No, she’s no longer the small-town girl who has struggled to get on in life, and she will never be that person again. The road rises before her; another glass of champagne, and the fear of the unknown becomes a dread that she might never have the chance to discover what it really means to be here. What terrifies her now is the sense that everything could change from one moment to the next; how can she make sure that the miracle of today continues tomorrow? What guarantee does she have that all the promises made earlier will ever be met? She has often before stood outside some magnificent door, some fantastic opportunity, and dreamed for days and weeks about the possibility that her life might change forever, only to find, in the end, that the phone didn’t ring, or that her CV was mislaid, or that the director would call and offer his apologies, and tell her that they’d found someone more suitable for the part, “which isn’t to say you don’t have real talent, so don’t be discouraged.” Life has many ways of testing a person’s will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen all at once.
The man who arrived alone has his eyes fixed on her and on the second glass of champagne. She so wishes he would come over to her! She hasn’t had a chance to talk to anyone about what’s been happening. She’d thought several times of phoning her family, but her phone was in her real bag and probably full of messages from her roommates, wanting to know where she is, if she has any spare invitations, if she’d like to go with them to some second-rate event where such-and-such a celebrity is going to make an appearance.
She can’t share anything with anyone. She has taken a big step in her life, she’s alone in a hotel bar, terrified that the dream might end, and at the same time knowing that she can never go back to being the person she was. She has nearly reached the top of the mountain: she must either hang on tight or be blown over by the wind.
The forty-something man with the graying hair, drinking an orange juice, is still there. At one point, their eyes meet, and he smiles. She pretends not to have seen him.
Why is she so afraid? Because with each new step she’s taking, she doesn’t know quite how to behave. No one helps her; all they do is give orders and expect them to be rigorously obeyed. She feels like a child locked in a dark room, trying to find her way to the door because some very powerful person is calling her and demanding to be obeyed.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the androgyne, who has just come back.
“Let’s wait awhile longer. People are only just starting to arrive.”
The handsome man gets up, pays his bill, and heads for the exit. He seems disappointed. Perhaps he was waiting for the right moment to come over, tell her his name, and…
“…talk a little.”
“What?”
She had let her guard drop. Two glasses of champagne and her tongue was looser than it should be.
“Nothing.”
“No, you said you needed to talk a little.”
She’s the little girl in the dark room with no one to guide her. Humility. She must do what she promised herself she would do a few minutes earlier.
“Yes, I was just going to ask what you’re doing here in Cannes, how you ended up in this world of which I understand almost nothing. It’s not at all as I imagined it would be; believe it or not, when you went off to talk to the photographers, I felt really alone and frightened, but I know I can count on you for help, and I wondered whether or not you enjoy your work.”
Some angel—who clearly likes champagne—is putting the right words in her mouth.
The androgyne looks at her in surprise. Is she trying to make friends with him? Why is she asking questions no one normally dares to ask, when she’s only known him a few hours?
No one trusts him because he’s not like anyone else—he’s unique. Contrary to what most people think, he isn’t homosexual, he has simply lost all interest in other human beings. He bleaches his hair, wears the clothes he’s always dreamed of wearing, weighs exactly what he wants to weigh, and though he knows he makes a strange impression on people, he’s not obliged to be nice to anyone as long as he does his job.
And now here’s this woman asking him what he thinks, how he feels. He picks up the glass of champagne that has been waiting for him and drinks it down in one.
She must imagine that he works for Hamid Hussein and has some influence, and wants his cooperation and help so as to know what her next step should be. He knows all the steps, but he was only taken on for the duration of the Festival and to perform certain tasks, and he’ll only do what he’s been asked to do. When these days of luxury and glamour are over, he’ll go back to his apartment in a Paris suburb, where he gets abuse from the neighbors simply because he doesn’t fit the conventional model established by whatever madman once declared: “All human beings are equal.” It’s not true. All human beings are different and should take their right to be different to its ultimate consequences.
He’ll watch TV, shop at the supermarket next door, buy magazines, and sometimes go to the cinema; and because he’s considered to be a responsible person, he’ll get the occasional call from agents who need experienced assistants in the world of fashion, people who know how to dress models and choose accessories, to help those new to the fashion world avoid making social blunders, and to explain what they should and absolutely shouldn’t do.
Oh, he has his dreams. He’s unique, he tells himself. He’s happy because he expects nothing more from life, and although he looks much younger, he’s actually forty years old. He did try to get a career as a designer, but couldn’t get a decent job and fell out with the people who could have helped him. He no longer has any great expectations, even though he’s cultured and has good taste and a will of iron. He no longer believes that someone will look at him, see the way he dresses, and say: “Great, we’d like to talk to you.” He’s had a few invitations to work as a model, but that was a long time ago, and he doesn’t regret having turned them down because being a model wasn’t part of his life plan.
He makes his own clothes from offcuts discarded by haute-couture studios. In Cannes, he’s staying with two other people up on the hill, probably not very far from where the young woman is lodging. She, however, is getting her big chance, and however unfair he may feel life to be, he mustn’t allow himself to be overwhelmed by frustration and envy. He’ll do his very best because if he doesn’t, he won’t be invited back as “production assistant.”
Of course he’s happy; anyone who desires nothing is happy. He looks at his watch; it might be a good moment for them to go in.
“Come on. We’ll talk another time.”
He pays for the drinks and asks for a receipt, so that he can claim back every penny once the glitz and glamour are over and done with. Some other people are getting up and doing the same thing; he and Gabriela/Lisa need to hurry if she isn’t to get lost in the crowd that is now beginning to arrive. They walk across the hotel lobby toward the “corridor”; he hands her two invitations, which he has kept safe in his pocket. After all, important people don’t have to bother with such details, they always have an assistant to do that.
He is the assistant and she is the important person, and she’s already beginning to show signs that “greatness” is going to her head. She’ll find out soon enough just what this world is capable of: draining every ounce of her energy, filling her mind with dreams, manipulating her vanity, then discarding her just when she thinks she’s ready for anything. That’s what happened with him and it happens with everyone.
THEY GO DOWN THE STAIRS. They stop in the small hall just before the “corridor.” There’s no hurry; this is different from the red carpet. If anyone calls her name, she must turn and smile. If that happens, then the chances are that all the other photographers will start taking photos too, because if one of them knows her name, she must be important. She shouldn’t spend more than two minutes posing because this is just the entrance to a party, even though it seems like something from another world. If she wants to be a star, then she mu
st start behaving like one.
“Why am I going in alone?”
“Apparently there’s been some hitch. He should be here—after all, he’s a professional—but he’s obviously been held up.”
“He” is the Star. The androgyne could have told her what he thought had really happened: “He didn’t leave his room when he should have done, which means he’s probably met some girl who’s got the hots for him.” This, however, would hurt the feelings of the novice by his side, who’s probably nursing entirely baseless dreams of some lovely love story.
He doesn’t need to be cruel, just as he doesn’t need to be her friend; he simply has to do his job and then leave. Besides, if the silly girl can’t control her emotions, the photos taken of her in the corridor might turn out badly.
He stands in front of her in the queue and asks her to follow him, but to leave a yard or two between them. As soon as they enter the corridor, he’ll go over to the photographers and see if he can get any of them interested.
GABRIELA WAITS FOR A FEW seconds, puts on her best smile, holds her handbag as she has been taught, straightens her back, and starts to walk confidently ahead, ready to face the flashbulbs. The corridor opens out into a brightly lit area, with a white wall plastered with the sponsor’s logo. On the other side is a small gallery where various lenses are pointing in her direction.
She keeps walking, this time trying to be aware of each step; she doesn’t want to repeat the frustrating experience of earlier that day, when her walk along the red carpet was over before she knew it. She must live the present moment as if a film of her life were being shown in slow motion. At some point, the cameras will start to whir.
“Jasmine!” someone shouts out.
Jasmine? But her name is Gabriela!
She stops for a fraction of a second, a smile frozen on her face. No, her name isn’t Gabriela anymore. What is it? Jasmine?
Suddenly, she hears the sound of camera buttons being pressed, lenses opening and closing, except that all the lenses are pointing at the person behind her.
“Move!” says one photographer. “Your moment of glory is over. Get out of the way!”
She can’t believe it. She keeps smiling, but starts to walk more rapidly now in the direction of the dark tunnel that seems to follow on from that corridor of light.
“Jasmine! Over here! Here!”
The photographers seem to be in the grip of a collective hysteria.
She reaches the end of the corridor without having heard anyone call out her name, a name she herself has forgotten anyway. The androgyne is waiting for her.
“Don’t worry,” he says, for the first time showing a little humanity. “The same thing will happen to others. Or worse. You’ll see people who used to get their name shouted out, but who’ll walk along the corridor tonight, a smile on their face, waiting for someone to take their photo, only to find that no one bothers.”
She has to stay cool and in control. It wasn’t the end of the world; no demons will appear just yet.
“Oh, I’m not worried. After all, I only started today. Who’s Jasmine, though?”
“She started today too. It was announced this evening that she’s just signed a huge contract with Hamid Hussein, but not to appear in his films, so don’t worry.”
She’s not worried. She just wishes the Earth would open up and swallow her.
8:12 P.M.
Smile.
Pretend you don’t know why so many people are interested in your name.
Walk as if you were walking on a red carpet, not a catwalk.
Careful, other people are arriving, your quota of time for photos is over, it’s best to keep moving.
However, the photographers insist on calling out her name, and she feels embarrassed because the next person—a couple, in fact—have to wait until the photographers are satisfied, which, of course, they never are, always looking for the perfect angle, the unique shot (as if such a thing were possible), the shot of her looking straight into the camera.
Now wave, still smiling, and walk on.
AS SHE REACHES THE END of the corridor, she’s immediately surrounded by a crowd of journalists. They want to know everything about the huge contract she’s just signed with one of the best-known couturiers in the world. She’d like to say: “It’s not true,” but instead she says:
“We’re still studying the details.”
They insist. A television reporter approaches, microphone in hand, and asks if she’s happy about the news. She says she thought that afternoon’s fashion show had gone off really well and that the designer—and she makes a point of saying her name—will be holding her next show during the Paris Fashion Week.
The journalist doesn’t appear to know anything about that afternoon’s show, and the questions keep coming, except now they’re being filmed.
Don’t drop your guard, only give the answers you want to give and not the one they’re trying to get out of you. Pretend you don’t know the details and just say again how well the show went, about it being a long-overdue tribute to Ann Salens, the forgotten genius who had the misfortune not to be born in France. A young man, who’s a bit of a joker, asks how she’s enjoying the party; she responds with equal irony: “Well, if you give me a chance to go in, I’ll tell you.” A former model, now working as a presenter on cable TV, asks how she feels about becoming the exclusive face of the next HH collection. A better-informed colleague wants to know if it’s true that her salary will be more than six digits.
“They should have put ‘seven-digit salary’ on the press release, don’t you think?” he says. “More than six digits sounds a touch absurd, don’t you think? Or even better, they could have said that it’s over a million euros, instead of making us count the digits, don’t you think? In fact, instead of ‘six-digit salary,’ they could have said ‘six-figure,’ don’t you think?”
She doesn’t think anything.
“We’re still looking into it,” she says again. “Now let me get a little air, will you? I’ll answer what questions I can later on.”
This, of course, is a complete lie. Later on, she’ll get a taxi straight back to the hotel.
Someone asks her why she isn’t wearing a Hamid Hussein dress.
“I’ve always worked for…” and again she gives the designer’s name. Some of the reporters there note it down, while others simply ignore it. What they want is a piece of publishable news, not the truth behind the facts.
She’s saved by the pace at which things happen at parties like this. In the corridor, the photographers are already shouting out someone else’s name. In an orchestrated movement, as if under the baton of an invisible conductor, the journalists surrounding her all turn and see that a bigger, more important celebrity has just arrived. Jasmine takes advantage of this hiatus and heads for the lovely walled garden that has been transformed into a salon where people are drinking, smoking, and walking up and down.
Soon she, too, will be able to drink, smoke, look up at the sky, thump the parapet, turn round, and leave.
However, a young woman and a very strange-looking creature—like an android out of a science-fiction movie—are staring at her, blocking her path. They clearly don’t know what they’re doing there either, so she might as well strike up conversation with them. She introduces herself. The strange creature takes his mobile phone out of his pocket, grimaces, and says he’ll be back shortly.
The young woman is still staring at her with a look on her face that says, “You ruined my evening.”
Jasmine is sorry she ever accepted tonight’s invitation. It was delivered by two men, just as she and her partner were getting ready to go to a small reception put on by the BCA (the Belgian Clothing Association, the body that promotes and regulates fashion in her country). But it’s not all bad news. If the photos are published, her dress will be seen, and someone might feel interested enough to find out the designer’s name.
The men who delivered the invitation seemed very polite. They said
that a limousine was waiting outside and that they were sure a model of her experience would need only fifteen minutes to get ready.
One of them opened a briefcase, took out a laptop and a portable printer, and announced that they were there to close the contract. It was simply a matter of fine-tuning the details. They would fill in the conditions, and her agent—they knew that the woman with her was also her agent—would sign.
They promised her partner every help with her next collection. And yes, of course she could keep her name on the label and even use their PR service. More than that, HH would like to buy the brand and thus inject the necessary money into it to ensure that she got good coverage in the Italian, French, and British press.
There were two conditions. First, the matter had to be decided right there and then, so that they could send a note to the press before the newspapers were put to bed for the night.
Second, she would have to transfer her contract with Jasmine Tiger to Hamid Hussein, for whom Jasmine would then work exclusively. There was, after all, no shortage of models, and the Belgian designer would soon find someone to replace her. Besides, as Jasmine’s agent, she would earn a lot of money.
“I agree to the transfer of contract,” her partner said, “but we’ll have to talk about the rest.”
How could she agree so quickly, the woman who was responsible for everything that had happened in her life, and who now seemed perfectly happy to lose her? She was being stabbed in the back by the person she loved most in the world.
One of the men took out his BlackBerry.
“We’ll send a press release now, in fact, we’ve written it already: ‘I’m thrilled to have this opportunity…’”
“Just a minute. I’m not thrilled at all. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
The Winner Stands Alone Page 29
