Nov 8

Nov 8 Walking for JPG

It’s organised chaos or chaotic organisation. I’m not sure and nobody else is either. But apparently it is always like this. So, we press on, like bit players in an Alice in Wonderland dream. The other models fall into two categories – young and very young. I feel like Methuselah. The young have already circumnavigated the globe more times than a Quantas captain and still managed to find time to run up an impressive list of celebrity boyfriends. The very young are still in awe of their achievement, wondering how they ever managed to swap the back row of Mrs. Ferguson’s Physics class for Mr. Gaultier’s shiny runway. How indeed? I share their excitement as I am similarly bewildered. The clock is ticking. I ask about the rehearsal. Hadn’t I heard? We are running so late that there is no time to rehearse. I check to see whether any of the other girls appear concerned. If they are, they are hiding it well. One appears to be asleep.

A small woman appears. She flies circles of eights around the room until all the models are paying attention. It is not clear how she does this: perhaps she sprinkles fairy dust like Tinkerbelle in Peter Pan or maybe she has a mobile phone jammer in her shoulder bag. I never find out. I stand up. The models stand too. It’s just that it takes them longer to reach their cruising height. I feel tiny, like a coxswain in a German rowing team. Trust me, you only need one runway model to change a light bulb.

Now we are off, stumbling up the darkened stairs like Napoleon’s army retreating through the snow. We halt in the near-darkness. I can hear music playing in the distance. The girl next to me decides to share her concerns about her boyfriend’s bedroom performance. Contrary to his carefully-honed bad boy image, his favourite position in bed is sitting upright, eating pizza, watching the Champion’s League. She feels that she was sold a pup. I feel for her but decide not to tell her that it doesn’t get better with age. The line starts to move and we arrive just behind the stage. JPG is here, ducking and diving like a boxer, adjusting and admiring, cajoling and encouraging, taking one last look at his creations before he signals that they are ready to meet their new owners.

Now, it is my turn. I decide that if the models aren’t worried, why should I be. What is the worst that can happen to me? I only have to walk a few metres and not fall over. I do that every day. All day. Except this isn’t every day. And it isn’t a few metres. It’s one of the longest runways I’ve ever seen. JPG takes charge. He checks my outfit, chatting all the time. I like the way he says my name. He incorporates every known vowel sound before he reaches the ‘n’ but still manages to find a few more for the ‘a’. He smiles. I smile. We both know I am doomed but we are pretending we don’t care, like the lovers in Brief Encounter. He turns away and I am thrown to the lions.

After the dimness backstage, the runway is a revelation. Well, it would be. If I could see it. I can’t see anything. That’s what happens when they round up every lumen south of Bergen and assemble them for one last gig. It feels like the Day of Judgment. I start walking towards the lights. After a bit, the lions come in to view. They seem quite happy. As if they are enjoying the show. I start to relax. This is more fun than I thought it would be. I recognise one or two of the lions. They wave. I smile and march on. The end of the runway is approaching. How dare JPG have such a short runway. It’s a disgrace. I stop for the photographers. They stand in a steeply banked stage at the end of the runway barely visible behind the lights. They have no heads. Their heads have been replaced by cameras. The whirr of the camera motor drives is hypnotic. I become conscious of a California redwood lumbering into view. Damn. My time is up. I turn and walk towards the exit. This isn’t hard. This is fun. This is really fun. All I need now are the phone numbers of a couple of unsuitable boyfriends and I’m all set.