifteen-year-old model from Norway. The most unsettling thing for me was the fact this girl was out partying with nightclub promoters and men in their thirties every night. The only real communication I’d have with her was when she’d come in every night at 1 a.m. after clubbing, and we’d whisper ‘hi’ to one another.
Each day was the same. She’d wake up, get dressed, starve herself throughout the day and then go partying in the evening. They’d wine and dine her before plying her with more alcohol and taking her to creepy clubs. The room smelled like sick because she’d throw up the meals afterwards, either in the bin or the bathroom next door.
I felt sorry for her and the fact she was bulimic. I took Victor aside, telling him about this girl and how wrong it was that gross old men were taking her out every night, but it wasn’t like he cared. He didn’t care when I told him she was making herself sick, either. The weirdest thing about me confiding in him was that even though I knew I was making myself throw up as a means of stress-relief and weight loss, I still couldn’t see I had a problem, too.
Maybe it was down to stress or the constant running to and from castings, but as the months continued back in London, I had begun to lose a bit more weight. I was sent to Paris frequently, continuing to rack up more and more debt and not booking any jobs. Now when I sat down, there was a large gap between my thighs. I’d ogle at this thigh gap, mesmerized, standing up and sitting back down again to see if it really existed, yet still managed to convince myself I was obese.
Victor noticed it, too. It’s a weird feeling, being congratulated on losing weight you don’t actually need to lose, with the level of excitement appropriate for if you’d just cured AIDS.
I was strolling through Paris one afternoon when Victor called me up. He was so excited that I didn’t understand a word he was saying. I asked him to speak slowly.
‘You need to come to ze agency!’ he said. ‘Ze biggest casting director has asked to see your pictures!’
‘Can’t we do it another time?’ I asked. I never felt good enough for Polaroids. As well as taking photographs, for which I’d have to deliberately position my body in a way to appear thinner, these sessions were also an excuse to measure me again to check I hadn’t gained weight. I was being measured once a week by this point and the experience never left me feeling warm and fuzzy.
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘Come in now!’ And, just like that, he hung up the phone.
Reluctantly, I made my way to the agency. It was another hot Parisian day, muggy and sticky, and I had to sanitize my hands a good couple of times before arriving at the building. I could practically feel the germs crawling over me, though in hindsight it was probably just insecurities swarming my body instead.
He took the photos enthusiastically this time, going on and on and on about how amazing this supposed casting director was. I really didn’t care any more. I was too hungry to think straight. Then, as I’d predicted, he took out my arch nemesis, Mr Measuring Tape, and measured my hips.
‘Ah, bon! Just one more inch, and you will be parfait!’ he said happily.
I left the agency in two minds. One half of me wanted to keep dieting so that I’d become ‘parfait’ like Victor wanted. The other half wanted to curl up in a ball and hide away.
For the first time since developing an eating disorder I finally felt thin. I was now seven and a half stone, dangerously underweight – just what I’d always wanted. I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window, and couldn’t believe how small my thighs looked. It didn’t even look like me. My thighs no longer touched as I walked, just like I’d dreamt of. People looked at me on the Eurostar back to London with a mixture of shock and sympathy. And even though I’d finally achieved my goal weight – something I’d worked towards for almost ten years – I still wasn’t happy. I suppose that now I’d achieved my dream: I was finally learning that happiness was not found on the scales.
It wasn’t just my agency that had weird obsessions with weight and body image. When I say it was an industry problem, that’s what it was.
I finally booked a hair campaign, which are great jobs to land as they pay a lot of money. Although it was a relatively hot day, I was still wearing layers of clothes to keep warm. My hands and feet were like ice blocks, a sign of malnutrition. I’d made myself sick the night before in order to look svelte for the photos, and had already drunk copious amounts of tea to rid any water weight and to give me an extra boost of energy.
The make-up artist that day wasn’t very personable or friendly, unless you happened to be one of the married men on set. Clearly not one for girl power, she pretty much disregarded all of the other women on the team, including the director of this international hair chain. She was very successful and had worked with many of the world’s biggest celebrities. Apparently, that meant she could treat people however she wanted. She’d click her fingers at an assistant, asking them to get her a coffee, then began screaming at them when they didn’t put the right amount of milk in it.
I was having my photos taken when she came over
to me on set and patted her stomach in front of everyone. ‘Make sure you suck this in,’ she said, then waltzed off.
‘I beg your pardon?’ the female director said, and the room fell silent.
‘I’m telling her she needs to get rid of her tum–’
‘I heard exactly what you said. She hasn’t got a tummy to suck in,’ the director spat.
You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Who knew my tummy could cause such an uproar? The make-up artist looked at me as though it was all my fault, then stormed off.
‘You’re perfect, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,’ the director said, and we got back to shooting. It was amazing to have another woman stick up for me like that, and I’ve never forgotten it.
Another time, I was booked to shoot a lookbook for an up-and-coming designer. There were barely any snacks or any food on set all day. Lunchtime came, and one of the assistants rushed off to get cheap sandwiches from a local supermarket, dumping them on a spare table.
I was hangry by this point. My legs were shaking, my stomach rumbling. I knew I couldn’t eat the sandwich, because not only would I get severe stomach pains from the gluten, but I’d also bloat out significantly and ruin the photos. The designer had conveniently whisked herself and her team to a nearby posh restaurant, leaving me and the make-up artist alone with packets of junk.
But what else could I eat? There was nothing else available. I opened a couple of sandwich packets and scraped the fillings into my hand. Buttery slices of ham and scrapings of tuna don’t make a great meal, in case you were wondering. I began doing the arithmetic in my head, working out if I’d gone over my calorie allowance for the day.
Lunchtime ended, and it was back to business. I was seething by this point. All of a sudden, a very frail girl arrived.
‘Who’s this?’ the make-up artist asked the designer curiously. ‘I didn’t know we’d be using another model today.’
The designer turned her back to me, as though by doing that, I’d somehow lose my hearing. ‘She’ll be modelling the swimwear,’ she replied, unbothered. ‘Charli’s too curvy for that.’
I was just a UK size six. But the other model was easily a size zero – smaller and more perfect than I’d ever be.
An email appeared in my inbox out of the blue announcing one of the agents had left the agency. My heart dropped. While I wasn’t working all the time like some girls were (the lucky gits), the one woman who booked all the jobs I did get had just upped and left with no explanation whatsoever.
Don’t get me wrong, someone from the agency had to go; the atmosphere had been horrendous for a while. You didn’t have to be a genius to see the agency was divided down the middle, both figuratively speaking and literally. Three people sat on one side of the large office desk, gossiping and bitching, while the head of the agency and another booker sat on the other.
The agency went through interns and assistants like nothing else, who, by the way, were treated appallingly. According to one model, even the head of the agency ran out of the office crying once.
Still, I wasn’t expecting this particular agent to leave. Whether I trusted her fully or not, she was booking girls jobs worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, huge fashion campaigns and the best magazines. She’d always told me I’d get there one day, but now she’d left I wasn’t sure I ever would.
That evening, I spoke to her on the phone. I’d texted her to ask where she’d gone, but, like she usually did, she got me to call her so nothing was written down. It turns out she had left to go to a different, already established agency. She’d grown tired of feeling like she was doing all the work, and, according to her, the agency hadn’t been growing in the way she wanted it to.
She was subtly hinting that the agency would fail without her there. And I believed her
‘You can come with me if you want,’ she said towards the end of the conversation.
How could I possibly say no?
Unfortunately, I couldn’t just up and leave the agency like I wanted. Because I’d been so blinded by the prospect of fame and fortune, I’d hastily skimmed the contract I’d signed when I first joined the agency without studying it properly. (I don’t need to tell you what a stupid mistake that was to make.) As part of my contract, I had a three-month notice period, which meant I couldn’t sign with any other agency until that time was up. Not surprisingly, the head wouldn’t let me leave early, and I had to wait those three months out.
I did absolutely bugger all for those three months while I waited to be freed from my contract. Hours turned into days, where the smallest of tasks, like food shopping or going for a run, became incredibly difficult. It would take me an hour to get ready to leave the house, my mind a jumbled, foggy mess. I’d trail through the new agency’s website on my laptop, watching all the girls I knew move over to join her.
In order to pass the time, I decided to organize a couple of shoots myself. I’d always admired the beauty of the old fifties film stars, their perfectly curled hair and voluptuous bodies, and wanted to do a shoot where I looked the same (well, wishful thinking). Even though their bodies were in complete contrast to mine, and despite the fact that the Brain Deviant told me thin was the only way to look beautiful, I would’ve died to have had an ounce of their beauty.
The shoot was so much fun. The hair, the make-up, the clothes: I looked womanly and I loved it. I learnt to pose my body in a ‘curvier’ way, emphasizing my shape. When I got the photos back and posted them to Instagram, they got more likes and comments than any shoot I’d ever done. My skinnier photos never had the same response.
But looking curvy wasn’t acceptable for models. And so, as always, I went back to starving myself in preparation for the new agency. But as the waiting around became more and more unbearable, for the first time ever I started to think about quitting altogether. So why didn’t I? There was absolutely nothing binding me to modelling. It wasn’t like I was a slave, was it? I’d chosen to go down this route – no one had coerced me into following it through this far. But here’s the problem I now faced. After modelling for over two and a half years, there was a huge gap on my CV. No one wanted to hire me.
Modelling was all I had.
12
Getting a Backbone
It was a freezing-cold day in December when I finally made my way to the new agency. My hands were blue and purple, my nose was running, and the concealer on my face was either cracking or coming off. This was the first time I’d be seeing my agent in three months, and to say I was worried about it was an understatement. God, I hoped I hadn’t put on weight.
I tried topping up my make-up, sitting on a wall outside the agency, hoping they couldn’t see me out of the window. Any attempt to hide blemishes or purple skin wasn’t working. Sigh. Too late now. This was it. I made my way into the new office, and put on a smile.
‘Hello, darling!’ They greeted me excitedly, giving me hugs. I could feel their eyes inspecting me.
‘Right, let’s update your measurements,’ said an intern I hadn’t met before. She didn’t say a word as she measured the tape round my boobs and all the way down to my hips.
The mood suddenly became irritable, and continued to get worse by the time the camera appeared for Polaroids. Sensing the change, I was trying to be upbeat and chatty, but it was quite apparent this wasn’t going well.
‘Sort your hair out,’ someone said. ‘Rough it up a bit.’ I did as I was told. I was trying to relax, but that’s easier said than done with people glaring at you snidely from across the room.
‘I don’t get what’s happened,’ a booker said, scrolling through my images on the camera afterwards. ‘You look so bloated. You can do so much better than this.’
‘I’m a size six, though,’ I replied. I’d never really spoken back before. Where did that come from?
‘It’s not about size. It’s about this,’ she said, and patted her tummy. God – I bloody KNEW I shouldn’t have had that sandwich two days ago! Bloody GLUTEN! BLOOD
Y SCOTT ENCOURAGING ME TO EAT IT WHEN I SAID I DIDN’T WANT IT! Where was my willpower? Why wasn’t I capable of doing the simplest of tasks?!
‘I’m disappointed,’ she said, which was handy, because that’s precisely how I felt, too.
This was all my fault. Nobody had forced me to eat. I had nobody to blame for this bloating other than myself. Losing weight should’ve been easy … so why wasn’t it? Why was losing weight so damn hard, despite the fact I was only eating 1,000 calories a day?
I left without signing a contract. I was told that I should spend the Christmas holidays getting back into shape, and that someone would call me the day the office reopened. Well, what a ho-ho-horrific time that Christmas would be. I guess I’d have to cut down on the pigs in blankets – and then some.
Christmas came and went; joyful and merry it was not. Scott and I spent the majority of it arguing. We were engaged by this point, though the idea of actually having to marry this guy was stressing me out even more. I’d hide my engagement ring in the bathroom cupboard, hoping it would make the prospect disappear – running away from my problems like I always did.
And then January the first came. The next week came. So did the week after that. By the end of the month there was still no news from the agency. Although I was waiting around for their phone call like some kind of needy puppy, there was a huge part of me that didn’t want to hear from them.
The month was almost over, and so, without having had a single call or email, I assumed I wouldn’t be hearing from them again. Some of my friends had moved over with my agent too and I’d heard rumours that they felt they’d made a huge mistake.
And then, just as the month came to a close, a message appeared in my inbox. It was from my old agency. They’d been bought out by a huge American agency, and gained a whole new staff.
You should come in and see us, it read.
What did I have to lose?
Misfit Page 17