That’s my husband. We are in a car heading for the airport on our way to L.A.
“Can you get me something from Duty Free?”
My husband has a near pathological aversion to shopping. In that respect, my husband and I inhabit opposing ends of the spectrum.
“Can you get me some [undisclosed brand] moisturiser?”
I feel a pang of shame.
“Haven’t I told you my [undisclosed brand] story?” I say.
“Um…probably,” he says.
“Well, back in 1995, I landed a major [undisclosed brand] advertising campaign. It was the launch of the brand. All the big models auditioned. Isabel Adjani was up for it. Everybody! It was a big deal! I was flown back and forth to Paris four times for the casting. They took endless test shots. The photographer was all over me. “My darling, you look ravishing!!” The money was huge! I looked lovely back then and my skin was pure porcelain. Anyway, I finally got the job and everyone was very happy. I was to do the shoot in four months time. The problem was in these four months a few things happened. [Undisclosed things happened] As a consequence I had a nervous breakdown. I spent weeks on a sunbed trying to eradicate myself. I lost a stone. I bleached my hair and my face broke out in weird sores. I looked like a thin, straw-haired leper with a tan.
I flew to Paris and went to the shoot. The photographer looked at me and said, “My God, what happened to your face?” He sent me home. I lost the job. It was the beginning of the end of my modelling career.”
“What an unbelievably depressing story.”
“I know, right?”
“But can you get me some [undisclosed brand] moisturiser from Duty Free?”