light just isn’t right.” The photographer shakes his head and dartsaround the room, camera in hand, pointing to the tall windows that look onto avenue Montaigne. After a few moments of this, he comes face to face with Rikash and flashes him a grin. Rikash reciprocates, and some predictable flirtation ensues.
“Hello, I’m Rikash,” my assistant says, extending his hand. “We’re the party poopers from legal.” He points in my direction. “This is my colleague Catherine Lambert, chief pooper.”
I nudge him in the ribs and manage a tight smile. I still have no clue why I’m here. To make matters worse, my floor-length cherry red vintage skirt and blue-and-white-striped sweater are garnering looks from the black-clad fashion crowd here. I stand out like Minnie Mouse in a house of horrors. I decide to ignore it; they’ll just have to deal.
“Jean-Michel.” The photographer gives Rikash sweet eyes. “I was happy when I saw you walk in, but now I’m not so sure.” He laughs. “Please come in. We’re just getting started.” Jean-Michel claps his hands and everyone in the room freezes. “
Allez, on y va!
Get ready!” He points to the window. “The light is perfect now.”
A few assistants rush to adjust the lighting umbrellas. A model who looks to be in her teens is dressed in a bizarre outfit involving fur, black lace, and neon green underwear. Her dress is completely see-through, every inch of the racy undergarments exposed. She stands in front of the camera, suggestively licking a pink lollipop. She looks like a young woman who’s seen way too much for her age.
I lean toward Rikash. “What’s this shoot for? The latestresort collection?” It’s the only explanation I can think of for the barely there get-up.
“No, it’s for our new anti-aging moisturizer,” he answers with a straight face.
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head. “Why is she dressed like Lolita if they’re taking close-ups of her face?”
“Sweetie, it’s not about making sense, it’s about making an impression.” Rikash sprints onto the set to fix the model’s bra strap, saying, “Sorry, Jean-Michel, but I really hate to see an undergarment worn wrong.”
“Non, non, non!”
A loud voice thunders from the side of the room. I crane my neck to find out who’s interrupting and gasp to see someone I recognize—but only from magazines. It’s Wolfgang de Vrees, Dior’s famed designer. He’s a rock star. He’s leaning against a table near the makeup station, observing the shoot like a hawk. I’ve read about him. His entourage includes European royalty, políticos, and Hollywood starlets. He’s known to be exceptionally talented, hugely competitive, and notoriously difficult to work for. He rarely sleeps and survives on a diet of sunflower seeds and Diet Coke, though rumour has it that for some reason he also eats paper (yes, paper!).
He pays no attention to what critics or editors have to say about his work. Why would he? His annual salary is in the millions, and he is revered like a god. I just hope Rikash doesn’t get an earful from him for interrupting the photo session.
He points toward Rikash, shouting, “Who are these intruders?”
“They’re from the legal department,” Jean-Michel answers flatly.
Wolfgang raises his hands to the ceiling, exclaiming, “Lawyers? God, what a bore! Who invited them?”
Rikash glances my way, his shoulders drooping like a shrinking violet. His cheeks are flushed, and I can tell he’s embarrassed. He slinks to the back of the room, and I pat him on the shoulder.
No one has dared to answer Wolfgang’s question, so he continues his tirade. “Can we continue without any more interruptions, hmm?”
Jean-Michel obliges and the photo session begins. It’s a whirlwind. Assistants and stylists take turns teasing the model’s hair, adding eyeshadow, plumping the girl’s cleavage, adjusting her skirt, and changing her shoes (for a facial moisturizer …
“Hello, I’m Rikash,” my assistant says, extending his hand. “We’re the party poopers from legal.” He points in my direction. “This is my colleague Catherine Lambert, chief pooper.”
I nudge him in the ribs and manage a tight smile. I still have no clue why I’m here. To make matters worse, my floor-length cherry red vintage skirt and blue-and-white-striped sweater are garnering looks from the black-clad fashion crowd here. I stand out like Minnie Mouse in a house of horrors. I decide to ignore it; they’ll just have to deal.
“Jean-Michel.” The photographer gives Rikash sweet eyes. “I was happy when I saw you walk in, but now I’m not so sure.” He laughs. “Please come in. We’re just getting started.” Jean-Michel claps his hands and everyone in the room freezes. “
Allez, on y va!
Get ready!” He points to the window. “The light is perfect now.”
A few assistants rush to adjust the lighting umbrellas. A model who looks to be in her teens is dressed in a bizarre outfit involving fur, black lace, and neon green underwear. Her dress is completely see-through, every inch of the racy undergarments exposed. She stands in front of the camera, suggestively licking a pink lollipop. She looks like a young woman who’s seen way too much for her age.
I lean toward Rikash. “What’s this shoot for? The latestresort collection?” It’s the only explanation I can think of for the barely there get-up.
“No, it’s for our new anti-aging moisturizer,” he answers with a straight face.
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head. “Why is she dressed like Lolita if they’re taking close-ups of her face?”
“Sweetie, it’s not about making sense, it’s about making an impression.” Rikash sprints onto the set to fix the model’s bra strap, saying, “Sorry, Jean-Michel, but I really hate to see an undergarment worn wrong.”
“Non, non, non!”
A loud voice thunders from the side of the room. I crane my neck to find out who’s interrupting and gasp to see someone I recognize—but only from magazines. It’s Wolfgang de Vrees, Dior’s famed designer. He’s a rock star. He’s leaning against a table near the makeup station, observing the shoot like a hawk. I’ve read about him. His entourage includes European royalty, políticos, and Hollywood starlets. He’s known to be exceptionally talented, hugely competitive, and notoriously difficult to work for. He rarely sleeps and survives on a diet of sunflower seeds and Diet Coke, though rumour has it that for some reason he also eats paper (yes, paper!).
He pays no attention to what critics or editors have to say about his work. Why would he? His annual salary is in the millions, and he is revered like a god. I just hope Rikash doesn’t get an earful from him for interrupting the photo session.
He points toward Rikash, shouting, “Who are these intruders?”
“They’re from the legal department,” Jean-Michel answers flatly.
Wolfgang raises his hands to the ceiling, exclaiming, “Lawyers? God, what a bore! Who invited them?”
Rikash glances my way, his shoulders drooping like a shrinking violet. His cheeks are flushed, and I can tell he’s embarrassed. He slinks to the back of the room, and I pat him on the shoulder.
No one has dared to answer Wolfgang’s question, so he continues his tirade. “Can we continue without any more interruptions, hmm?”
Jean-Michel obliges and the photo session begins. It’s a whirlwind. Assistants and stylists take turns teasing the model’s hair, adding eyeshadow, plumping the girl’s cleavage, adjusting her skirt, and changing her shoes (for a facial moisturizer …
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