Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  In the days that followed, it became clear to me that I couldn’t do anything other than pretend. Pretend that nothing had ever happened. Pretend that Gérald hadn’t forced himself on me. And so I pretended. In my grief, shame, pain, and isolation, it was easier to keep my mouth shut and not tell a soul about the degrading event that had taken place. It was also perfectly clear to me that my future career depended on my keeping this secret deep in the archives, to be guarded with my very life.

  Although my relationship with Gérald changed to one of awkwardness and distance, I remained in the house, in that horrible little room. I became an obedient robot. A shell of myself. There were no more hugs or laughs. We still did coke together, but it was out of a desperate need to medicate myself for what I knew would come next. I soon found out that I was expected to let Gérald fuck me whenever Linda left town. Gérald held all the cards. The only hand I had to play was to stay and survive.

  After that night Gérald’s demands only grew. He still saw my “potential” and insisted I needed to drop even more weight to get the “star look” that he was convinced would send my career into the stratosphere. The look was super skinny, and if I wanted success, that would be the only way to achieve it. Before that night I had been quietly indulging in chocolate croissants and croque-monsieurs, but after that night I didn’t give a shit if I ever ate again.

  To keep me on schedule, I was supplied with a small brown glass vial of cocaine every other day. This was the secret to model weight management. And at that time of depression and desperation, I was happy to receive my vial along with the list of castings for the day. Cocaine became my one friend. It carried me through the times when I felt as if I were running on empty. It fueled the frenetic pace I was expected to keep. I was using around the clock. I was a mess. At just seventeen years of age, I was lucky that my baby face could conceal the stress. From the outside looking in, I was an example of the all-American model striving to get to the top.

  My life was a predictable grind. And the song that was always on my Walkman, Grace Jones’s “Slave to the Rhythm,” summed up my predicament perfectly.

  I’d usually hold off on doing a line until my second cup of espresso, just before lunch. And of course I smoked, too. Coffee, cigarettes, and cocaine—hardly a healthy diet. But it needed to be this model’s diet.

  Whatever else Gérald was, he was an effective agent. Less than a month later, I finally got a break. One that would change everything. I’d been pounding the pavement day after day, bouncing back and forth between photographers and editors. At last I was being sent to the headquarters of Elle France. Louis, my booker at Elite, told me I’d be meeting with the editor in chief, Odile Sarron. Everyone knew Odile. She made careers—and broke them. (She would be credited with discovering many supermodels, including Claudia Schiffer.) This was, Louis assured me, a huge opportunity. The best I’d had since coming to Paris. But he had a warning for me as well. With a wry grin, he told me that Odile had a unique way of running her castings.

  “You’ll have to be nude, Carré. Odile insists on doing it that way. And you’ll be alone with her.”

  That didn’t sound very good. Part of me hoped that Louis was teasing. So I asked a few of the other girls at Elite about Odile. When they heard her name, they quietly and sympathetically wished me good luck. So I steeled myself for the meeting and hoped it was just her effective way of testing a model’s confidence and mettle.

  The day my big break came, the signs were promising. Rather than pouring from morning until night as it had been doing for weeks, the first rain of the day passed quickly. By the time I hit rue du Bac’s Métro stop, the sun was already peeking through the clouds. I recognized this as an auspicious sign.

  Although I was no expert, I had acquired a little familiarity with the subway system by now. To get to the Elle offices, I would need to change trains at my favorite station, a place I called my “musical wonderland.” As I got off one train and hurried to another across the platform, I stopped, mesmerized by a group of African drummers whose rhythm echoed through the underground chamber. I tossed my extra coins into a hat, waved, and smiled my gratitude, feeling sure that their symphony of sound was the second good-luck charm of the day.

  I arrived at Elle five minutes before my eleven o’clock appointment. With my portfolio tucked securely under my arm, I walked through the doors of the offices and announced myself.

  “My name is Carré, and I’m here to see Miss Sarron.”

  The girls at the front desk giggled, making little effort to be discreet. Jesus, I thought. What next?

  I was escorted into a large, bustling sitting room. It wasn’t entirely private—assistants were snapping Polaroids of the newest designer collections before they were to be sent out to various shoot locations. As I looked on enviously, they wheeled rack after rack of clothes out into the hallway. I needed a fucking break so badly I could taste it. I got up off the couch and began to walk around. As I looked at the photos on the wall, I felt someone enter the room behind me.

  My back was to the door but I knew in an instant I wasn’t alone. Whoever was there was watching me. I took a deep breath, turned, and saw a slender woman with blond hair and tanned skin. As I met her eyes, she brought her cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. This was Odile. She was striking in both her grace and her power.

  The legendary editor exhaled.

  “Well. Carré Otis. So nice to meet you at last.” Her accent was thick, her voice deep. “Gérald has told me so much about you,” she said with a wink, making me instantly cringe. Great, I thought. What the hell has he said? That little eye play suggested she knew far more than I wanted her to know. It made my skin crawl.

  “Um . . . yes, it’s . . . um, nice to meet you as well?” It came out more as a question than as a greeting. Whoops. I was screwing this up already. I held myself perfectly still and waited. I was acutely aware of how much smoke there was in the room and had to stifle an urge to cough. Sarron said nothing. She just looked at me. I had a good idea of what was coming next, but I needed to say something first. I couldn’t very well start undressing right away. “So . . . you want to see my book, right?” Shit. I sounded like a hopeful twelve-year-old.

  “No. I don’t care about that. I have already seen your book. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” Odile appraised me as she spoke, her eyes taking everything in.

  “So you want me to try on an outfit?” I felt like an idiot. I seemed incapable of saying anything that didn’t come out in the form of a question.

  Odile smiled. “No, my dear. I want you to get undressed. I need to see your entire body.” She took another drag on her cigarette and then sent a column of smoke my way. Her eyes were locked on mine.

  Well, I couldn’t say I hadn’t been warned. I looked around, hoping that Odile would volunteer to leave so I could take my clothes off in private. But she didn’t move; she just watched me in a way that made me feel undressed already.

  There was no obvious changing room nearby. The racks of clothes behind which I might have hidden had already been wheeled out. No one had told me I’d have to strip in front of her, too. I hoped she didn’t expect me to do it artfully as well. I fought the urge to giggle. I was always laughing at inappropriate times, and this moment was the very definition of inappropriate.

  “Um, okay. I . . . uh . . . I guess I’ll just get undressed.” Hey, at least I’d stopped asking questions. I turned my back to Odile, thinking it might provide at least a moment’s protection from her penetrating gaze. But of course that was just plain silly. This was her thing. Clearly, she loved watching girls squirm. Fuck it, I thought. Two can play at this game. Pissed off that I’d been placed in this awkward position, I turned around and stood tall. My timidity vanished. I could feel the certainty and the confidence—more like cockiness—surge through me. I was five feet ten inches of upright, proud, seventeen-year-old attitude. If Odile wanted to see what I was made of, I would show her every last inch. I was going to ge
t this job even if this was the way to do it.

  For a moment we stood there, glowering at each other. Then she raised her eyebrows, cocking her head in surprise. I could see the wheels turning in her mind. Boldly holding her gaze with my own piercing look, I pulled my shirt over my head, removed my bra, dropped my blue jeans, and took my underpants off.

  “And here you are, mademoiselle,” I said brazenly, doing one professional pivot, giving Elle’s notorious French editor a chance to see my body from every angle. And, I thought, giving her just enough time to want to print everything she saw.

  Meeting Odile’s eyes once again, I smiled coyly. I reached down and in a few quick movements put my clothes back on. I picked my portfolio up off the floor and strode over toward her, extending my hand.

  “Such a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Sarron. Hope to see you again soon.”

  Her jaw was still on the floor as I turned to leave.

  By day’s end I got the call. Odile wanted me. For a cover shoot: French Elle’s April 1986 edition. I’d broken through at last.

  But that break, as important as it was to my career, still didn’t solve the serious problems occurring in the flat in rue du Bac. My days had been passing in a blur: castings and go-sees, cocaine and espresso, frantic and usually unsuccessful efforts to avoid being alone with Gérald. And then the unthinkable: Linda and Gérald announced their engagement. I couldn’t fucking believe it! While I had endured subsequent nighttime visits from Gérald, he had proposed to Linda. I wasn’t jealous; I loathed the man’s touch. After that first night, I was scared that if I didn’t find some way to reconcile his carnal expectations and my dire need to just survive I would be done, completely washed up in Paris as well as New York. His eagerness to marry Linda made it clear how little I meant to him. I wasn’t even worth the smallest degree of courtesy and respect. He had always intended to marry her. And he fucked me all the while. I was confused and furious. And I was still only seventeen. It was evident then that my youth, inexperience, and vulnerability made me such easy prey. It was devastating on so many levels.

  After announcing his engagement, Gérald made one more attempt to come into my room. I remember feeling a wave of dismay as I sat there in my doll-size surroundings with an adult-size anguish over everything that had passed. I finally found my voice. I found my “No” and refused to let him touch me. There he was in that tiny room, staring at me with both lust and rage. And there I was standing my ground, prepared to fight with whatever I had left.

  I said it again. “No. No. Not anymore.”

  Gérald’s face screwed up into a hateful mask. “Do you know what it is you are saying to me?” he hissed. “Do you know who you are rejecting?” Then he asked if I understood the implications of my decision,

  and despite my fear and anger I almost laughed. “Yes,” I said defiantly. “I understand.”

  Gérald, of course, didn’t hold back his bitter laughter as he turned on his heel, and left the room. Not one more word was said.

  The next day I was moved out. But my career was already on the rise. I knew I didn’t need to let Gérald touch me anymore in order to make it. And not long after getting my own tiny flat, I received a call. I was going on location with Elle to the other side of the world: Tahiti. It seemed like a dream come true . . . until I heard that Phil Stadtmiller, the photographer who’d made my first day in Paris so miserable, would be shooting.

  Things went wrong from the very start. While we traveled from Paris to LAX in business class, the Elle crew’s rowdiness made the trip seem endless. By the time we landed, I was ready to scream. It didn’t help that Phil, who had never spoken a nice word to me, was especially chilly and distant. We had a six-hour layover in Los Angeles before flying on to Papeete, and it was at LAX that a second model, Daria Jasari, joined our flight.

  When Daria stretched her lean form to place her carry-on bag into the overhead locker, all of business class turned around to stare at her ass. Seriously, she had the best ass I’d ever seen. None of us could take our eyes off her. Phil was even more interested than the rest of us, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out why. Daria plopped down in the seat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder, her hand caressing his leg. They were lovers. My slightly-less-perfect ass didn’t seem to fit on this trip. I began to have a sinking feeling.

  Tahiti was everything I’d imagined. A sultry humidity hung in the air as we stepped out onto the tarmac. Tall palms swayed in the warm breeze. We were greeted with gardenias and treated like royalty. We were, after all, on a shoot for Elle. It seemed to make us the island’s newest stars.

  Our hotel was a Club Med on Bora-Bora. It was extraordinary—fragrant flowers everywhere, tiki torches lighting the walkways from dusk to dawn, and a mile-long sandy beach located just steps from our rooms. As soon as we hit the lobby, sweet alcoholic drinks were pressed into our hands and we were whisked to our accommodations. A beautiful Tahitian woman with waist-length hair gave me a tour. She spoke to me in French, and I proudly responded. After several months in Paris, I spoke French fairly well.

  The rooms were clustered together in a compound by the water’s edge. Phil had the most remote room, perched right over the sea, accessible only by a long wooden walkway. I saw Daria carrying her bag along that walkway and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d been told I’d be sharing a room with her. The one advantage of having her in Phil ’s room was that I wouldn’t have anyone in mine.

  I was exhausted from the two long flights, and yearned to take a bath and go to bed. The plan, however, was to wash up quickly and meet for dinner together. The welcome drink had turned out to be stronger than I’d thought. I felt woozy, but I pushed through anyhow. I needed to be with the others for our first meal on the island. Protocol.

  I made my way to the outdoor dining hall. A warm, soft breeze and the sounds of Bob Marley met me as I arrived. Phil, joint in hand, was holding court around a large, rectangular table. He looked up at me as I approached. Sneering, he leaned over and made what seemed to be a snide remark to his assistant. I couldn’t hear what it was over the reggae music, but I knew that it couldn’t be anything good. What the hell did this guy have against me? What had I done to him? For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe he knew about Gérald and me.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s finally joining us,” Phil declared in a much louder voice. “Please,” he said with false courtesy, “do sit down.”

  With that, he pulled Daria toward him, her tiny minidress slipping off her shoulders to reveal the swell of her young breast. She might have been a bit older than me, but not by much. Phil took a long hit off the joint and pressed his lips against Daria’s, exhaling flamboyantly into her mouth. Smoke curled around their heads. Daria coughed, sputtered, and finally giggled. I realized that everyone else was already stupid high. I felt totally out of place, an outcast once more.

  “Carré, Daria is a top model in New York City. Did you know that?”

  Fuck. The asshole wasn’t wasting any time in picking on me.

  “No, Phil, I didn’t.” I really hadn’t known much about her at all.

  “Well, you should. Where the fuck are you from anyways?”

  “Ummm . . . San Francisco.” I wished I had some snappy retort.

  Phil snorted. “Funny, I thought they made sure the models coming out from San Francisco knew what they were doing. But you don’t know a fucking thing about moving in front of the camera.”

  I was starting to tremble. He’d been cold before, but now it was obvious he wanted to start a fight. Sure, he was drunk and stoned as could be, but still. This was getting ugly.

  “Oh, wait. I know why you got this job. I think it had to do with you fucking a certain somebody . . . right? Because I sure as fuck didn’t hire you.” He was snarling now, his eyes red and hateful.

  My bottom lip twitched, and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I knew I was going to blow. Just as I was about to stand up and let him have it, one of the crew
members placed his hand on mine and said, “Come on, Phil. Leave her alone.”

  Phil stood up, his drink spilling across the table.

  “Stay the fuck out of this!” he yelled. Spit spraying from his mouth, he turned and shook his finger at me. “You stupid little SF bitch. Don’t you come here and think you can give me attitude! I do not like you. Don’t know why, and I don’t even fucking care.” He wobbled on his feet and stumbled back.

  I was terrified. The tears were streaming down my face by now. I stood up and ran, ran down through the maze of torchlit walkways and kept running till I reached the water’s edge. I had no idea why this explosion had occurred. Phil might not have liked me, but it didn’t explain why he was filled with so much rage. What the hell had I done to him? More important, how could I ever work with him in the morning? I wanted out, off Tahiti as soon as possible. I was desperate and scared. I had no choice but to call Gérald.

  Back in my room, I phoned the hotel operator and asked to place a call to Paris, France. “Madame,” the operator asked, “do you know what time it is there?”

  “I don’t care. Please put the call through.” After a long silence, I heard the ringing on the other end of the line. Fresh tears began to roll down my face. I was so homesick. And for better or worse, Paris was home. I heard someone pick up the receiver and fumble with it, as if unsure of which end to talk into. I had awakened Gérald.

  “Oui? Hello?” I heard his familiar thick voice.

  “Gérald, it’s me,” I sobbed into the phone. “It’s Carré.”

  “What is wrong? Why are you calling me?”

  “Something . . . something terrible happened.” I could barely get the words out. “It’s Phil. He was drunk and yelling at me. He hates me. Please, Gérald, get me out of here. Get me back to Paris. I can’t stay. I won’t stay here.”

  Gérald paused. I heard him take a deep breath and knew he was annoyed.