Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

“No. Carré, this is your problem. Why would he hate you? What did you do to him? Phil is my friend, and he is a professional. I thought you were as well. You are staying on that shoot, you are not leaving, and you are going to do your job.” He was lecturing me, getting more annoyed by the minute.

  I began to wail. How could Gérald leave me hanging like this? But then again, what did I expect? I took a deep breath and slammed the phone back down into the cradle. I didn’t have anything else to say. I didn’t know where to turn. And at precisely that moment, I heard a knock on the door .

  “Carré? It’s Carlo. Are you all right? Open up.”

  Carlo. One of the crew members. The kind man who had put his hand on mine and tried to calm Phil down. What perfect timing. I wanted a friend badly. I opened the door and stood there, still crying. Carlo stepped into the room and wrapped me in his arms. “There, there. It’s going to be okay.” I cried harder. Damn, I needed an ally, someone to help get me through this trip. I was so grateful he had come to my door. I clung to him.

  Carlo then took me by the hand and led me over to the bed. He lifted my chin and slowly started to kiss my eyes, my cheeks, my tears, and my mouth. I was stunned. I couldn’t speak. He pulled back, looked me calmly in the eye, and threw me down onto the bed.

  “Wait, wait a minute,” I protested. “What are you doing?”

  Carlo climbed on top of me, straddling me. “No, no, you’re okay. This is okay, Carré. I can help you.” He started to kiss me again as I tried to wriggle free. He was over six feet tall, heavy, and very drunk. Getting him off me wasn’t working. I was pinned.

  “Please. Please don’t.” I started to cry again. Carlo ignored my sobs and held me down, pressing his mouth onto mine, his hard-on thrusting angrily against my thigh. He then pulled himself up onto one hand and slid my dress aside, shoving his other hand into my underwear. I gasped. And as hard as I could, I kneed him in the balls.

  With a loud groan, he flew back and staggered for a moment, nearly falling. I ran to the door.

  “You asshole!” I cried. “You fucking asshole scum!”

  Carlo was furious. Pointing a finger at me, his face a contorted mask of pain and rage, he said, “You bitch. You are as stupid as Phil said. They all bet me I could come in here and get in your pants. You stupid fucking little girl. Now you’re really fucked.”

  Mortified, I ran to the bathroom and locked the door behind me as Carlo stumbled out into the night. A wave of nausea came out of nowhere, and I started retching into the sink, my body heaving. The sickness passed. And what replaced it was a scream, a scream like I’d never unleashed before, one that rumbled up from my belly and roared out of my mouth. I just stood there in the bathroom and screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore. The girl that I was, the despair I felt, and the sound of those anguished cries are with me to this day. Eventually I went numb. I stumbled into bed and into a short, dreamless, restless sleep.

  In makeup the next day, a redheaded artist wagged her finger at me. In her heavy French accent, she said, “So I heard you got poked last night.” She began to cackle. I wanted to die.

  But I didn’t die. I finished the job in Tahiti and made the long trip back home to France. Just a few weeks later, I sat gazing out the window of a train traveling from Paris to Milan, watching a brilliant summer sun dip slowly across a golden sky. Whatever my next job in Italy might hold for me, at least the start of the journey there was glorious. I was captivated by the sprawling, spectacular countryside in the fading evening light. The lingering glow of dusk was reassuring. I nestled down into my seat, alone with my thoughts and the darkening landscape outside. Good things will happen, I told myself, Good things will happen.

  The truth was, jobs were scarce for me in France. I had thought that the Elle cover would lead to near-constant work, but it hadn’t turned out like that. A series of amazing photographers told me how much they loved my look, but despite their praise and encouragement I wasn’t getting bookings. Gérald and I had nearly stopped speaking; he was busy with Linda, and I sensed that they both wanted me out of the way. And so it didn’t come as much of a surprise when I was told that I was being sent to Milan.

  Milan was—and still is—one of the world’s great fashion capitals, ranking only just behind (and some say ahead of) Paris and New York. Gucci, Valentino, Versace, Prada, Armani—they were all headquartered there. And where there are major fashion labels, there are also many jobs for models. I hadn’t made it in New York, nor had I caught on as I’d hoped to in Paris. Elite assured me that the third time would be the charm and that Milan would be the city in which I’d break through at last.

  In Milan I’d be assigned to a different agency. I was told it was one of the biggest and the best; if anyone could get me work, they could. I was ready and willing and hopeful, even though it meant another move, another country, and another language with which to contend.

  Milan is not a lovely city per se. It’s huge, crowded, and industrial. Tourists looking for charm are better off in Venice or Florence. But the ­people I would meet there were warm and friendly. They were always eager to help. It was unlike Paris in that way, and as I walked the streets in the bright summer sun, sensing that uniquely Italian enthusiasm for life and pleasure, I couldn’t help but feel optimistic.

  Another difference between the two cities was the quality of model housing. My home in Milan was not like my home in Paris. The agency put me up in a small pensione filled with other models. It was cheap and close to all the main transit lines, but it was utterly devoid of any character. Compared to Gérald’s gorgeous apartment, this was quite a letdown. On the other hand, there was a benefit to my tiny new digs: no Gérald! That benefit couldn’t be underestimated. The view from my little room was limited to the neighboring building. There was one small bed, a scratchy but clean set of sheets, and a bathroom. It was sparse, but it was mine.

  The pensione was the temporary residence for models from all around the world, most of them as young as I was (some even younger). We were kids, really— kids from everywhere. Walking through the lobby was like walking into a major casting. Everywhere you looked, tall and gangly girls and boys were pacing the floors or sprawled on couches, smoking or chewing gum. The combined smell of cigarettes, bubble gum, and perfume seemed to have soaked into the walls. The girls wore denim cutoffs, tank tops, and calf boots; the boys were all trying to look dangerous, with torn jeans, wifebeaters, and stubbly faces. We were poor—or to put it another way, not everyone who was hungry was necessarily dieting.

  Although we all weren’t repped by the same agency, many of us had the same list of castings to get to each day. Sometimes we took cabs together, sometimes we took the bus, but we always shared our stories. And in Milan our stories tended to center on one topic: the Italian Playboy Club.

  I suspect that every country in the world has a small group of rich young boys who want to grow up and be playboys, living lives of excess and leisure and relentless womanizing. But in Italy the playboy phenomenon exists on a whole different scale. Men with money and style and fast cars are admired there as they are nowhere else, and they know it. In the 1980s these playboys had a very strong sense of entitlement, particularly when it came to women. (In Italy it was and is considered totally acceptable for a man to live with his mother well into his thirties and beyond. Many Italian mamas pamper their sons, keeping them boys forever.) And it was thanks to the influence of these playboys that I began hearing rumors. Apparently, in Milan a modeling job wasn’t always a modeling job. One of the places where this different definition applied unfortunately was the agency repping me.

  I found this out when I was booked for a job in Lake Como, working with photographer Marco Canipelli. My booker had given me very specific instructions. I was to take a particular bus toward Lake Como. A bus that left at exactly—if anything in Italy happens exactly—2:30 P.M. on Friday. When I got to my specified destination, I was to wait. The photo shoot would last all weekend, I was informed, and I might—or
might not—be working with another model. As was common in those days, pay wasn’t discussed. The agencies prepaid our room and board and travel expenses, then gave us a small weekly allowance. Most models, including myself, had only a vague idea of what we were actually making.

  Soon after getting on the bus, I began to panic. The massive old Fiat swerved and lurched through the mountains and forest, carrying me far from the city and anybody I knew. Looking at my watch and the road signs, I realized that I would be arriving well after sundown, and I began to ask the driver what time he thought we might reach my stop. He spoke very poor English. So I kept pointing at the bus-stop name written on a piece of paper. “Sì, sì,” he would mutter, nodding wearily, his finger jabbing in front of us, indicating that we still had a long way to go. It was eerily dark by the time we finally reached our destination: a dusty, poorly lit parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Now it was my driver’s turn to look concerned. He could see that no one was waiting for me. He began to point to my slip of paper as if to ask, Do you really want to get off here? Alone?

  My heart was pounding. What was the agency thinking, asking me to wait in the dark, miles from civilization at this hour? I thought about staying on the bus and riding back to Milan. But I knew I’d be in trouble if I did.

  Slowly and hesitantly, I pulled my suitcase down from the overhead rack and stepped off the bus. “Buona notte,” the driver said softly. The doors creaked shut and the bus lumbered away, engulfing me in exhaust fumes. I stood and watched the red taillights disappear. When the bus was gone, I sat down on the edge of my suitcase, took a deep breath, and began to do what I’d been told to do. I waited.

  After five very long minutes, I saw a pair of headlights slow and then turn into the parking lot. A big maroon Rolls-Royce had pulled up to the dusty stop just feet from me. Coughing, I stood and backed away nervously.

  The driver’s-side door flew open, and a very heavy man with an enormous mustache threw himself out of the car. He bounded toward me, extending a fat, sweaty hand. “Marco Canipelli,” he said with a thick Italian accent. “And you must be . . . ? I know the agency sent you. Yes?”

  Great. I was nameless. I wondered if this man had even seen my portfolio. This wasn’t looking very good. I peered into the car and heard the awful Euro disco blasting from the speakers and the sound of female laughter, too, which both relieved and annoyed me. At least I wasn’t going to be alone with Marco. “Climb in, I’ll get your bags,” he said with an imperious wave. “Let’s head to the house.”

  I was the third girl in the Rolls. Already enjoying the ride were two blond Swedish models. They were dressed, if you could call it that, in revealing miniskirts, tight tank tops, and sky-high heels. In comparison I was dressed simply and prudishly. I certainly hadn’t brought anything like their outfits to wear. I tried to ask the girls and Marco questions, to get an idea of what the shoot was, when we’d start in the morning, and so on, but each of my inquiries was just met with snickers from the Swedes and unintelligible grunts from Marco. Finally he explained that we would all be staying at his villa on the lake. “What lake?” I asked naïvely. I still didn’t know where we were, and though I’d heard the name, I had no idea that Lake Como was one of the wealthiest and most exclusive vacation spots between Italy and Switzerland. Marco seemed to find my ignorance amusing. I know that the miniskirted Swedes certainly did.

  Marco’s villa was indeed impressive. One of the largest mansions on the lake, it featured an enormous and brilliantly lit circular driveway. As we approached the house, he pulled in next to his collection of cars: another Rolls, two Lamborghinis, and a Porsche. From the lights and the sounds within the house, I could tell that a party was in full swing. My scantily clad fellow models and I were the guests. Or, as I began to suspect, my stomach churning, we weren’t exactly guests. The word “escort” popped into my head. I didn’t know quite what to think.

  The home was undeniably grand. The entrance was lit with candles, and enormous carved wooden mirrors lined the long foyer. Huge vases of flowers were placed on small tables, and everywhere I looked, I saw light spilling from chandeliers and candelabras.

  Servants in black-and-white uniforms walked around taking coats, offering trays of hors d’oeuvres, champagne. A butler tried to take my bag, but with a firm “No thank you” I clutched it closer. I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to stay.

  Marco took my hand and led me to the top of a staircase. We hadn’t entered on the bottom floor, but rather in what seemed like the middle of the house. This staircase led into the downstairs rooms, while an even more regal sweeping staircase led to the elegant rooms upstairs.

  “Go straight down,” Marco said. “We’ll have a perfect cocktail dress for you. And we’ll get you the right shoes. Your hair and makeup can be done quickly, too.”

  “Oh, so I’m going to start working tonight?” I was still operating on the premise that I was there to be photographed. I’d assumed we’d start with an early call for a Saturday-morning shoot, but I knew it wasn’t unheard of for certain jobs to start late in the evening.

  Marco laughed, gave me the seemingly obligatory pat on my butt, and nodded for me to head down the stairs. As I took my first step, he deftly grabbed my bag away from me. “You won’t need this now, my dear. I’ll have Giancarlo put it in your room for you.” I started to protest, but he had already turned and begun to walk away. “Hurry, there’s no time to waste!”

  Great. It looked like I’d be staying.

  Downstairs, the gorgeous rooms were filled with equally gorgeous women. Everyone was in a frenzy of activity. Everywhere I looked, I saw tall, tanned young blondes lounging about, glasses of champagne in hand, smoking cigarettes. Some of them were half dressed. Suddenly a completely naked girl about my age darted in front of me, laughing as she disappeared into a side room. What the fuck was going on?

  I followed the naked girl into what turned out to be an enormous powder room. One section of the room had been transformed into a glass-enclosed sauna; a number of nude girls were in there. I turned and noticed that one wall had dresses hanging from it; walking closer, I saw my name pinned to one of them. Just as at a fashion show, my whole look had been arranged for me. Heels, exactly the right size, were placed below each dress. I managed to find a private room in which to discard my grungy travel clothes and slip into the perfect little black cocktail dress that had been assigned to me.

  As soon as I had emerged from the changing room, I was seized by the elbow and brought to the hair and makeup artists. Several of them were clustered in a single large room. With speed and efficiency and very little talking, I was pulled along, primped, and spit out the other end of the production line. The woman who finished my makeup gave me a final once-over. “Up,” she said, pointing. I went.

  Marco took my arm as I got to the top of the staircase. He may have been a large man, but he knew how to work a room effortlessly. Over the next few minutes, I was waltzed about as Marco introduced me to the various playboys, nobles, and Italian government officials who made up the guest list. I was given nods of approval, looked up and down, and then whisked off to meet the next guest. I couldn’t help but feel as if I were a piece of meat for sale. I wondered if I were going to be auctioned off.

  I eased my nerves with champagne. Every time I finished a glass, Marco placed a fresh one in my hand. After my long, strange day—the endless bus trip, those nervous moments in the parking lot, the bizarre ride in the Rolls with Marco and the half-naked Swedes—I was exhausted. And I was definitely tipsy. I really just wanted to turn in for the night. The party showed no signs of slowing, but I was done. I pulled Marco aside.

  “I’m so tired. Where is my room?”

  “Of course, my dearest girl. I’ll have Giancarlo show you right away,” he said with a smile.

  I was relieved. I was worried that Marco would want me to stay up hours longer as his “arm charm.” But my relief soon turned to disdain. Marco leaned in, alcohol dripping from his mustache an
d his breath.

  “I made sure to put you on my floor, Carré. You’re right next to my room,” he whispered. He seemed to be drooling.

  I wriggled in disgust.

  He nodded to Giancarlo, and I was swiftly shown to my room. Just as Marco had promised, my bag was waiting for me. There was something else as well, an article of clothing that I hadn’t brought with me. A very risqué nightgown was spread neatly on the bed. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, and quickly turned to close the doors. Remembering my experiences with Gérald, I was relieved to discover that my doors both locked from within. I was asleep within minutes.

  Needless to say, it was a long night. As I had feared, Marco eventually arrived at my locked door. At 4:00 A.M. I awoke to the sound of his fists on the door as he banged and begged to be let in.

  “Ah, my dear, so you are playing hard to get! How cute you are. I will get you before the weekend is over!” he threatened, slurring his words, laughing unkindly to himself.

  What a pig. I pulled the covers over my ears, trembling with rage and a bit of fear. What the hell was I supposed to do? I had to get through another day and night here in this opulent playboy palazzo unharmed. What games would I have to play? What would happen now?

  Marco was a famous photographer, but I hadn’t seen a camera in his hands once. That didn’t mean I wasn’t photographed. That Saturday, when I emerged cautiously from my room, I found out that my day and night were scheduled right down to the minute. I was taken to lunch, then out on Marco’s speedboat. As we traveled around, paparazzi appeared. They’d apparently been tipped off, as Marco made no effort to avoid them. Quite the contrary. Marco had a playboy image to maintain. Within days, photos of the two of us together appeared in local papers and magazines, just as he wanted.

  The oddest and most uncomfortable moment of the weekend came when Marco arranged for me to have an intimate dinner with him—and his teenage daughter, who was only a ­couple of years younger than I was. Talk about awkward! One of the other models I met that weekend told me that Marco had taken a special liking to me because I resembled his daughter, which made his advances seem even more repulsive.