No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World's First Supermodel by Janice Dickinson Page B
Authors: Janice Dickinson
Tags: United States, General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography, Women, Models (Persons), Models (Persons) - United States, Artists; Architects; Photographers, Television Personalities - United States, Dickinson; Janice
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normal husband—not anymore, anyway. He looked at the phone, next to the bed. It rang again. He hurried into the living room, for the other phone. He wanted privacy.
“Hello?” He was whispering, but I could hear two
things in his voice. The first was desperation; the second was relief. It didn’t take a genius to see he was talking to his dealer. He hung up and came back into the bedroom and told me that he had to go out for a minute. Business; very important. He’d be right back. Please wait.
I told him I’d wait. The minute he was gone, I finished packing, hurried outside, and hailed a cab to JFK. I cried my eyes out all the way to the airport. I cried at the Air France counter when I was checking in. I cried when I boarded the plane.
“Are you okay, miss?” one of the flight attendants asked me shortly after takeoff.
Sure I’m okay. My marriage is over. I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I was on my way to Paris, goddamn it. Going abroad for the first time in my life. This was the break I’d been waiting for. I should have been beyond fine. So I got up and made my way down the aisle to the bathroom and locked the door behind me and really fucking bawled for a good N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 83
five minutes. Then I pulled myself together and took a few deep breaths and washed my face and went back to my seat and told myself I was fine, goddamn it. Life is good, motherfucker. And the black cloud began to lift.
I began to think only of the future. I fell in love with the idea of the future. I fell in love with my French fellow passengers, with the sound of their oh-so-refined language.
With the French airline wine. With the gorgeous flight attendants and their perfect makeup and the way they had their hair up in those elegant chignons. I fell in love with every word in my little French phrase book. I was sitting in my seat smiling at nothing, giggling, laughing out loud, out of context, out of control. . . . And by the time the plane descended into Paris, I was ready for My New Life.
Dominick Silverstein met me at Orly airport, carrying fresh daisies and a sign with my name on it. He gave me a big hug and kiss and we went outside and hopped into his Peugeot and drove to Paris.
It was early morning—I’d been on the red-eye—and
Dominick took a few detours to point out the sights. The Arc de Triomphe. The Champs Elysées. The Pont Neuf.
The Louvre. The Picasso Museum. Notre Dame. The goddamn Eiffel Tower! Me, Janice, a rube from backwater Florida—and I’m standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Yeah, I know, call me Mary: If I’d been wearing a beret, I’d have tossed it with gay abandon. But I couldn’t help myself. Every cell in my body was being fed. The architecture, the monuments, the weird little cars, the weird little dogs, the Vespa motorcycles, those big baguettes people carried under their arms . . .
“I love it already,” I told Dominick.
“And it loves you,” he shot back.
He parked near the agency and we stopped briefly at a 84 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
little café across the street for espressos and croissants. It looked like a movie set. Unreal. Perfect. Perfect little waiters with perfect little curled mustaches. I started laughing, giddy with happiness and hope.
Then he took me into the magnificent six-story building that housed the Christa agency. There was a kitchen on the ground floor. A short, red-faced Frenchman approached, smiling broadly. “C’est Janice Dickinson,” Dominick said, introducing me. “This is Raphael. He takes care of us.
Anything you need, ask Raphael.”
“A votre service,” Raphael said, and snapped his heels together smartly. I’d only seen that done in the movies, by German SS officers. Evil omen?
The agency itself occupied the next three floors.
Dominick took me through, introducing me to everyone.
They fawned beautifully. I felt like a homecoming queen.
People shook my hand
“Hello?” He was whispering, but I could hear two
things in his voice. The first was desperation; the second was relief. It didn’t take a genius to see he was talking to his dealer. He hung up and came back into the bedroom and told me that he had to go out for a minute. Business; very important. He’d be right back. Please wait.
I told him I’d wait. The minute he was gone, I finished packing, hurried outside, and hailed a cab to JFK. I cried my eyes out all the way to the airport. I cried at the Air France counter when I was checking in. I cried when I boarded the plane.
“Are you okay, miss?” one of the flight attendants asked me shortly after takeoff.
Sure I’m okay. My marriage is over. I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I was on my way to Paris, goddamn it. Going abroad for the first time in my life. This was the break I’d been waiting for. I should have been beyond fine. So I got up and made my way down the aisle to the bathroom and locked the door behind me and really fucking bawled for a good N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 83
five minutes. Then I pulled myself together and took a few deep breaths and washed my face and went back to my seat and told myself I was fine, goddamn it. Life is good, motherfucker. And the black cloud began to lift.
I began to think only of the future. I fell in love with the idea of the future. I fell in love with my French fellow passengers, with the sound of their oh-so-refined language.
With the French airline wine. With the gorgeous flight attendants and their perfect makeup and the way they had their hair up in those elegant chignons. I fell in love with every word in my little French phrase book. I was sitting in my seat smiling at nothing, giggling, laughing out loud, out of context, out of control. . . . And by the time the plane descended into Paris, I was ready for My New Life.
Dominick Silverstein met me at Orly airport, carrying fresh daisies and a sign with my name on it. He gave me a big hug and kiss and we went outside and hopped into his Peugeot and drove to Paris.
It was early morning—I’d been on the red-eye—and
Dominick took a few detours to point out the sights. The Arc de Triomphe. The Champs Elysées. The Pont Neuf.
The Louvre. The Picasso Museum. Notre Dame. The goddamn Eiffel Tower! Me, Janice, a rube from backwater Florida—and I’m standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Yeah, I know, call me Mary: If I’d been wearing a beret, I’d have tossed it with gay abandon. But I couldn’t help myself. Every cell in my body was being fed. The architecture, the monuments, the weird little cars, the weird little dogs, the Vespa motorcycles, those big baguettes people carried under their arms . . .
“I love it already,” I told Dominick.
“And it loves you,” he shot back.
He parked near the agency and we stopped briefly at a 84 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
little café across the street for espressos and croissants. It looked like a movie set. Unreal. Perfect. Perfect little waiters with perfect little curled mustaches. I started laughing, giddy with happiness and hope.
Then he took me into the magnificent six-story building that housed the Christa agency. There was a kitchen on the ground floor. A short, red-faced Frenchman approached, smiling broadly. “C’est Janice Dickinson,” Dominick said, introducing me. “This is Raphael. He takes care of us.
Anything you need, ask Raphael.”
“A votre service,” Raphael said, and snapped his heels together smartly. I’d only seen that done in the movies, by German SS officers. Evil omen?
The agency itself occupied the next three floors.
Dominick took me through, introducing me to everyone.
They fawned beautifully. I felt like a homecoming queen.
People shook my hand
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