Jenna’s Model Life

Yesterday I was invited to the French finals of the Elite M0del look competition. (A modeling contest that launched the careers of a bunch of supermodels, including Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista, and Gisele Bundchen.) So I went to the Ritz with the Model Room-mate, where we met an Australian model represented by our agency and accompanied by her mum, and a man who wore a snakeskin suit and snakeskin hat. No, I didn’t just mistype “sharksin”: He was wearing the skins of snakes, tanned and dyed a chocolate brown, and stitched together into an outfit. I was hoping he would be some kind of amazing wild-child designer, or a film director, or a very lost rodeo clown. But he was just an actor from L.A.

The models walked, the emcees made light filler conversation while the models changed, and then the models walked again. Then they picked three to win big bouquets of flowers, and scooters, and something else I couldn’t translate, and we filed out to the Ritz lobby.

Model Room-mate and I procured champagne and set out to talk to the strangers who’d amassed there. At first the night seemed to be going well: We found an Evian exec who offered Amsterdam travel tips, a couple who did marketing for a new perfume and who kept on looking at me and saying how I had a lovely, 17th Century kind of look, and I souvenired a sweet champagne glass (because I figure, the Ritz is kind of like the White House in respect to its brand).

It turned out to not be real crystal.

And my evening goals quickly shrank to comprise: Get out of here without being too sexually-harassed.

I don’t mind talking to people of different generations — growing up, I always felt more comfortable around adults, generally speaking, than children my own age — and I’m not even intrinsically opposed to participating in a “scene” if it helps my career. It’s not misery to dress up, stand around, and eat hors d’oeuvres if you’re meeting interesting people, listening to good music, and “getting your face out there.” But the dynamics of last night quickly shrank to: Old men with a tenuous connection to the fashion industry and visible wedding bands trying to get as close as possible to very young models. At one point, I found myself trapped talking to a short French actor, an ugly restaurateur whose establishment had an unforgivably stupid name, and a fleshy businessman. They had the gall to ask if I was faithful to Peter, the man I’ve been with for almost three years. They laughed out loud when I said that of course I was.

(Perhaps this is a cultural thing? This is a country where the incumbent first couple met when he officiated her first wedding, and spent most of 2005 living in different countries with his ‘n’ hers lovers.)

Nonetheless this was quite a come-down from being compared to a Mme. de Sévigné heroine.

But my favourite was the owner of a talent agency. He told me I spoke French like a diplomat and seemed absolutely astonished when I told him it was a career I’d considered (briefly, during one of those self-serious high school moments). Then he told me he knew Krav Maga (nothing like the whiff of pure physical threat to entice the ladies!) And then he kept on asking me what perfume I was wearing. Every single time I told him I don’t wear perfume, he would say, “Really?” and lean as close to me as he felt he could get away with and take another long sniff. “You smell so good. Are you sure you don’t wear perfume?” You know, I always thought I just never bothered with that particular beauty ritual. But more likely, you’re right — I am wearing perfume, and I’d love you to identify it! Sniff again, jerk-face, by all means. And then tell me why I should be an actress or a television presenter, despite my demonstrable lack of any dramatic talent. Please, it’s music to my ears.

I went and found the Model Room-mate, who was talking to Greg Basso, a builder who was the French Joe Millionaire in 2003. It was almost witching hour for the Métro, which closes at around 1 a.m., so we beat a hasty exit. The day’s earlier rain had faded and the whole city looked and felt fresh and quiet, especially after the hot, smoky, noisy private party. By the time we got to the station, the last train had left, and we had to walk. Honestly, it was really nice to decompress before getting home — I liked the walk, it was through a good part of town and we had the chance to ponder the mystery of why it is never the nice men who might want to talk about museums or linguistics or music — or who might even have nothing to say at all, but who would at least say it with respect — who waylay you at parties. Why it is instead always the jerks with no concept of personal space or conversational skills. Model Room-mate regards these parties as work and attends them with all the expectations of enjoyment that implies. I enjoyed the walk home because we made each other laugh swapping stories of nasty superficial conversationalists, but then I wasn’t wearing 5′ platform DKNY heels, like Model Room-mate, poor girl.