Fran was the spark. Claudine, the catalyst. Not that I knew it back then.
Fran with her flouncy gypsy clothes, her rose oily potions, her daring red lipstick, her glossy gossip magazines and conspiratorial smile… I was instantly sucked into her orbit like a wave to a particle or should that be a particle to a wave? Whatever. I was hooked.
Once a month Fran worked in the office “cooking the books” she said, with a wink. She thumped the keys of an old typewriter, drank a continuous rotation of tea from ugly mugs the size of soup bowls, and frowned over the calculator. She muttered within earshot, “Darn, blast and bloody hell. How this joint survives, I’ll never know.”
On Saturday mornings I stood behind one of the music shop’s counters – the back counter adjacent Fran’s office. I served the random customer, tuned the violins, dusted shelves, tidied stock, anything to pass the time. I was fifteen and this was my first part-time job. It was a thrill to receive a pay cheque in a mustard yellow envelope every month. I deposited the money into a savings account at the local bank.
Midmorning, Fran invited me to the upstairs loo for a “smoko”.
“If the boss catches us, we’re dead,” Fran said.
We both knew the boss was never around.
I didn’t have to worry about conversing with Fran. I could have been a mannequin or a tailor’s dummy, something to talk at instead of talk with. This was the general trend of my life, so nothing was new.
Fran offered me a cigarette, as was the routine. I took it as if I knew what to do with it. I was allergic to smoke but, for once, I didn’t care. A cigarette was a magic wand that could conjure a different life, liberated by nicotine.
I went through the motions, copying Fran. I flicked cigarette ash into the loo from time to time. Fortunately, the exhaust fan worked, and residue smoke escaped from a small window which Fran propped open. I pretended to smoke and pretended to be cool while Fran pretended to be my big sister, or something to that effect.
Fran was twenty-seven and she had her own flat, her own car, her own boyfriend. She was always wearing something new, or so she said. I was impressed but it didn’t take much to impress me.
From time to time, Fran would wave her cigarette in my direction and say, “You’ve got to loosen up. Honestly, you worry me. You’re too ironed into place. Stop brushing your hair or something.”
Fran sucked on her cigarette, coating it with red lipstick. “I bet you’re still a virgin.”
I blushed and rolled my eyes. Fran seemed to forget that I was fifteen. I suppose I looked older than my years.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I shook my head.
Fran described her complicated love life, her long laundry list of grievances, and how she never wanted to get married. “It’s domestic drudgery,” she said, checking her front teeth in the tiny bathroom mirror as she stubbed out her cigarette. “Mark my words.”
Other mornings Fran was full of news about her big Friday nights out, “kicking up her heels”, drinking with her “gal pals”, “painting the town red”.
“Girls just wanna have fun, ya know?” Fran would draw back deeply on her cigarette, and for a moment I envied her carefree life. Fran must have read my mind.
“You’ve got to get out more. Live a bit,” Fran insisted. “Have you been to a disco?”
I flicked ash into the loo and missed.
“You do know what a disco is, right?”
I nodded because that’s what I thought any cool girl would do.
“Good lord,” Fran, unconvinced, tossed her black curls and laughed. “You’re missing out on so much fun. You should be dancing the night away.”
Fran was full of sage advice. “You know you can eat what you like and throw up after.” She patted her stomach. “It works for me.”
Most of what Fran said was mystifying but that was nothing new. Such was the general trend of my life. If I wasn’t mystified or misunderstood or lost in my imaginal world then anxiety ran the show.
A year later the music store closed. I’d not miss the job, but I’d miss bookkeeper Fran and the monthly pay cheque. I’d wanted to work since I was ten years old. I knew that’s why my working father was valued and my home-maker mother wasn’t. Money meant status, not that my father had much of it as a technician in a photocopy company, but he had far more than my mother.
Upon parting forever, Fran had said, “Remember what I’ve told you. Loosen up, girl. Live a bit.”
She’d put her arms around me and loaded lipstick onto my cheek. I’d stood there, unsure if I wanted to be touched or what I was meant to say or do. Smoke and rose oil had twanged in my nose. I’d blinked several times as the world blurred. Life would be grey without Fran.
“Here take this,” Fran had said as she pushed a cigarette into my hand.
I’d thrown it into a bin soon after.
My mother enrolled me into a course at Petunia’s Grooming and Deportment School to learn how to become a lady. Apparently, it was a family tradition. As a teenager, my mother had done the course; my sister had done it and now it was my turn. I needed all the help I could get.
Once a week for six weeks I learned how to do things properly, like break a bread roll and butter tiny pieces, hold a knife and fork, cross my legs, sit at a flattering angle, apply makeup to accentuate my cheeks, eyes, and lips. In the mirror I looked like a clown. Makeup was a mask, hiding a multitude of flaws. Nothing was new in that. Hiding flaws was a full-time job.
I watched the other girls in the class as they giggled, holding their pinkie fingers aloft as they pretended to drink cups of tea. They waved invisible fans and fluttered their eyelashes as if to charm a handsome prince. They plumped and teased and sprayed their hair as if preparing to wear a tiara.
I took mental snapshots of everything. I was learning the normal way to do this fraught, confusing business called womanhood. At this I wouldn’t fail – I’d perform the role perfectly and fit in at last.
When Claudine, our course instructor, strutted the catwalk to show the class how best to “carry oneself” something shifted. The axis of the world flipped, and gravity momentarily lifted its giant fist. It could have been the bass beat of the music Claudine moved to. It could have been the way she tilted her chin. It could have been a subversive form of self-expression, but it was feminine, sanctioned, and presumably safe. It was on a platform. It was sacred ground.
“You must slink like a feline in heat,” Claudine said, thrusting her hips forward. The girls giggled. I gawped.
Fran would approve. This was an opportunity to live a bit. Strutting a catwalk was silly, but what a relief to feel something other than serious.
Claudine was a natural extension of Fran, as if the spirit of Fran lived on through Claudine.
After the class, Claudine asked me to stay behind. I wondered if Claudine would offer me a cigarette. At least I’d know what to do.
“I’ve been thinking.” Claudine’s red lips pouted. “And watching.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I must have done something wrong, given myself away, stood out when I should have stood back. Was I about to fail the course?
Claudine paused to check her makeup in the mirror. The air congealed. “And I think you have potential.”
Potential? The word stole the air from my lungs. No-one had ever said that to me.
“Here at Petunia’s we keep an eye out. Fresh faces are always, how should I put it?” Claudine ran red nails through her bleached blonde hair. “Popular, let’s say.”
Popular? My mouth dropped open.
“We like girls with personality.”
Personality? My head began to spin.
Claudine stopped frisking her hair and looked me straight in the eyes. “With work you could be quite a… beauty.”
Ah, beauty. My heart leapt. All my problems were about to be solved and my prayers were being answered.
“In classier clothes you’d instantly improve.” Claudine didn’t blink. I inwardly squirmed. Claudine was seeing me not as I was, but as I could be. Electric possibility zipped around me like a busy fairy casting spells and emitting dust. I tugged at the skirt my mother had made.
“All this baggy stuff does nothing for you. Honestly, darling, you’d look better in a potato sack.”
I oscillated between loyalty and disloyalty and settled for feeling pangs of guilt as I silently agreed with Claudine.
“And your hair. Who cuts your hair?” Claudine’s green eyes circled my head.
“My aunt,” I muttered.
“Well, no offence, but...” Claudine fished about in her metallic gold handbag. From a wad of papers, she extracted a crumpled business card. “Here’s the salon to go to. Tell Genaro I sent you. Let him do whatever he likes.”
My fingers curled around the business card as if it was the golden ticket to a new and better life.
I used my savings to have my hair cut and styled, to buy a new dress, earrings, and makeup. I engaged a photographer to create a portfolio. Claudine guided the process, telling me that this was what all the professional fashion models did at Petunia’s. When I showed her the photographs she said, “Look at you. You’re a natural.”
I didn’t recognise myself in the photos and that felt thrilling.
I followed Claudine’s dietary instructions. Hunger made me more beautiful. The more bones, the more beautiful. Cheekbones and collarbones and hip bones and knee bones and ankle bones. I began to forget about food at the same rate that I forgot about life before Petunia’s. I tested myself to see how little I could eat. It was a competition. How hungry could I become and not give in to eating?
“Clothes are an art form,” Claudine said. “They express who we are as women.”
Designer clothes were made of the softest fabric: pure wool, silk, satin. I wouldn’t feel like an ordinary suburban girl when I wore them. I wouldn’t be my sickly, alien, outcast self. I wouldn’t languish in a state of pointlessness. Beautiful clothes were like a suit of armour. My body would make sense in them. My body would feel good in them. My body would move in newer, freer ways. In these clothes, no-one would point their finger and yell, “UGLY”. No-one would touch me. No-one would fault me. I would wear these works of art and feel like a work of art within a greater work of art. Nothing would need to be said. Nothing would be expected. Nothing would demand interpretation.
Amid the beautiful I’d be approved. I’d belong. I’d be loved.
My health improved as if eating less, weighing less, made everything coalesce into less. All I had to do was live on air and hope that beauty was some sort of spiritual guarantor, writing blank cheques to secure my future.
And so, my double life began. The serious, soulful life of a Conservatorium student studying piano performance. And the silly, superficial life of a fashion model where image was prized. This dualism could have been a recipe for disaster, it could have torn me apart, it could have veered close to madness. But what did I have to lose?
In the next blog we’ll explore what it was like to be a fashion modelling university student trying to perfect two different kinds of performances: one strutting a catwalk and the other, a stage.
Here’s an old photograph I found, posing for a photo shoot. I think it dates back to the early ‘80s or thereabouts…
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With love,
Lil X
Gifted Potential (Part One)