Seb introduced me to Louis, a tall elegant man with a piercing blue gaze who was wearing a pristine shirt and perfectly tailored trousers and was casually sockless in his smart shoes. He was one of the founders of the agency. He greeted me as if he’d known me for ever and hadn’t seen me in ages: ‘Ah, Victoire, I’m so happy you’re here! You know, we’re so pleased to be taking you to New York with us. We’re going to do beautiful things together! Have you met Émile?’
He led me over to his partner, who was at the buffet. He had a nice-looking face, was slightly too tanned, perfectly shaved, had very white teeth and was wearing a rather crumpled linen suit and a pair of flip-flops. It was another kind of elegance, which jarred somewhat with the way he spoke: he was in the process of giving Olympe and Madeleine, who hadn’t moved an inch from the buffet, a dressing-down. ‘For fuck’s sake, girls, you have to know what you really want! We’ll be in New York in six weeks, and you go on eating regardless. Stop eating! We’re not going to take you there in that state.’
I felt embarrassed for them and I could see that they were furious that I was witnessing this scene under Seb’s satisfied gaze. But above all, I found it unfair: they were perfectly slim. I wasn’t sure I would be able to do any better.
For the time being, the apple diet was working: I’d weighed myself that morning, and I was touching 56 kilos. And I wasn’t even really hungry! Amid this whirlwind of preparations, the fact was that I didn’t really have time to think of eating. But would I hold firm over the long run? And why had they ordered this gargantuan buffet for a gathering of models who were all supposed to be on a diet?
Émile greeted me very sweetly too and introduced me to Nicolas, the hairstylist who was going to look after me. They were absolutely insistent on having me in the photos and videos that would serve to showcase the agency in New York. And so before I could blink, I found myself being made up and having my hair done all in one go. They took possession of me and all I had to do was let them get on with it.
Nicolas was in ecstasy about the quality of my skin: ‘Wow, Victoire, you remind me of Daria Werbowy. And I know what I’m talking about, I did the Lancôme campaign with her.’ I was flattered. For the last fortnight, I had been browsing through the magazines to familiarise myself with this new world and I’d spotted this sublime, blue-eyed brunette who, according to the papers, was one of the ten highest-paid models in the world. Let’s hope that the comparison would bring me luck. ‘Everybody will just adore a complexion like that! And you’re right for every type of hair and make-up.’
He explained how it worked: a few days before each fashion show, a model is assigned to the make-up artists and hairstylists, and they use her to create the make-up and hairstyle look for the season. ‘After that, they take Polaroids which are posted up in all the dressing rooms so that the other make-up artists and hairstylists can reproduce the look on all the other models in the fashion show.’
I didn’t even have time to ask Nicolas if Daria was nice, because it was now my turn to be filmed. An assistant put me in front of the camera and a huge fan started up, sending my hair, which Nicolas had taken great pains to style, flying all over the place. ‘Go ahead, Victoire! Walk around, use the space, enjoy yourself! Look at me. That’s it! Now to the left. Your eyes, give me your eyes! Great! Laugh! That’s perfect, we’re done!’
It had been short, but intense. And I loved it!
Louis and Émile came over to say goodbye. ‘We’ll see each other again in New York very soon. Between now and then, get plenty of rest. We want you at the top of your game. And don’t whatever you do get tanned! Stay in the shade – that’s a must.’
In the taxi on the way back – thanks, Seb, for sparing us the train – my ‘primary agency’ insisted on this point: white skin, face and body. A tan was out of the question, and no bikini line either. And especially no muscles. ‘Don’t be doing any sport, will you? They want feminine women, not athletes. The only exercise you’re allowed is walking. You even need to watch it with swimming – wide shoulders are not attractive.’ I couldn’t help looking at him with a certain annoyance. ‘Well, what did you think, honey? Being a top model takes effort! It’s a profession.’
That same day, Vladimir, the head booker at Elite, took my parents out to lunch at L’Avenue, a chic restaurant on the Avenue Montaigne. No doubt Dad’s constant calls about each little detail of the contract had started to irritate him. He’d probably decided that it would be easier just to speak to my parents directly and also get to know them a bit in order to put their minds at rest. They must have been used to that at Elite – I was almost old for a debutante. Most of their recruits were not even over 16 and I assumed that coaching the parents was also part of their job. Be that as it may, the contract issues were sorted out and my parents seemed reassured when they saw how serious the agency was about looking after me: ‘In any case, it’s in their interests that no harm comes to you. We trust you, but do be careful, Sweetpea.’
I don’t think it ever occurred to Vladimir to invite me to this lunch too, which was fine by me, because there wasn’t much for me to do in a restaurant. As somebody who worked in the industry, he knew that you didn’t invite a model out to eat.
I returned to Avenue Montaigne accompanied by Seb to drop off my contract and pick up my book and my comp cards. It was Vladimir who greeted me with a wink and pointed to the wall of photos behind him: in the midst of all those other faces, I spotted mine. It took me a moment to realise that this girl, who looked every inch a model like all those girls in the magazines, was actually me. What a strange feeling it was! It was as if I could recognise my outer shell, while knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t me inside. I sensed it was going to take me a while to get used to my new image: of me the model …
The book made an even bigger impression, when I saw Sergei’s photos for the first time. The sexy girl in the oversized shirt was me! The one whose breast was peeping out a bit (I wouldn’t be showing that one to my father), the gentle dreamy one in front of the mirror, the one with the killer look … All of them were me. On the comp card, slipped into the back of the book, it said: ‘Victoire Maçon Dauxerre, 5'10", 33–23–34, brown hair, blue eyes’, complete with the smart Elite logo.
I left feeling a bit dazed, with my comp cards and contract in my bag. A month previously, I was a totally stressed-out girl about to take the entrance exam for Sciences Po, and a month later, I was a totally stressed-out girl who everyone thought was a super-sexy woman and who was on her way to New York fashion week.
The night before we left for Marseille, I went to the cinema with my parents to see Picture Me, a documentary by Sara Ziff, an American model who had filmed her life over the course of a year. She recounts the happy times – the fashion shows, the adorable designers, the incredible hotels – but also the harsh side of this profession: the endless waiting at the castings, the occasional cruelty of the people who dress you, style your hair and do your make-up, the rivalry between the girls, the disjointed lifestyle, the jet-lag, the pressure and the feeling of being treated like an object, or sometimes worse than an object.
As I came out of the cinema, a man came up to me: ‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle. Have you ever thought of becoming a model?’ I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say! He introduced himself, said that he worked for a major agency and that, if I was interested, he would be happy to … I laughed as I told him that I had just signed with Elite. ‘I’m out