Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  It was bewildering that we hadn’t gotten over each other sooner.

  That July evening was no different. The arguments began. And then things turned physical. How it would start, and how bad things would become, varied. Either the fights were instigated by my relentless questions as to whom he’d been seeing or sleeping with—or the reverse. The only problem was, Mickey was stronger than me physically. I could never win a fight. That night Mickey chased me through the loft. He slapped me. And when I fell, he kicked me in the back.

  Again I ran. I headed back to my Orlando house, back to my dogs, and back to hiding in my “other” world. That’s when I finally admitted to myself that this was abuse—especially the physical stuff—and that it was not okay. Whether it was because of the fear aroused by Nicole’s Simpson’s death or just my time to see it all in a new way, I did something I’d never done before. With the coaxing of a friend, two days later I went to the police department and asked to speak in private with an officer.

  I had wanted to understand what it would take to get a restraining order on Mickey. I was scared of the volatility of our life together but also deeply concerned about protecting his anonymity. In addition, I was terrified by the story surrounding the Simpson murders. I didn’t entirely believe I was in actual danger of being killed, but I wanted to have some sort of plan if I were ever to need it. The officer asked if I was in an abusive relationship, and I answered yes, maybe. I was asked if I had any injury marks on my body, and I responded that I did. I was told that for me to be taken seriously if and when I called for help in the future, they would need to have something on file. After a few Polaroids were taken of my bruises, I was informed that the police would have to intervene.

  I was shocked. I hadn’t wanted to press charges. I wanted help and support, but I didn’t yet know what that meant for me. In my naïveté and in light of the new warnings regarding spousal abuse, I was unable to dissuade the police. The situation was out of my hands. The law was stepping in, whether I liked it or not. I was devastated. And of course my husband was as well. Looking back, I see that there was a perfect storm that had manifested. And the LAPD wanted to make a point. They took domestic abuse seriously. They were not going to let another potential O.J. escape.

  Mickey was arrested. His mug shot was taken and leaked to every newspaper across the country. The police and the D.A. saw the celebrity aspect as an opportunity. And I couldn’t help but feel as if I, not Mickey, were the one to blame. I regretted going to the police and asking for guidance. I ended up being the one who felt ashamed. I should have known better, I thought; I should never have said a word. I was a wreck.

  The press went wild. I was quickly on the defensive. Yes, I was in an abusive marriage, but in my mind that was a private matter. I wanted to find ways to stop the violence, but it certainly wasn’t by publicly lynching my husband. I felt betrayed. When I finally had sought help, it seemed as if everything were wrenched out of my hands. Truth be told, the arrest made matters much worse. It had me in a tailspin, worrying again how I could protect Mickey. Helping him became my obsession. The guilt was overwhelming, as was the fear of what Mickey might do to me. Or to himself.

  I hired the same lawyer who was handling the abuse case between fellow model Stephanie Seymour and Mickey’s friend, musician Axl Rose. It was explained to me that if I was sure I did not want to press charges, the best course of action was to simply not show up on the trial date. The only challenge was that if I were subpoenaed and was present in the state of California and didn’t show up to the trial, then I, too, would be arrested. I was baffled by the legal system, furious that the tables were turning on me. So I made a decision. I would leave California and go to New York, staying away for as long as it took.

  Not only did I feel let down by the police department, but I was terrified of Mickey’s wrath. No doubt that in his mind this was the biggest betrayal he’d ever suffered. I had been disloyal to him. Mickey often said he “lived and died by the sword.” I thought about that phrase quite a bit.

  Textbook domestic-abuse cases often evidence the victim’s tendency to protect the perpetrators. And in many ways this was true in my case. Is there ever an acceptable level of abuse? Now, of course I know that there isn’t. Did I fuel some of the fires between us? Absolutely. Did I have the power to combat Mickey’s iron fist? No, I was no match for it. That was just the reality.

  And so I fled. In New York City, I vowed to keep quiet and protect what was left of our marriage. I was determined to remain silent. Later the guilt would have me return to him, to undo what had been done and prove that I was a woman who could protect my husband and change my ways. For the time being, all I knew was that I had disobeyed Mickey. And that was a bad, bad thing. In my mind I was convinced of my own culpability and resolved to somehow make it right.

  In the interim I went back to work. I tried to leave California as far behind as I could. I walked the runway at New York Fashion Week in October 1994. Unfortunately, our drama erupted there as well. It was an absolute fucking disaster.

  NEW YORK FASHION WEEK, 1994

  New York City was abuzz. It was the great fashion extravaganza, and it occurred only twice a year, for the spring-summer and fall-winter collections. Models, photographers, editors, and fashionistas as well as rock stars and actors flocked to the events, all angling for front-row seats facing the lithe beauties who stomped down the catwalks. Most of us had just flown in from the Milan shows that preceded New York Fashion Week. Although we were utterly exhausted, the electricity of the city and the full-on theatrical productions the designers staged did wonders to lift everyone’s energy and spirit.

  Runways were never my forte. I didn’t have the walk down, and I hated being part of the mob scene backstage, which always felt to me like I was one in a herd of cattle. Although I didn’t have a practiced turn or pirouette, once I reached the end of the catwalk, I would always pause there for a moment, exuding my best fuck-you attitude while millions of flashbulbs went off. It was usually a blinding journey on the way back. I always felt as if my biggest achievement on the runway was to have just gotten myself up and down the length of it safely, without tripping over anyone or falling into the audience. The F-you stance was my attempt to cover up my nervousness. On occasion the anxiety showed right through anyway.

  I’d been on the run since the summer. I had traveled to New York and Europe and now back again. Having made the decision not to testify against Mickey, I risked arrest for contempt of court if I returned to California too soon. I was steadfast in my commitment to keep my husband from being put behind bars. But my inability to go home, and the reasons I couldn’t, had me running on empty. The tabloids were still reporting on Mickey’s comings and goings, as well as mine. And Los Angeles was still gripped by the O. J. Simpson case, which was now headed to trial. I wasn’t entirely sure I could continue indefinitely to outrun the law’s requests for me to testify.

  The stresses of the court case and my relationship just added to the stress of the shows themselves. By 1994 I was no longer the “it” girl. There was a new crop of models that had emerged: the waifs. Kate Moss had entered the picture, defying the previous law that said a top model had to be tall. The other new emerging faces included Amber Valletta, Beri Smither, and Shalom Harlow. All were inhumanly lean creatures. And then there was the new star that really ruled the scene: heroin.

  The drug had quite visibly taken the industry by storm. The year before, Calvin Klein’s campaign featuring Kate Moss had led to the coining of the new term “heroin chic.” It was how a certain waif-like look was described—one that celebrated a wasted, skin-and-bones aesthetic. This term was often an accurate one; a lot of the models were on the drug. But little did most of us know that there was no playing around with it. Heroin was really an all-or-nothing drug. You didn’t use it recreationally. And if that’s what you were proclaiming (as many ­people in the industry were at the time), you were full of shit.

  It dawned on me in Mi
lan that the other girls might be using it, but I hadn’t quite put two and two together. I was still hooked on pills and wasn’t yet on the prowl for my next high. But I do recall a new walk that manifested itself on the runways that season, as well as the grunge makeup and painfully obvious protruding hip bones. Comparatively, Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer, Stephanie Seymour, and I were rounder than this lot. And just like that, I felt as if I didn’t quite fit in again. At least in my mind. The need to curb my appetite, suppress my individuality, and be like everyone else returned with a vengeance.

  It didn’t help that when I was in Milan, racing through outfit changes backstage at the Versace show, famed fashion editor Polly Mellen had come up to me and said in her deep-voiced, upper-crust manner, “My dear, you simply must do something about your profuse sweating.” She nodded for emphasis as she said the last word, then looked around furtively as if someone might have heard her say it.

  “What?” I asked innocently, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead.

  “And you must control your face, Carré,” she continued. “You need to relax, my dear. If you aren’t relaxed, then for heaven’s sake fake it.” And with that, she was gone.

  Keeping that note of advice in mind, I arrived in New York and checked into the Lowell hotel. I was to have one day of fittings for the Donna Karan show before Fashion Week began. The tents were already pitched in Bryant Park. Hotel rooms were sold out. There seemed to be models on every corner of the city.

  My limo was waiting for me outside, but just as I was leaving my room, the bedside phone rang. “Hello?” I answered.

  “Carré, my dear.” It was Marie-Christine. I was happily working with her again. She had traveled with me to New York and was also staying at the Lowell. “We may have a small problem,” she said.

  “Oh, God. What now?” I had an idea of what the problem might be.

  “It appears that your husband is here, in the city. He wants to get into the shows.”

  “What?” I shrieked. “Fuck him! That’s not fair. That’s not cool at all. . . .” My voice trailed off. My heart was pounding out of my chest. “Why can’t the man just leave me alone for a minute? This is my work. This is what I do!” I was fuming, but also frightened. Mickey had already done so much to derail my modeling career. I was working again, out of his sight and out of his control. I knew how much that bothered him, and I knew what he was capable of doing to reassert that control.

  “Ma chère, there is nothing we can do.” M.C.’s voice was sympathetic but she was still delivering news I didn’t want to hear. “Unless you have a restraining order, he can be at whatever show he likes.”

  “I understand that, but . . . but isn’t there some alternative?” I persisted. The last thing I want to do is get to the end of a runway and stand face-to-face with him. Why does he have to do this?” Panic was setting in. As was the feeling that a scathing injustice was taking place. I felt like I was being stalked. I just wanted to be left alone so that I could do my job; I didn’t need any more drama.

  “We can do our best to find out what shows he will go to and avoid him. As well, we can make a request that he does not attend the shows you are in.” I wasn’t terribly assured by the solution, but I knew that was the best anyone could do.

  “Okay. But please, please, M.C., get on the phone and try to sort this out before we go to the tents?” I begged.

  I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. It’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine, I soothed myself. So what if I was walking into a fucking circus?!

  My driver circled Bryant Park a few times as we determined which was the most secure way to enter the shows. The press had gathered at the main entrance, and I could already feel them descending like vultures. No doubt the story was out, and all I needed was a public run-in with Mickey.

  “Here. Drop me here. I’ll walk,” I said, hoping that the paparazzi would have their eyes focused solely on the stretch limos that were pulling up in front of the main entrance. I stepped out of the car and into the gray fall afternoon, my Prada boots hitting the ground, my body ready to make a run for it.

  “I’ll see you after the show,” the driver said. I nodded my thanks and hurried off through the gates, escaping the cameras that were still trained on the long line of limos. I wanted to avoid them at all costs.

  A young guy with a walkie-talkie grabbed me by the arm and whisked me toward my first scheduled show. “Well, aren’t you causing a stir!” he exclaimed in an expression of mock surprise, his tone and his eyes showing both amusement and sympathy.

  “I know . . . can you believe it?” I laughed. “I just want the night to be over with.”

  He winked at me. “You’ll be fine. Let’s get you into hair and makeup.”

  Backstage was a blur of familiar madness. Half-naked models were being frantically swept through a production line, emerging at the other end coiffed and powdered. Wardrobe racks had been used to create temporary “dressing rooms,” and each model’s name, Polaroid, and list of outfit changes were hanging up. Their dressers were standing by, waiting for the green light that indicated the show had begun. Each show was the same. The same mayhem. The same setup. The same frenzy. And once the show began, the models would all line up and wait for someone to clap his or her hands and say, “Go!” or simply push them forward into the bright lights of the endless catwalk.

  Some of the girls were great walkers. Totally confident. Some were not. It was hard for me to keep a straight face and harder still for me to walk a straight line. After all my experience, I simply wasn’t good in heels. But I managed to get through the shows without a hitch. Outside, a media cyclone was brewing.

  By now everyone knew that Mickey was at Fashion Week. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to think that was nuts. Although he didn’t get into the Donna Karan show, he was at many others, engaged in his usual front-row note taking, focusing not on the outfits that were paraded past him but on the girls who wore them. Typical Mickey style.

  Just as I was exiting the tents to get back into my limo, I saw him. And he saw me. He stopped in his tracks, and looks of both pain and fury moved across his face. Neither of us wanted a public scene. I turned on my heel and began to walk quickly in another direction. I had no problem backing away. But a photographer spotted the perfect lineup and signaled to the other paparazzi. Through blinding camera flashes, I dashed down the block, frantically looking around to see where my car was parked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mickey duck into his long white stretch limo, making his own escape from the madness. As soon as I could, I did the same. My car sped off, returning me to the Lowell in record time.

  The next day the photos of our near encounter were all over the papers, eclipsing the coverage of the shows themselves. It was a nightmare. Whatever it did or didn’t do for Mickey’s career, I knew it wouldn’t help mine. It was the shows and designers that should have been the stars of the day, not our stormy and scandalous marriage. No one in the industry liked headlines such as these. Least of all me.

  As Fashion Week drew to a close, I stayed close to my Lowell hotel room, doing my best to avoid the spotlight. And then Saturday night rolled around, the last night of the shows. Marie-Christine called me.

  “There is a big party at Club Expo. You should be there,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked. I was nearing the end of my rope. I was exhausted, out of sorts, and I just wanted to escape it all.

  “Because it is the last night of our week, my dear. Let’s send you off with style!” she said emphatically.

  That was the great thing about M.C. I absolutely loved working with her because we always found ways to have fun together, even under the most adverse circumstances. I figured what the fuck—it’s just another party. And she was right, it was important to have my face out there.

  I pulled on my Manolo Blahnik patent-leather zip-up boots, black see-through tights, my signature black miniskirt, and a tiny camisole that barely covered my breasts. It was my usual
club-going outfit. Teetering down the hallway, I rang at M.C.’s door and entered. She was still getting ready. She was in Chanel from head to toe. Unmistakably French.

  Our first stop was a party at Café Tabac, stopping to chat with photographer Sante D’Orazio, who was dining with the model Georgina Grenville. We wandered over to where Patrick Demarchelier sat cross-legged and holding court at another smoky table.

  Out of the blue, I heard a voice call, “Otis. Hey, Otis.” It was Pinky, Mickey’s assistant. “How’s it going?” I didn’t trust him. I looked around quickly to make sure Mickey wasn’t somewhere in the restaurant.

  “Fine, Pinky,” I said coldly. “What do you want?” I took a long drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke toward him. Experience had taught me that however friendly and kind they might seem, every one of these boys had Mickey’s back, and I needed to keep myself far, far from the enemy.

  “Not to worry. Just passing through. Mick’s not here—in case you were wondering,” he said, looking at his feet and coughing through the cloud of smoke he tried vainly to wave away.

  “I wasn’t wondering, Pinky,” I said smugly. And turned toward Marie-Christine.

  “Where are you all going tonight?” Pinky pressed. Before I could answer, Marie-Christine let it slip. “Club Expo,” she said without thinking.

  I jabbed her sharply in the side and gave her an annoyed look.

  “Now, why would you want to know that?” I turned again to Pinky, pulling myself up tall, standing well over six feet in my heels.

  He shrank back and shrugged his shoulders. “No offense, Otis. Have a good night.” And with that he was gone.