Size Zero: My Life as a Disappearing Model

He was increasingly getting on my nerves – all this talk about himself and the constant name-dropping. It smacked of lies, his whole spiel about being the African diplomat’s son who’d wanted to study at Sciences Po (what a coincidence!) but had ultimately decided to ‘coach his girls’ instead. A pathetic mixture of fake bling, dreams and drudgery. But we were talking about Elite, after all, and he was saying he could get me in with them!

We did some photos, or rather ‘Polaroids’, as they’re called – it used to be the only way they had of creating instant snaps. Nowadays, they’re digital photos of course, but without any retouching or make-up or anything else, and he was going to use them to present me to Elite. In the Vogue magazines scattered on the coffee table, he showed me the basics of a pose: hair tied back to show off the face, head slightly inclined and looking straight ahead. ‘Show intent in your gaze. We need to get the impression that you’re thinking. And half open your lips, so that you don’t look withdrawn.’ One side of me wanted to take the piss out of him, while the other was concentrating like mad on trying to follow all his instructions at once. Seb was right: posing is a professional art. But did I really want it to be my profession?

When the time came to leave, I told him I would think about it.

My parents and I had a long discussion at home that evening. Dad was really into the idea: ‘Do you realise what an opportunity this is, Victoire? You’re going to be travelling around the world to the most beautiful places and earning loads of money for doing not very much. You won’t get another opportunity like this. You’re young, so you can afford to give it a go for a year.’

He was right: what if it was the chance of a lifetime?

But Mum was more hesitant: if I got into Sciences Po or one of the other colleges, was it really a good idea to turn them down? Of course what Seb was offering me was an amazing experience, but wouldn’t I get tired of it very quickly, as I did with everything else? Wouldn’t I regret it? Or, worse still, would I hold it against her and Dad for allowing me to make such a bad choice?

I went to bed with Seb’s words whirling around in my head – all the magazine images he’d foisted on me, all the professional jargon he’d spouted and all the illustrious names he’d dropped into the conversation: New York, Tokyo, London; Polaroids, photo shoots, ‘books’, castings; Dior, Galliano, Céline, Castelbajac; Claudia, Natalia, Kate … If I didn’t give it a go, would I spend the rest of my life regretting it?

The following morning, I called him: yes, I did want to meet Elite. Just to see.

Something Vintage, Something Classy (#u08ca050e-da91-50a4-bbaf-b3dd02dbcfc9)

From that moment on, everything happened very quickly. It was already the end of June. At the start of August, I was off with Alexis, Léopold and my parents for a grand trip along the western seaboard of the United States to celebrate my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, and the fashion week castings started at the beginning of September in New York. So I had barely a month in which to: get myself ready for meeting Elite, meet Elite, think it over, negotiate and sign a contract (or not), learn the techniques and the primary rules of the profession and get used to the idea.

Seb arranged an appointment for just three days later. ‘I’d already spoken to them about you. When they saw the Polaroids, they said, “Bring her here immediately!”’

Immediately, fair enough, but not before I’d found my ‘model’s outfit’: ultra-tight skinny black jeans to show off my legs to best effect; a black Petit Bateau tank top to flatter my top half, and then ‘something vintage and something classy, that’s what creates the magic balance, baby’. And so off I went with Seb to the Marais for a shopping spree. He picked me out a disgusting khaki jacket, which reeked of second-hand, but which he found ‘subliiiime, exactly what we’re looking for’. So what ‘we’ were looking for was this shapeless and nauseating potato sack to hide my curves? ‘Trust me, it’s what I do for a living. Just wait until we find the shoes – you’ll see.’

For the shoes, we got the metro to Franklin D. Roosevelt on the Champs-Élysées and he led me directly to Balmain – it was the end of the sales, and we’d be able to find some ‘bargains’ for ‘barely’ €400. I’d never spent such a sum of money on shoes! I started browsing around the shop, thinking that he must have some faith in me if he was prepared to spend that much on a pair of shoes. He rejected all my choices and then triumphantly held aloft a faintly absurd pair of black patent leather sandals, featuring a complex jumble of zips and 7-inch heels. They were divine, but doubtless completely unwearable. I decided to give them a go nevertheless. It took a while to figure out how to get into them, but when I finally stood up to walk around, they turned out to be a thing of luxurious wonder! Contrary to all my expectations, they were actually quite comfortable. And even if I’d have to get used to it, I was acquitting myself quite well at these vertiginous heights. After all, I’d spent years playing the little princess in shoes borrowed from Mum, who’s always been very feminine and unafraid to wear high heels in the presence of my father, who is 6 foot 4. I’d never have believed it before trying them on, but Seb was right: these shoes were the touch of class and glamour that perfectly complemented my horrible military jacket. ‘Shall I pay half, and your mother makes up the rest?’ So nice of you, Seb, to get me just the one shoe! I only hoped my parents would be willing to chip in for this beautiful gift.

We got the metro again, me with my incredible sandals wrapped in silk paper and nestling in an understated little bag featuring the Balmain logo, and Seb in a growing state of excitement and issuing an incessant stream of instructions and advice about my appointment in two days’ time at Elite. In a nutshell, I had to be smiley and relaxed and give the impression that I was pleased to be there. And above all, I had to let him do the talking and I had to make an amazing impression, because he’d spent days and days banging on about me and had managed to convince them that I was the supermodel of tomorrow. And the proof that he had managed to convince them was that a certain Flo, who only worked with the top-flight models, would be taking care of me and not Solène, who was in charge of the new faces. ‘I want you to set off like a rocket, do you understand? I want you to get the best castings and the best fashion shows right away, without going through the “beginner” phase.’

I listened without saying a word, because that was what he seemed to expect of me. I was too well brought up to tell him that I was perfectly capable of taking all these instructions on board without him having to repeat them endlessly. I’d understood the basic deal, and even the finer detail, even though he had overlooked one crucial point that didn’t even seem to have occurred to him: I hadn’t yet decided if I would sign or not. Contrary to what he seemed to think, it wasn’t a done deal. For a start, Elite had to be interested in me. And I had to be interested in them too.

Before I returned home to show off my combat outfit to the whole family, we stopped off at a café to see Olympe and Madeleine, two other ‘Seb girls’ he’d talent-spotted a few months previously and who I would be sharing an apartment with if I went to New York in September. I listened distractedly to the ramblings of our mentor, who was intending to turn us into the ‘Galactic’ (sic) superstars: three supermodels who would take the upcoming fashion weeks by storm. I listened a bit more attentively, but without really following everything, to his convoluted explanations about why he had decided (and what about me, when did I get to decide?) that in New York I would be represented by a small agency called Silent (‘much more efficient and better organised’) and in Milan by D’ Management (‘much better established than Elite in Italy’).

The girls seemed nice. While Seb tucked into a huge croque-monsieur and downed Coca-Cola, I sipped on a freshly squeezed orange juice. My two (potential) flatmates were drinking Diet Coke. Seb was ribbing the girls about the lack of visible progress they were making with their respective diets: ‘New York is in two months, girls. And by the looks of it, you’re still a long way from a size 6.’* (#ulink_5aada6f9-a96e-56e1-9bfd-b283799ed8ba) I was a long way from that too. Not quite as far away as they were, to look at them, but even so. What with splitting with Hugo and revising for my exams, I’d lost weight – I could feel it when I put on my clothes. My size 8s were becoming a bit loose, but I’d never worn size 6! I was going to have to knuckle down …

That evening at home I told them about my ‘Pretty Woman’ day. I paraded in front of my parents and brothers in my Balmain sandals and my camouflage jacket, which I then washed in the machine several times to try to get rid of the mouldy second-hand smell. I almost forgot about my Bac results, which had come through that day: I missed the top grade by just 0.3 points due to a marking error in the sports exam. I was going to have to appeal, because without that top grade I wouldn’t be eligible for the oral entrance exam for Sciences Po (which would give me a second chance to get in if I failed the written exam). I started to cry from fatigue, shame and anger. My father was certain that I would be given the top grade after my appeal and wanted to celebrate my results with a bottle of champagne which he had put on ice for the occasion, but I refused any kind of celebration. I was terribly disappointed and annoyed, and I wanted to forget all about it.

Before he went to bed, Alex came into my bedroom and we had a long chat. He never expresses his emotions, but I could sense that he was both very proud and very worried. Just like I was.

The following day, Seb paid for me to get my hair cut by ‘his’ hairdresser. This was a novelty for me, because from the year dot I’d always cut my own hair. And it was with this new look – which wasn’t so very different from the old one, in truth – that I went to visit Granddaddy and Nan, who were not exactly over the moon about the adventure that was opening up before me. And yet my grandmother should have been happy for me – she had always been so elegant and when she was young she used to draw such pretty fashion sketches! She’d always loved fashion and even worked as a fashion designer before deciding to pack it in and look after her four children instead. But she was a lover of literature too, and she couldn’t understand why I’d choose New York over trying to get into college. Granddaddy, for his part, was simply worried: his little Victorinette all alone in New York, surrounded by the sharks? Was it really a sensible thing to do? I reassured them as best I could before going home.

We were all very excited. Dad suggested eating out to celebrate. But if I wanted to become a model, I was going to have to forget about eating out. Seb said I was ‘perfect’, but the girls had made a point of saying that a size 8 was still much too much.

So we didn’t go out to eat. I spent a sleepless night, and the next day I headed off to Elite.

* (#ulink_ad88c23a-f84f-52e3-96a7-cc8ffe7ff3f8) Sizes given throughout are UK sizes.

The Cathedral of Fashion (#ulink_a166452e-fc53-52e7-a42e-09852a500fdf)

I did exactly what Seb told me to do: skinny black jeans, black tank top, horrible khaki jacket, ballet shoes, and my Balmain sandals in my bag. My hair nicely done, no make-up at all and sweating profusely, all got up as I was in my ‘model gear’ instead of sporting the nice light dress which this early July heatwave called for. I met up with him at Saint-Michel and we jumped into a deliciously air-conditioned cab, where my body could get back down to a normal temperature. Seb spent the time drumming into me once again what he’d been repeating incessantly for the last two days: be natural, show willing, keep quiet and do what you’re asked to do. Amen.

It was one of those wonderful Haussmann buildings on Avenue Montaigne, just next to the Plaza Athénée. In the coolness of the entrance hall, I sat down on a step to put on my shoes, which was a whole palaver in itself, what with all the straps and my feet all clammy and swollen with the heat. Seb was watching me with a hint of irritation. ‘You’re going to have to work on your technique, aren’t you?’ Once I was perched on my heels, it seemed like he only came up to my navel – he was the ridiculous one. The first challenge: to stabilise myself at this improbable height. I was tottering a bit, but managed my first steps without breaking the heels or my ankles. Another sidelong glance from Seb: ‘Upstairs, you don’t want to be tripping, do you? It’s a minimum requirement, if you want to make a good impression.’ Thanks for the confidence boost, that’s just what I needed.

We took the lift up without a word. First floor, second floor, third floor – I felt the stress rising up my legs and clutching at my innards the higher we went. The door opened, and my heels sank into the thick, dark red carpet. There was polished wood panelling and, at the end of the corridor, a large elegant door bearing the same shiny golden plaque as on the façade, engraved with the word Elite in very sober and stylised black letters. Behind it, you could hear the hubbub of busy people. I had stage fright, like in the theatre just before walking on stage, when you can hear the buzz in the auditorium. Take a deep breath. Think of my parents and my brothers. Of Granddaddy, Nan and even Plume. Think about everything that makes me strong and makes me feel good. And go for it, like diving into the big pool.

We buzzed, and the door opened onto a rather spacious reception area. Seb nodded at the receptionist, who recognised him and smiled back. She ushered us in with a wave of her hand. I could feel my heart pounding furiously. We entered a huge, bright white room, with light streaming in through tall curtainless windows. In the middle stood a gigantic black table which people were milling around, speaking French and English in hushed tones, their eyes fixed on their computer screens and their phones stuck to their ears. On the right-hand wall, there was a bookshelf full of perfectly aligned books with names written in capital letters on their spines. And covering the walls there were hundreds of images in neat rows: first names, faces, silhouettes and measurements. These are the ‘comp cards’, which models use as super-size business cards. They’re a sort of snapshot of who they are, with the contact details of the agency.

The place was stunning – I felt as if I were in a cathedral, a cathedral of fashion, beauty and luxury. And this was perhaps where, in a few moments’ time, my baptism of fire was going to take place. I wanted them to take me on; I wanted to be a part of this amazingly big, bright, white world; I wanted a piece of the condensed and effervescent energy that this place exuded. Providing they liked me.

Nobody was taking any notice of us. We walked across the room towards a small brunette wearing big glasses who was sitting at the end of the table. Her voice was deep and carried authority. I focused on walking with a casual, self-assured air, trying not to tremble. Seb greeted the woman with a ‘Hi, Flo,’ and she turned towards me. It was all happening very quickly. Just before she replied with a ‘Hello’ and a big toothy smile – almost too toothy, in fact – I saw her gaze slide attentively from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, and then back up again just as attentively, until it met me full in the eyes. Still smiling, she said, ‘Hello, Victoire.’

‘Hello,’ I replied, holding out my hand. She shook my hand, though I immediately sensed that a handshake was a bit out of place here.

And then she turned to her colleagues and loudly announced, ‘Look over here, everybody! This is Victoire, the new girl! Look how beautiful she is!’

They all glanced across to size me up in their turn, said hello to me very politely and then returned to their business, as if I’d already left.

And yet I was still there, standing up to my full height of 5 foot 10 inches, plus an extra 7 inches thanks to my Balmain shoes, in front of Flo, who was sitting in her armchair and speaking to me politely but firmly: ‘So, you’d like to work with us? How did you meet Seb? What do you do in life? Could you take off your jacket?’ Phew! It was a huge relief to finally take off my horrible parka, which I’d been slowly dissolving in. Meanwhile, Flo was looking me up and down again. ‘Would you turn round?’ I felt like a cow at a cattle market. A piece of meat being scrutinised and weighed before being devoured. ‘Perfect. I’m going to introduce you to Vladimir, and then you can go and do the Polaroids with Nicolas.’

Did that mean that they were taking me on? Without discussion or negotiation or anything? She had said the ‘new girl’ as if I were already part of the team. And weren’t they even going to ask me for my opinion? Seb seemed to be in seventh heaven, as if he weren’t in the least surprised. As if everything had already been decided, without me having had any say in the matter.

Flo introduced me to Vladimir, the short man with the nice smile and the Serbo-Croat accent sitting on her right. He was the ‘head of the bookers’ – the agents who are in touch with the casting directors and send the models to the famous castings and other appointments, and then negotiate and sign their contracts. He greeted me with a ‘My darrrling, how beautiful you are. Come along, I’m going to intrrroduce you to the boss.’ I followed him towards an immense room with huge windows that gave onto a massive balcony overlooking the Avenue Montaigne. In the middle of it was an enormous black desk, behind which was sitting the only man in the whole agency who was wearing a suit and tie. ‘Gérrrald, let me intrrroduce you to Victoirrre, the new girl.’

He looked up at me. ‘Hello, sweetie.’

‘Hello.’

And he buried his nose back in his papers.

Leaving his office, his ‘sweetie’ was asking herself what she was doing there and if she really wanted to get mixed up with all these people, who were seemingly from another planet.

Nicolas, a very thin and very agitated young man, closed the large doors to the boss’s office so that he could photograph me in front of them. A first profile, a second profile, from the front, from the back, hair swept back over the ear. I remembered what Seb had told me two days earlier: a look of intent in the eyes, head slightly lowered, lips half-open.

Once the Polaroids were done, we went to the other end of the corridor, where a very cool-looking woman – huge trendy glasses, black jeans, big-brand trainers and immaculate haircut – greeted me without a smile and without introducing herself. ‘Walk!’

I did as I was told, putting as much grace into it as I could.

‘Again!’

Going down the corridor for the second time, I tried to catch her eyes, but she was staring at my bottom, not my eyes. At my arms and my legs. The less she said, the more I felt I was moving like a robot.

‘OK. You’re going to have to take walking lessons.’

Walking lessons? Did such things exist? I was about to come up with a reply, when I realised that she wasn’t talking to me but to Seb. Still without addressing me directly, she took a tape measure out of her pocket and came over to take my measurements. Chest, waist and hips, or rather the fat of the buttocks! I sensed that it was a crucial moment, but I had no idea what score I needed to pass the examination. ‘34, 25, 36.’ Was that good or not? Seb said nothing.

Flo appeared and asked, ‘Well, then?’ The figures were repeated to her. She sighed. ‘OK, we’ll lie, because you’re never going to get into the clothes – you absolutely have to be close to 34. We’ll put 34 and reduce the rest too. In any case, it’s eight weeks away and you’ll have more than enough time to lose it.’ She looked at me, giving me another of her toothy smiles. She was smiling, but in reality she wasn’t smiling. She was giving me a very strict order. ‘For the photo shoots, size 8 is fine and you can put some back on. But for the shows, you have to get into size 4 to 6. OK?’

OK.

Before we left, Vladimir asked me to sit down at his desk – what a relief it was to finally take the weight off my feet! – and handed me a contract in a classy white sleeve engraved with the Elite logo. He also reeled off a list of the things that I needed to do as a priority: sign the contract in question, do a photo session with one of their photographers so that they could print my comp card and put together an initial portfolio, and arrange walking lessons. ‘You’re rrreally too beautiful, my darrrling. Do a good job in New York. We’ll be seeing each other again for Parrris fashion week.’