Supermodel Forever - Anna Bondareva

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and magazines. The booking manager was a Mexican, Carlos. Carlos was once the lover of John Galliano, and he had many great relationships in show business at all levels.

      “Get ready, it will not be easy here. Carlos prefers American women and men; Russian girls, and Slavs in general, are for him the third or even the fourth category! There are only two Russian models at the agency. But this agency is the best in the city, have no doubt! If they accept you, then they have a plan for you,” explained Ada, as we returned to her small car, parked at the main entrance of the office, Rue de la Paix.

      Nothing to say, it all looked very promising, and the office desk looked extremely professional. It seemed like they only made stars!

      To obtain a new work permit, I would have to leave the country and then return with a new visa from the new employer. I would have to go back to Minsk and cross the border again. This would not be easy though because while I was traveling, the first agency decided to take revenge on me, slandering me in the eyes of Marilyn Gauthier and accusing me of being a drug addict and a prostitute. Thanks to Ada, this complex situation was resolved, and the new agency sent the request for my visa to the French consulate. There was no turning back. The freedom, which I had got used to during few months in Paris had, infected every cell of my young body. The plans I once had to go to the Linguistic College and then study at Oxford seemed far away. Originally, I had wanted to study music, but there was no musician in the family and nobody supported me! The prospect of an independent life in Paris was the only possible means of development, and the deep desire for inner growth was reinforced by self-confidence. My command of English was my asset.

      Chapter 6. Admiral

      A friend close of my family, Adrian, a diplomat, offered to introduce me to Jean-Pierre, a retired admiral. Jean-Pierre invited me to a tea room in the sixteenth arrondissement, where I also met his beloved French wife. Older French women have become a source of inspiration for me. In Paris, as nowhere else, they are neat and refined, incredibly organic. The admiral’s wife was no exception – a little coquette with a perfect hairstyle and manicure. She seemed eternally young!

      “My friend, an archaeologist, is leaving for Egypt on a two year expedition, and she has a beautiful apartment in a quiet pedestrian crossing not far from Parc Monceau. It’s a great place for you, Anna!” she said.

      I was not friends with Mila before leaving for Paris. She was also under contract after a competition, and now she was fighting to keep her place at another agency. We decided to room together to share the costs, but all the documents were in my name. During the week of spring parades devoted to new ready-to-wear collections, Mila was chosen only twice; as for me, I had a dozen fashion shows.

      The girl sank into silence for a few weeks, but there was nothing I could do for her. With her phenomenal stature of about one meter eighty, her blond curls, and her eyes the color of the sky, she had been at the top in her own country. But now, in Paris, things were different. She would soon end up leaving Paris.

      The offer of the flat was a gift of fate. This beautifully furnished apartment, in shades of apricot, was just perfect. Jean-Pierre took care of all the document-related worries and became a financial guarantor.

      It was not easy to rent an apartment in Paris, and the agencies took advantage of it, tripling rents for visiting models and thus ensuring total control over the girls and what was happening in these apartments.

      I enjoyed talking to the admiral. He liked taking public transport and taught me to choose a seat facing in the direction of the moving train when I settled into a metro wagon.

      “It is necessary to walk in life as if with a sail, so that the wind takes you over the waves!” he said.

      Jean-Pierre was absolutely romantic. At seventy, he laughed like a kid, liked to talk about his adventures as a sailor, and dreamed of spending the rest of his days away from the metropolis.

      “Too bad my wife does not share my dreams of leaving Paris! She needs the city, the shops and the theater, but as for me, I need an island!” said Jean-Pierre.

      Looking at the admiral’s wrinkled face; I could easily imagine him like the writer Ernest Hemingway, wearing a sea cap, caressing his purring cat, and lighting up a Cuban cigar!

      Years later, Adrian Mikhailovich told me that Jean-Pierre had realized his dream and left Paris, giving up everything to live in Cuba, and that he had married again. In spite of my fond thoughts towards Madame Jean-Pierre, I was sincerely glad to hear the news.

      Nothing beats human freedom. When we live in permanent struggle trying to compromise with others, we certainly acquire new qualities. But sometimes an opportunity arises and, we can leave the chosen path and embark on a new journey. Such an act of honesty deserves much respect. Jean-Pierre had the right to live his life; he left everything he had to his ex-wife, and he went to live in retirement. I think and I hope that this was absolute happiness for him. After all, only a truly happy person can make the world around him or her more beautiful; the human desire for happiness is therefore a quality inherent in nature, without which the stages of evolution of cosmic consciousness and modern quantum leaps are unimaginable. Happiness should be the norm!

      Chapter 7. Secrets of Madrid’s Court

      “My advice to you, darling, is to think about what you will do next; time passes very quickly. I’m already twenty-five years old, yet it seems like I arrived only yesterday,” said Vera.

      Vera took a sip of whiskey in a crystal glass, and then the pretty blonde lit a cigarette. I looked at her beautiful hands with interest. Platinum blonde, she looked a lot like Sharon Stone. We flew together from Paris to Madrid to present the famous Spanish fashion house Loewe; we were put up in a spacious, luxurious room at a five-star hotel located in the main square of the city. The window of the room overlooked a magnificent fountain.

      “Today, you are their favorite model, but tomorrow, a new star will appear; and you, you will be forgotten. As long as you’re sixteen, think about your future and keep a cool head! And do not relax!” Vera said, very seriously but lightly at the same time.

      Vera’s words were etched in my memory. There was something very natural and spontaneous about this girl. I liked her a lot. Vera taught me how to do a manicure properly; her delicate scent and her white silk night dress just emphasized the natural elegance. Vera could not fall asleep without emptying the mini bar. I was very worried: How would she walk on the podium tomorrow?

      “Do not worry; I only have one dress to wear at the parade tomorrow. And then I fly to Ibiza with Frank,” Vera explained.

      While Vera drank her cocktails, she told me about how the agency worked and who the main protector was.

      “There are people to whom you cannot refuse anything, you follow me? If you want to stay afloat and stay in Paris, be ready to give in. And then, time heals!” she said.

      Time, time … This word came out of Vera’s lips endlessly. It seemed that she escaped with each new sip of alcohol and puff of tobacco.

      “Remember, darling, it is Frank who decides everything. He directs Marilyn herself; she is his courier, understood? Marilyn’s sister does the accounting. Befriend her, smile!” Vera said.

      Vera’s imposing tone, as before, did not clarify the entire puzzle. I did not ask who Frank was and what he was doing, but I remembered his name and decided to put off any disturbing thoughts until the next morning. I woke up often during the night, and in the morning, I found Vera asleep in the armchair near the coffee table with an ashtray filled with butts. I decided not to wake her and went for breakfast in the lobby of the hotel.

      Taking my morning cup of aromatic coffee, I remembered a Harold Robbins’ novel about a modeling agency in Manhattan, which I had read during the summer holidays while I was still in school: in the midst of a multi-stage detective story, passionate

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