Size Zero: My Life as a Disappearing Model - Victoire Dauxerre

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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’).

      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.

       The Cathedral of Fashion

      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.

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