1989
Paris & Calgary
My life as a model was everything and nothing like I thought it would be. I got to dress up and feel beautiful, I loved the work itself, and most important, the money I made ensured my continued freedom. But my career came with a price.
After leaving Los Angeles and the memory of François behind, I moved to Paris. With its sky-high standards, party lifestyle and deadly competition, Paris was like bootcamp for models with dreams of making it to the top. Girls cut their teeth there and then went one of three ways: they made it and suddenly had the industry bowing at their feet, did well enough to move to less competitive but still lucrative markets like London, Germany, Sydney or Tokyo, or went home and hung up their portfolio. I would eventually fall into the second category, but for a time, it seemed like I’d fall into the third.
I’d been to Paris many times before, but this was the first time I’d committed to actually living there indefinitely, and somehow that changed things. Rather than just passing through, I was now fully absorbed in the make-or-break modelling culture. And this time, I learned a few things about myself that weren’t entirely pleasant. One was that I could go without consuming a single thing other than grapefruit juice for five days straight. I’d done it twice to get super skinny for an important job, and it had worked like a charm. Never mind that my arms had lost almost all feeling, and that by the end of it, my head swam with dizziness. At five foot eleven and 121 pounds, I’d never looked better—or so my agency assured me.
Another thing I learned was that I could reinvent myself: because no one knew where I’d come from, I could show up as whoever I wanted to be. The persona Paris brought out in me was Tough Cea. The part of me that had emerged as a result of my unsavoury experiences with Barry a decade ago had grown into an even tougher and more cynical nineteen-year-old, only now I didn’t dislike her so much. She could walk down the street without paying any mind to the swarming gypsy children and masturbators in the doorways. She was the pessimist to my natural optimist. She dealt with shit and kept me safe, reminding me of every possible scenario that could go wrong. She also had no problem saying no to the regular flow of drugs that most models got caught up in.
But if I had no interest in drugs, I’d slowly but surely warmed up to alcohol. I felt safe in the knowledge that no one in my family was much of a drinker and that therefore my drinking made me nothing like them. I only drank when I went out, which still wasn’t often, but when I did, I didn’t stop until I blacked out. This was something else I learned about myself in Paris. One night, I was at a nightclub when a man tried to hit on me. He grabbed my ass, so I gave him the finger and left the dance floor. That seemed to be the end of it, until a while later when I woke up in the restroom with a very sore right hand. My roommate informed me that after I’d had a few more drinks, the guy had walked by me again and called me a nasty name, so I hauled off and slugged him in the face. I had no recollection of it whatsoever.
The last thing I learned in Paris was that I hated it. Not the city itself but everything it represented to me. I couldn’t enjoy a chocolate croissant without experiencing modelling-induced guilt. Every bar or nightclub I passed held a memory of some industry creep trying to lure me in with drugs or sex. I lived in a two-hundred-square-foot apartment—with a roommate. The grocery stores were as big as 7-Elevens, everyone pretended to not understand a word of my school French, and, despite my remaining ambiguous about my back-home boyfriend, I found myself missing him. I was working regularly, which was a lot more than many models could claim, but it wasn’t the calibre of work I had moved there to do.
I remember the night I decided I would go home. I was sitting on the futon sofa in my tiny apartment. My roommate was out for the evening, and even though I didn’t smoke, I was smoking a cigarette from her forgotten pack. I was thinking about an important casting with a French magazine scheduled for the next morning. I’d seen them today, but they wanted me back so their editor-in-chief could meet me. I knew what getting the booking would mean: my first editorial with a top magazine, a trip to the Seychelles, eight tear-sheets for my portfolio that could elevate me to the next level in an industry that judged a model by the magazine name printed in the corner of the page. And it would also mean a week of starvation, a high possibility of fighting off the photographer’s/client’s/art director’s advances and an even deeper sense of the emptiness I’d felt since coming here.
I pulled on the cigarette, inhaled tentatively and choked. Tried again and managed to exhale without coughing. I didn’t want to feel cool when I smoked, but I did. It matched my new persona. Smoking a cigarette and contemplating such a high-calibre booking reminded me that I was a real, successful model. I’d been working for five years at a career that was the product of a lifelong dream. And now that victory was literally around the next corner, suddenly I didn’t want it anymore. What the hell was wrong with me?
But of course, in the deepest part of my consciousness, I knew exactly what was wrong with me. I’d been trying to ward off the darkness since I’d arrived here, but it was winning. The escape I’d found through modelling was not what I’d hoped for. My past was still my past, and it could not be blotted out by any amount of evasion or success. It followed me around like a stray animal, begging to be picked up and examined and accepted. Or if not accepted, at least acknowledged. I’d started my career in search of a more normal life, and modelling was anything but normal. It was a portal into a world that revealed its dark side the further you travelled into it.
What I really wanted was to go home—which, in Paris, was practically a dirty word. All of us models were homesick, every single one of us, but admitting that to our bookers was like putting a black mark on the booking charts we longed to see filled with confirmed jobs. I’d seen it happen before—the girls who came into the agency in tears, and the reaction they’d get from their booker, which was some variation on how lucky they were to be there, but if it wasn’t what they wanted, they were free to run home to their mama and/or boyfriend. From then on, they were considered ungrateful, and the bookings would start to dry up. And now I was under contract with my agency. If I told them I needed to go home to regroup, I’d be breaking my contract and I would never be invited back.
The next morning, I got dressed in my regulation black leggings, bodysuit and leather motorcycle jacket. I made sure my hair looked perfect in a way that seemed like I hadn’t even glanced in the mirror that morning. As far as my face went, I had little choice; models weren’t allowed to wear makeup to castings, and I had learned my lesson after an editor smeared her thumb across my cheek and then wiped the offending grime on my white T-shirt.
I arrived at the magazine’s office, changed into a swimsuit as instructed and handed my portfolio over to the editor.
“Oui. Very versatile look. Small breasts but good figure. A circle, please,” she said, indicating for me to turn around. Standard issue.
I did so, letting her take a long gaze at my ass. In my daily life, my every body part was appraised by both eyes and hands. Fingers poked, prodded, pinned, cinched and tugged at me all day long. Whenever I felt the urge to complain, I reminded myself how hard I’d worked to become a model and how easy my job was compared to so many other people’s.
When I faced her again, she was smiling.
“Your skin,” she said, holding my arm up and turning it over like an alien specimen. “It’s very pale, no? I hope it will not burn in the hot sun?”
This was my chance. I took a deep breath, as if this were very hard for me to say. “You mean . . . you want me to get a tan? Oh, no. I really hate to say this, but I have to be honest. I burn like a lobster. Maybe you could . . . shoot everything in the shade?”
That afternoon, when the option came off my chart, I simulated a meltdown to my booker. “I’m just not sure I’m cut out for this,” I said tearfully. “I should be getting better bookings by now.” There wasn’t much she could say to that.
After I
left the agency, I stopped at a kiosk and bought some postcards and a pack of cigarettes. I’m coming home, I scrawled across the cards to Mom, my father and Papa Dick, wondering if they would even care.
Four days later, I was on a plane to Calgary. I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was going to do with my life now, but I figured anything that moved me into something more normal was a step in the right direction. I had enough money to last me a little while. My boyfriend was meeting me at the airport. I might even call Mom. I’d rent a small apartment, maybe get a waitressing job until I worked things out. A waitressing job. Yeah. Right about now, something that pedestrian sounded just like heaven.
“Table seven, food’s up!”
“Waitress, we still haven’t got our drinks. We’ve been here for half an hour!”
“Can we please get some service over here?”
Fuck. I hated waitressing, and what’s more, I was horrible at it. I’d been working at Pasta Frenzy for two months, and there was nothing about it that didn’t suck. During the day, it was so dead I had to fight off catatonia, and at night, it was so busy my head spun. I wanted to quit—though what I might do next seemed a great, unsolvable mystery.
I slung food to tables, appeased impatient diners, tapped orders into the Squirrel machine. Then I made my way over to another server’s table to deliver their food.
“Sorry it took so long,” I said breathlessly to the two men, setting their plates down. “It’s just been a little crazy—” I stopped short when I saw the face before me. “Uh—George? Oh my god, how are you?” My face was burning red. George, of all people, the man who’d been responsible for starting my modelling career. I wanted to die.
“Cea,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I’d heard you left Paris. What happened?”
“I . . .” I shrugged lamely, completely flustered. Not only was I serving my former agent in a restaurant, but I suddenly didn’t have a clue what had made me think I should throw it all away. “I just . . . wasn’t happy, that’s all. Long story.” I tried to smile.
“Well. It’s a real shame, I have to say. Such wasted potential. You should really reconsider.”
“I . . . I might. I just needed a break. Anyway . . .” I pulled the pepper grinder, which was as long as a bedpost, from under my arm. “Pepper?” I asked, holding it in position above his plate.
“Please.”
I slid my hand up the grinder to grasp the top, and it slipped from my fingers, crashing to the table and shattering the glass top. Shards of glass flew onto the table, into the food, onto George’s lap and his companion’s. Nearby customers turned to stare.
“I am so sorry,” I said. I grabbed the plates off the table. “Don’t move. I’ll get a broom and find you another table.” I looked around wildly for an empty one, but it was Friday night. All the tables were taken. Naturally.
George stood up and lightly brushed his pants off with his hands. “Don’t worry about it, Cea. Really. I mean it.”
I looked into his eyes, afraid of seeing pity or disappointment, but I only saw empathy. My sense of embarrassment and failure were mine alone.
“You want to make it up to me? Go back to Paris. Or New York if you want, or Milan. Call me, I’ll set it up. Just don’t . . . don’t sell yourself short. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered back. I was going to cry. Instead I turned away and headed to the dish pit to get my emotions under control.
I stood over the stainless steel sink with my hands braced against the counter, inhaling the smell of chlorine and food scraps. What the hell was wrong with me? There were plenty of people in the world who weren’t given even a single chance to escape their past, and here I was throwing mine away for a job waiting tables. After more than a decade of dreaming of a modelling career, was I really giving up this easily?
I stood up straight and squared my shoulders, turning away before my approaching manager could catch my eye. He had once told me, in a roundabout way, that he would walk over broken glass for the chance to sleep with me. Well, there’s your broken glass, I thought to myself giddily. I was pretty sure his worship would not morph into sympathy if he knew I was planning to quit the next day.
The following morning, I picked up the phone and called Mom.
After I moved to Paris, she’d been forced to give up the duplex we’d lived in since I was eleven. When we first moved there, she’d made rent by bringing in a string of roommates, and later I’d helped out with my modelling income until I announced that I was moving to Paris and couldn’t do it anymore. But the day before I left, plagued with guilt as I thought of her sitting in her cheap apartment with no furniture or vehicle, I’d had a change of heart. I drove my car over to let her use it while I was away.
I’d seen her only once since returning home, to get the car back. She’d driven it for eight months at that point, and she returned it to me filthy and with an empty gas tank. I pretended not to notice, but my eyes had filled with tears the moment I drove away. How many times could I tell myself I was done with her, only to give her another chance and end up, yet again, disappointed and heartbroken?
“Mom? It’s me. I was thinking we could do lunch tomorrow. My treat,” I added, forever feeling I needed to sweeten the pot to interest others in spending time with me.
“Sweetheart! Wow, that is far-out—I was just thinking about you! I had this dream last night. It was all about you as a little girl, and . . .”
I tuned her out, waiting for the line to fall silent. I could tell by the breathiness in her voice that she was stoned, though it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning.
“I’ll pick you up at one,” I said flatly when she finally finished. “Can you please be ready?”
“Of course, darling. I just haven’t seen enough of you since you’ve been back!”
The next day, precisely at one o’clock, I pulled up to her apartment building and climbed the exterior stairs to her unit. The place was a hole. “Spruce Acres” looked like rundown welfare housing, complete with ancient cracked stucco, broken lawn furniture littering the green area and yellowed sheets covering the windows. I knocked on the door, and she answered it wearing a bathrobe.
“You’re not ready,” I said without preamble, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Unsurprisingly, the air smelled like pot smoke.
She put her hands to her head and made a helpless gesture. “I just . . . I got a bit of a late start. Here, come in for a minute. I’ve, um . . .”
I walked into the living room and stopped short. A bearded man was sitting on a tattered wicker sofa, reading Mom’s astrology book.
“. . . been wanting you to meet Darcy anyway,” she finished.
“Greetings,” he said to me, and I scowled at him darkly.
Never mind who he was and what he was doing in my mother’s apartment; for some inexplicable reason, I’d always hated the name Darcy.
Mom walked across the room and sat down at his side. “Darcy just loves the outdoors,” she said proudly, running her hands through his hair. “I’ve told him all about our years in the tipis. He’s fascinated. And . . .” She leaned closer to him and gave his thigh a squeeze. “He’s going to buy me a brand-new Swiss Army knife. Isn’t that groovy?”
I looked from her to him and back to my mother again, speechless. Mom was not only now officially living like a white-trash pothead, she was using our years in the wilderness as some sort of weird currency. A new Swiss Army knife? Did she really think that was all she was worth? As usual, it was clear to me that she had made her choice of who was more important to her. Ever since I could remember, I had played the fading star to the shining sun of whatever man happened to be in her life, whether he’d entered it years before or just a few days ago.
I pulled my cardigan around me. “Well. I was going to tell you at lunch, but I guess there’s no reason to wait. I’m going back to Paris. Or somewhere.”
“Cea’s a model,” Mom said to her new boyfriend, and though I knew she was trying
to pay me a compliment, the way she said it just made me feel cheap.
He lifted an eyebrow appraisingly as he scanned my makeup-free face, torn jeans and plain grey sweater. I ignored him.
“Anyway. Like I said, I’ll be leaving in a couple weeks. I just have to find someone to take over my apartment.”
“But . . . you just got here. Why are you leaving so soon?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess . . . there’s just nothing here for me.” I turned away and then looked back at her. “Oh, and one more thing. I’ll be selling my car. So, sorry, but no free wheels for you this time.”
Two weeks later, I was on a plane headed to Hamburg. In Germany, I knew, I would be able to pursue a path of modelling that didn’t involve starving myself or deflecting advances. My two months working at Pasta Frenzy had made me realize that returning home had had nothing to do with hating modelling. What I had wanted was the feeling that I belonged somewhere. But that hope was gone.
Chapter 15
2008
Vancouver
Let’s have a talk,” James said to me.
I nodded, trying to banish the anxiety that had erupted inside me. This was it, I thought, this was the end. I wanted it and needed it as much as James did, but I still felt like I was about to walk onto a high wire without a safety net.
Since returning from Mom’s memorial, I’d prepared for this moment the best I could. I’d sent out emails to liquidators soliciting my swimwear stock, thankful that at least I had something to sell. It seemed that ever since I’d started CeaSwim, my timing had been off. As I struggled to sew perfect samples with my industrial machines, my factory would miss production deadlines, and I’d find myself receiving product half a season behind schedule. This meant most of my retailers would cancel their orders, and I’d then try to sell the line as the new one for the following season, but no one was buying between seasons. At this point, I didn’t have enough money or credit to produce another collection, so the only option that made any sense was liquidation. A day after I sent my emails out, I got an offer from Overstock.com. I knew this was not the time to think about the three years of backbreaking hard work, huge financial investment and possibility of future income I was throwing away. Quite simply, I needed enough money to leave my husband.
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