Model Student: A Tale of Co-eds and Cover Girls - Hardcover

Hazelwood, Robin

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0307337189 ISBN 13: 9780307337184

Publisher: Crown, 2006

Synopsis

It’s the late 1980s—hair is big, Lycra is rampant, and supermodels rule the earth. Every girl in America dreams of becoming the next Cindy, Claudia, or Naomi, and seventeen-year-old Emily Woods is no different. She looks different, though—striking enough to start a career. Despite the protestations of her hippie parents, she plunges into the glamorous but grueling world of professional modeling. But Emily is more than just a small-town beauty with stars in her eyes: She’s been accepted to Columbia University, and she’s not about to let couture and klieg lights get in the way of an Ivy League education.

Thus begins Emily’s double life: cramming for a final at an exotic swimsuit shoot in the Caribbean; fighting the freshman fifteen to avoid the wrath of her agent; owning a closet full of Versace but nothing to wear to a frat party; sitting in a women’s studies class while ads featuring girls she knows are picked apart; juggling the attention of both college guys and the sought-after fashion photographer of the moment.

But as Emily pursues her chic fantasy of Vogue covers and prestigious cosmetic campaigns, her priorities start to shift. In the ultra-competitive quest for supermodel fame and fortune, strutting off the runway to study Shakespeare might mean letting another pretty face snag her stilettos, and Emily’s thisclose to getting a leg up on her dreams.

Before long, the seamier side of the fashion industry—cocaine and cads, collagen and implants, fad diets and eating disorders—becomes close up and personal. All of a sudden, Emily realizes how far she’s strayed from her dream of having it all. With sliding grades that threaten her future at Columbia and spotty bookings that put her career as a model in question, Emily is finally forced to make a choice between style and substance.

Dazzling, dramatic, and as real as it gets, Model Student shines a spotlight behind the scenes and reminds us why you can’t judge a book by its cover girl.

About this title

About the Author

Robin Hazelwood, a graduate of Yale, was a professional model in New York, Paris, London, and Milan throughout the 1980s and 1990s. This is her first book.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1: Northern Lights
Frauke, the studio manager, adjusts her glasses, moving them lower on her nose. Wordlessly, she extends her hand.

I cross the foyer. The soles of my tennis shoes squidge against the marble. I give her my modeling portfolio. My heart pounds.

"Chicago Inc," she murmurs, scanning the cover.

"It's-a-new-agency-Louis-is-my-booker," I say in a rush.

Silence. The pages start to turn: one, two. When Frauke gets to page three, a three-quarter of me peeking through the strings of my tennis racquet, the first of my two "sporty" test shots, her eyes rotate.

"You're how old?"

The pages of my portfolio continue to turn. I watch myself go by, unseen.

"Seventeen. I'll be eighteen soon. In a month. July 5th actually."

Oops. Louis told me to stop doing this. "Models should never call attention to the aging process," he has said. Then again, Louis also told me to stop being such a motormouth. "Do you think of Marilyn Monroe as chatty?" he asked me once. "I think of Marilyn Monroe as dead," I replied. "Exactly," he retorted. "Icons don't talk." I get it: Shut up. But I can't help it; I'm nervous. I've been nervous ever since I got within twenty feet of this place, my fifth and final stop according to my list of appointments:

Conrad Fuhrmann (photographer)

25 W. Burton Pl. (xDearborn)

Ask 2C: Frauke (studio manager)

It looked harmless enough on paper, I thought. What did I know? I arrived at 25 West Burton Place to discover not a grungy fourth-floor walk-up, an "industrial space" filled with loose wires, dust bunnies, and futon seating, as per usual, but a large town house, a mansion, really, smack in the middle of Chicago's swanky Gold Coast District. Cream-colored and modern with a gravel driveway and sculptured trees, it looked like it belonged in Paris. Not that I've ever been. It looked like what I imagine Paris looking like. It looked imposing.

The inside is imposing, too. Or maybe it's Frauke. With glittering, ebony eyes, and glossy black hair, she sits in the all-white marble foyer looking more than a little like a spider in her web.

Wham. My portfolio cover slams shut. With sudden and surprising crispness, Frauke rises up and leans forward, her red nails gripping the desk's edge, her eyes skittering up my Adrienne Vittadini ensemble (a carefully chosen navy-and-white-striped skirt with matching sweater) and across my chin, nose, cheekbones--every inch of flesh--until they lock with mine.

"Follow me," she says.

I catch up with Frauke's dark form just as it enters a room. My eyes adjust: small study. Two suede couches. Dozens of glossy books. A smattering of silver frames with beautiful people in them.

"Conrad, this is Emily."

And a man. Conrad Fuhrmann lifts his glasses from the V in his cashmere sweater and hooks them around his temples. "Hello."

I swallow. "Hi."

Rising, he clasps his hands together like a dance instructor. "Turn around."

I twirl.

He laughs. "Not so fast. Again. So I can see you."

I spin around slowly, feeling very revolving cake, until I'm facing the couch again, facing Conrad and Frauke, who's now seated beside him. Physically, he's the antithesis of her: small, almost petite, with cornflower blue eyes and delicate features. Surprisingly, I find myself relaxing in his presence.

"How old are you?"

"Almost eighteen," Frauke answers crisply, as if my own might have been different.

When Conrad sits down again, his body tips forward--a question mark of keen interest.

And then it begins.

"Do you exercise?

"Do you dance?

"Do you eat?

". . . A lot?

"How often do you drink:

"--Milk?

"--Soda?

"--Alcohol?

"How many hours of sleep do you get a night?

"How tall are you?

"How tall are your parents?

"How much have you grown in the last year?

"How much do you weigh?

"Do you wear contacts?

"Do you use sunscreen?

"How would you describe your hair?

"Please state your morning and evening skin-care routine, beginning with your cleanser."

And on and on. It's like one of those nightmares where, suddenly, it's finals and you're being grilled by a panel of experts on a topic you haven't studied, only this test's for models, so it's not that hard.

Finally, we've exhausted the Health and Beauty category. Conrad gets the distracted look of someone doing complex numerical calculations in his head.

"So . . . almost eighteen. You've graduated, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to college?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where?"

Not here, too. This is the question plaguing every single one of my classmates this summer, the question asked by every parent, every relative--everyone, that is, except people in the fashion business.

"Columbia University."

Conrad's back on his feet again, stepping toward me. "What about Northwestern?"

What about it? "Umm, it's a good school," I say. Did he go there? "But I want to be in New York."

Conrad eyes me steadily for one beat. Then another. "We'll see," he says.

See what? As far as I know the admissions process is over, thank God. But we don't discuss this further; instead Conrad takes me by the hand and guides me into the photography studio, which is vast and white, of course, and nice. Very nice. Against one wall, thick art books and scores of spindly magazines are interspersed with sculptures. A sweep of calla lilies rises out of a crystal vase next to a sleek leather sofa, one of a pair. A lacquered coffee table gleams. Chrome equipment glints in the bright light.

As I look around--really take it in--my stomach roils. From one thought in particular: This guy is major, really really major, in a totally different league from anyone I've ever worked with.

And that's before I see the photograph. Hanging right in front of me, only a couple of feet from where we've stopped, is a small black and white, that I stare at and gasp. Because, there, wearing nothing more than a few ounces of Lycra and a sultry smile, is the one and only Cindy Crawford--America's superest of supermodels. Only I've never seen her like this; with her short spiky hair and big soft cheeks, she looks about seventeen. My age.

Wow. I knew Cindy was from Illinois but . . . I turn to Conrad. He's still smiling, his blue eyes still soft and glowing. Slowly, he extends his hand toward my face. "Let's see: if we moved this . . ." A fingertip lightly touches a mole near my hairline before sliding down my cheek ". . . we'd have her." Then taps the location of the famous Cindy sweet spot.

No way. In Wisconsin, where I'm from, it's always been Brooke. We don't really look that much alike except for the eyebrows, but that doesn't stop people from accosting me, convinced I really am Miss-Nothing-But-Her-Calvins, though why the famous star would be wandering around the Midwest in a Balsam High sweatshirt was a mystery to me, unless it was a very earnest attempt at going deep undercover. Still, it's a compliment and who doesn't love compliments? Yet it's nothing like being compared to Cindy--and by someone who's actually photographed her! This is huge. I grin from ear to ear, even though it's not exactly ladylike. I can't help it.

And that's it, or a minute later it is. I say good-bye, walk along the gravel driveway, and through the iron gate, which purrs shut behind me. It's raining and a bit brisk, so I shove my hands in my pockets before trudging down the wet, gray avenue, turning at the red light for one last look. In contrast to the dull brick buildings surrounding it, the town house twinkles captivatingly, almost magically, like one of those shiny stones you find on the beach, the ones that look sprinkled with gold. The inside was like that, too. I think of the bright gleam of the foyer, the cozy glow of the library, the clean luminescence of the photo studio--light emanated from every corner of that place, and the world outside seems flatter, duller in its wake.

I have to work there, I think as I continue on. I just have to.

>

I guess I feel this way because so far my career hasn't been exactly what you'd call stellar. How could it be when it started with cheese? Not cheesy photos. Cheddar cheese. Foam Cheddar cheese.

You see, my father is the Woods in Woods and Wacowski, a small Milwaukee-based advertising agency. While the firm creates plenty of standard slogans, what they're famous for are bovine double entendres. You know: "Moove on Over," "Cream the Competition," "For a Good Cowse," that sort of thing--the kind of taglines that are perennially popular in the state that declares itself America's Dairyland right on its license plate.

Last fall, as part of his pitch to the state tourism board, Dad came up with a hat--quite a hat. It's called the Cheesehead and maybe you've seen it? If not, picture a wedge of yellow foam--the cheese--glued to the brim of a baseball hat, then picture someone actually deciding this is a good way to be seen in public, preferably drunk at a Packer game. Bad, right? Well, you should...

About this edition

• Publisher: Crown
• Publication date: 2006
• ISBN 10: 0307337189
• ISBN 13: 9780307337184
• Binding: Hardcover
• Language: English
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 390