Catwalk

THE CATWALK

It was early evening; the girl got off the Piccadilly line train and
made for the escalator. Tall for a girl, about five feet eight, very
thin with blonde hair held back in a pony tail; she would be pretty if
she weren't so gaunt. She was dressed trendy- scruffy in an overlarge
baggy jumper and jeans that seemed sprayed on to her nectarine-tight
buttocks. Over her shoulder a large canvas bag.
Out of the station she went into a tobacconist shop and bought a packet
of ten of the cheapest cigarettes available. Once out of the shop she
rummaged in the bag until she found the empty, expensive, twenty-packet
she'd been saving and transferred the cheap fags into the bigger
box.

Then she was on her way; walking briskly, head erect, she looked like a
young model on her way to an assignment. She wished she were.
Down a couple of side streets and there it was, the studio. A white,
brightly lit, squat looking building with a small, chattering crowd
hovering around the doorway. Every few minutes some of them would go
inside to be replaced by the constant convoy of cars double, or triple
parking to disgorge passengers.
This was London Fashion Week when new and established designers would
show their latest ranges. As many as six shows a day, every day for a
week.
Some of the more established, wealthy designers would hold their shows
in expensive exhibition halls or large hotels but the majority would
use the photographic studios dotted all over London.

They were quite easy to set up. Take some old, empty building, such as
a disused church, literally rip out the interior and paint everything,
including the outside, bright white. Lay mock parquet flooring
everywhere and install dozens of theatrical spotlights. Bingo! A
studio.

The girl opened her mobile as she approached the door.

"Hello, darling, I'm here, I'll speak to you later." It was an act, the
phone was switched off.

She went in, nodded through by the Gucci-dressed doorman.

Inside there were about two hundred chairs facing a central catwalk at
the end of which was a raised platform where a dozen cameramen were
assembling their equipment. Strange looking black and chrome devices,
which clicked together in military like precision. The world-weary,
seen-it-all fashion reporters were taking their allotted seats at the
front as the girl entered the studio and immediately set about the
purpose for which she had come. She joined the dozens of clones of
herself gathered about, chatting, none of them over eighteen and every
one a size ten. They were there for the same purpose as she,
networking! Each desperately trying to catch the attention of one of
the many agents who attend these functions.

Few of the girls at these shows had any interest in the clothes on
display or the show itself. They were there for one purpose only, to
get themselves on 'the circuit'.

"Garry, darling, how lovely to see you"

She spoke to the back of the man's head. Slowly he turned, the sardonic
smile, the twinkle in the eye and the raised eyebrow he'd copied from
James Bond, were all well practiced in front of a mirror.

"Sweetie" he oiled, easily covering the fact that he'd no idea of her
name. "How are you?"

"Great, just great. When can I come and see you?"

His seemingly casual glance took in everything; the height, the size,
the features and the bone structure of the girl in front of him. Her
summed her up in a second as a possibility.

"Well, this week is a total insanity as you know, phone my secretary
Monday. You've got the number?"

"Of course, see you next week." She tried to tell him through her smile
that there was nothing, but nothing she wouldn't do to get on his
books. He was immune.

"Excuse me sweetie, must circulate." And he turned away.

She looked for another target. There he was, an agent she'd met a
couple of times before. She pulled the cigarette packet from her bag
and approached
him from the side.

"Max, am I glad to see you, a friendly face. Give me a light please
darling."

The same smile, the same twinkle and the same eyebrow on a different
face. The gold lighter flickered.

"Sweetie-pie, how lovely to see you. Do I detect a little
tenseness?"

"Max, I'm shattered. It's taken me three hours to get here from the
airport, I'm not even supposed to be here; I'm supposed to be in
Japan."

"Oh darling, what happened?" He was all mock concern

"Cancelled at the last minute, would you believe? So I thought I might
as well come here, though I'm not in the mood for it."
"Oh how terrible." He gushed.
"Yes, three great weeks in Tokyo up the Swannee. I don't mind really
but now I'm at a loose end." She moved a little closer, hoping her
smile would hide the desperation in her eyes. "Don't suppose you've got
anything for me?"

"Darling, this is a horrendous week; give my office a ring next week,
o.k

And so it went on until suddenly the music broke in, the lights dimmed
over the audience and lit up the catwalk. Everyone took to their seats
and the show started.

The girl watched enviously as her contemporaries strode, long legged,
down the ramp, stop at the end, pout at the cameras before returning to
their starting point to disappear behind the screens to change into
their next outfit. As each model approached, the cameramen ran their
motors and the shutters clicked away like automatic weaponry. The
journalists that were interested scribbled notes in reporter
pads.

This is what it's really all about. Publicity! The clothes being shown
were outlandish, pantomime outfits totally unsuitable for everyday wear
and weren't meant to be. It was all put together to make the
news.

As suddenly as it started it was all over. Six months planning gone in
one hour of intense pressure. The lights come on as all the models
appear, calling out to the designer who comes prancing onto the catwalk
to make a self effacing, reluctant appearance, kissing several of the
girls as he did so. Few knew that he actually hated women; they merely
existed to show off his beautiful clothes. If he got enough good
publicity he might be able to gather enough finance to show for another
couple of seasons before disappearing back to obscurity or going to
work for some large fashion chain that could afford to tolerate his
petty tantrums.

Within seconds the cameramen had dismantled their equipment, packed it
into holdalls or cases and were heading for the door. It was just after
eight o'clock and there was one more show tonight on the other side of
town. The reporters, too, were checking their watches and going to look
for their cars.
Everyone had stood up and was starting to drift towards the door.

The girl held her mobile to her head, still switched off but you never
who was watching.

"Hello darling it's me?. Brilliant, absolutely fabulous?O.K. see you in
about an hour at Amanda's"
She looked around to see if anyone had been impressed by her little
show. They weren't.

She considered making one more effort at one of the agents but decided
the timing was wrong. Never mind, she had three calls to make on
Monday.

Back to the tube. After a journey of almost an hour she was back at her
north London flat. Flat! That's a laugh. It was one step up from a
squat. A bedroom-cum-living room and a kitchen just large enough for an
oven, a sink and a cupboard. A combined shower and lavatory and that
was it.

It was now gone nine o'clock and she'd had her one main meal of the
day, burger and chips. She helped herself to a plate of cornflakes and
cold milk, which she consumed slowly
then treated herself to one of her cheap fags to dull her
apetite.

It had been a long day. She'd worked a double shift at the burger bar
to get away early to go to the show. Tomorrow it would be back to the
usual routine, up early to get round the agencies then late afternoon
and half the night serving meals and cleaning tables. Almost half her
wages went to paying her rent.
Her clothes off, she crawled into bed, and tired as she was she
couldn't sleep; she lay there, staring at the ceiling.
She'd come to London the day after her sixteenth birthday, that was
eight months ago, to make it in the world of fashion modelling. She
knew that she'd never be a millionaire super-model but she also knew
that once on the circuit booking would follow booking and she could
make a lot of money until she became too old at around twenty-five. Not
enough to live in luxury, but enough to set herself up in her own
boutique or, and this was her dream, a wine bar.
She also knew that she had to get accepted on to the circuit before she
was eighteen, which was the cut-off point. If not established by then,
a girl didn't stand a chance; the agents would be looking at younger
talent. She'd worked hard at showing her face around the cattle market,
as it was known, but had yet to create an impression.

She had sixteen months to make it.
She thought about that dead, northern town and knew she could never go
back there.

"I'm not staying here in this dump, I'm sixteen and I can do what I
like. I'm going to London and you can't stop me"

"And what will you do there? You can't do anything, you don't know
anything, you haven't got a trade"

"I'm going to be a fashion model. I've got the figure for it and if
other girls can make it, so can I"

"You'll end up on the streets with a load of druggies and
vagrants"

"You watch too much television! Why should I stay here? What d'you do
with your life? You're either down the pub getting pissed or watching
football"

"Don't talk to me like that, I'm your father"

"I don't remember voting for you. I'm sorry mum, but I have to go, you
know I can't stay here"

"Oh baby, why can't you go to college to learn a trade and then go to
London?"

"Sorry mum, I can't, I just can't. Apart from anything else I'll be too
old by then. A girl's got to make it by the time she's eighteen or she
doesn't stand a chance"

She thought of her friends and peers of her own age, mostly now in
dead-end jobs, unemployed or at sixth-form college, desperate for that
diploma or degree which would be their passport out of that place. How
could she face them now after the way she'd taunted them over their
useless futures and that she was going to London to make it big in the
world of international fashion?
And if she failed but stayed on in London anyway, did she want to spend
the rest of her life working in some fast-food joint, to end each
working day exhausted and smelling of fried burger and chips? Perhaps
in desperate loneliness to pair up with the assistant under manager of
the local Tesco's. After a couple of kids he'd leave her for some
younger bird and her own life would become an endless drudge.

She rolled over and reached under the bed to touch the small, canvas
bag she knew was there. To touch it gave her a strange feeling of
security. In that bag was her final passport, a half bottle of vodka, a
bottle of pills and a plastic bag.

"Sixteen more months" she thought, and the bitter smile that tugged at
the corner of her mouth coincided with the single tear that welled up
in one eye.

"Sixteen more months and one way or another I will be out of here".