Zero History

“Were you ever a model?”
“No,” said Hollis.
“I was,” said Meredith, “for two years. I had a booker who loved using me. That’s the
key, really, your booker. New York, L.A., all over western Europe, home to Australia for
more work, back to New York, back here. Intensely nomadic. George says more so than
being in a band. You can cope, when you’re seventeen, even when you’ve no money.
Almost literally no money. I lived here, one winter, in a monthly-rent hotel room with
three other girls. Hot plate, tiny fridge. Eighty euros a week ‘pocket money.’ That was
what they called it. That was to live on. I couldn’t afford an Orange Card for the Métro. I
walked everywhere. I was in Vogue, but I couldn’t afford to buy a copy. Fees were
almost entirely eaten up before the checks found me, and the checks were always late.
That’s the way it works, if you’re just another foot soldier, which is what I was. I slept on
couches in New York, the floor of an apartment with no electricity in Milan. It became
apparent to me that the industry was grossly, baroquely dysfunctional.”
“Modeling?”
“Fashion. The people I met who I most got on with, aside from some of the other girls,
were stylists, people who finessed little bits of trim for the shoots, adjusted things,
sourced antiques, props. Some of them had been to very good art schools, and it had put
them off, profoundly. They didn’t want to be what they’d been groomed to be, and really
it’s the nature of that system that not that many people can, ever. But they came out with
brilliant skill sets for being stylists. And art school had made them masters of a kind of
systems analysis. Extremely good at figuring out how an industry really runs, what the
real products are. Which they did constantly, without really being that aware of doing it.
And I listened to them. And all of them were pickers.”
Hollis nodded, remembering Pamela explaining the term.
“Constantly finding things. Value in rubbish. That ability to distinguish one thing from
another. The eye for detail. And knowing where to sell it on, of course. I began to acquire
that, watching, listening. Loved that, really. Meanwhile, I wore out runners, walking.”
“Here?”
“All over. Lot of Milan. Listening to stylists absently lecture on the fundamental
dysfunction of the fashion industry. What my friends and I were going through as models
was just a reflection of something bigger, broader. Everyone was waiting for their check.
The whole industry wobbles along, really, like a shopping cart with a missing wheel. You
can only keep it moving if you lean on it a certain way and keep pushing, but if you stop,
it tips over. Season to season, show to show, you keep it moving.”
Which reminded Hollis of a Curfew tour, though she didn’t say so. She took a sip of
the unsweetened Americain, which was cooling, and listened.
“My grandmother died, I’m the only grandchild, she left a bit of money. My booker
was leaving the agency, getting out of the business. I applied to Cordwainers College,
London College of Fashion, accessories and footwear. Done with modeling. It was the