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She has to stay cool and in control. It wasn't the end of the world; no demons will appear just yet.
"Oh, I'm not worried. After all, I only started today. Who's Jasmine, though?"
"She started today too. It
was announced this evening that she's just signed a huge contract with Hamid Hussein, but not to appear in his films, so don't worry."
She's not worried. She just wishes the Earth would open up and swallow her.
8:12 P.M.
Smile.
Pretend you don't know why so many people are interested in your name.
Walk as if you were walking on a red carpet, not a catwalk.
Careful, other people are arriving, your quota of time for photos is over, it's best to keep moving.
However, the photographers insist on calling out her name, and she feels embarrassed because the next person--a couple, in fact--have to wait until the photographers are satisfied, which, of course, they never are, always looking for the perfect angle, the unique shot (as if such a thing were possible), the shot of her looking straight into the camera.
Now wave, still smiling, and walk on.
AS SHE REACHES THE END of the corridor, she's immediately surrounded by a crowd of journalists. They want to know everything about the huge contract she's just signed with one of the best-known couturiers in the world. She'd like to say: "It's not true," but instead she says:
"We're still studying the details."
They insist. A television reporter approaches, microphone in hand, and asks if she's happy about the news. She says she thought that afternoon's fashion show had gone off really well and that the designer--and she makes a point of saying her name--will be holding her next show during the Paris Fashion Week.
The journalist doesn't appear to know anything about that afternoon's show, and the questions keep coming, except now they're being filmed.
Don't drop your guard, only give the answers you want to give and not the one they're trying to get out of you. Pretend you don't know the details and just say again how well the show went, about it being a long-overdue tribute to Ann Salens, the forgotten genius who had the misfortune not to be born in France. A young man, who's a bit of a joker, asks how she's enjoying the party; she responds with equal irony: "Well, if you give me a chance to go in, I'll tell you." A former model, now working as a presenter on cable TV, asks how she feels about becoming the exclusive face of the next HH collection. A better-informed colleague wants to know if it's true that her salary will be more than six digits.
"They should have put 'seven-digit salary' on the press release, don't you think?" he says. "More than six digits sounds a touch absurd, don't you think? Or even better, they could have said that it's over a million euros, instead of making us count the digits, don't you think? In fact, instead of 'six-digit salary,' they could have said 'six-figure,' don't you think?"
She doesn't think anything.
"We're still looking into it," she says again. "Now let me get a little air, will you? I'll answer what questions I can later on."
This, of course, is a complete lie. Later on, she'll get a taxi straight back to the hotel.
Someone asks her why she isn't wearing a Hamid Hussein dress.
"I've always worked for..." and again she gives the designer's name. Some of the reporters there note it down, while others simply ignore it. What they want is a piece of publishable news, not the truth behind the facts.
She's saved by the pace at which things happen at parties like this. In the corridor, the photographers are already shouting out someone else's name. In an orchestrated movement, as if under the baton of an invisible conductor, the journalists surrounding her all turn and see that a bigger, more important celebrity has just arrived. Jasmine takes advantage of this hiatus and heads for the lovely walled garden that has been transformed into a salon where people are drinking, smoking, and walking up and down.
Soon she, too, will be able to drink, smoke, look up at the sky, thump the parapet, turn round, and leave.
However, a young woman and a very strange-looking creature--like an android out of a science-fiction movie--are staring at her, blocking her path. They clearly don't know what they're doing there either, so she might as well strike up conversation with them. She introduces herself. The strange creature takes his mobile phone out of his pocket, grimaces, and says he'll be back shortly.
The young woman is still staring at her with a look on her face that says, "You ruined my evening."
Jasmine is sorry she ever accepted tonight's invitation. It was delivered by two men, just as she and her partner were getting ready to go to a small reception put on by the BCA (the Belgian Clothing Association, the body that promotes and regulates fashion in her country). But it's not all bad news. If the photos are published, her dress will be seen, and someone might feel interested enough to find out the designer's name.
The men who delivered the invitation seemed very polite. They said that a limousine was waiting outside and that they were sure a model of her experience would need only fifteen minutes to get ready.
One of them opened a briefcase, took out a laptop and a portable printer, and announced that they were there to close the contract. It was simply a matter of fine-tuning the details. They would fill in the conditions, and her agent--they knew that the woman with her was also her agent--would sign.
