Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (10 page)

As a relatively attractive young American, I was invited to a lot of parties and clubs. The hottest club at the time was called Les Bains Douches. One night I was with some friends, standing outside, waiting on line to get in. The bouncer saw me, parted the crowd, and let me waltz right in. As I went through the doors, he said,
“Bonsoir,
Mademoiselle Schiffer.”

He thought I was Claudia Schiffer, the German supermodel then
at the peak of her fame. This was the ultimate proof of one thing: I was really good with makeup.

I’d go out to a club and meet five people. They’d invite me out the next night, and I’d meet ten more. Soon I was going out to bars, parties, or clubs every night of the week. During the day, I studied French literature and language, and strolled through museums. I fell in love with feminist author Simone de Bouvoir and existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre. I was a regular at the Musée Picasso, the Rodin Museum, and, of course, the Louvre. Mona Lisa and I got close. I spent afternoons staring at Monet’s water lilies. My French improved dramatically. I arrived sounding like Inspector Clouseau. Within a couple of months, I was Isabelle Huppert (or so I pretended). I had American friends through school, but we spoke French to each other. It was part of the program.

I was in a new place, dreaming, thinking, reading in a new language, seeing new things. I felt myself change from my head to my toes. Reinvention wasn’t only possible here, it was actually happening.

In the land of champagne, Pernod, and Grand Marnier, I didn’t touch alcohol. For that matter, I refused the vials of cocaine that were constantly waved under my nose at the clubs. Living in Paris had allayed a lot of my anxieties, but I was still afraid of feeling out of control of my body. Some of my friends thought it was weird that I refused to partake in the drugs and booze that flowed Seine-like in my direction. But no one pressured me to do it. I was high on life. I didn’t need the boost.

I met a man named Alexandre at a party. We were seated at the same table and he spoke fluent English. I spoke French, trying to improve, but he wanted to practice his English. We got to talking and didn’t stop all night. He looked like Bruce Willis, minus the cocky American swagger. In its place, Alexandre radiated European
sophistication. He was dark and masculine and had a twinkle in his eye. There was something nerdy about him, which was actually an asset in his business. He was involved in the management of high-end Paris nightclubs. He was on the business side, having a degree from a top-ranked French business school. Like me, he didn’t drink. We discovered this at our first dinner when we both ordered Perrier.

Enter boyfriend number three.

The sweetest part of having a boyfriend in the business: I got in everywhere. He had a free, all-access pass into the world of Paris nightlife. Not just the VIP rooms, but the underground clubs that mere mortals didn’t know existed. At his own clubs, he would arrange for agencies to send over models. The models brought in the rock stars. The rock stars attracted actors and wealthy Europeans. Everyone was beautiful. Everyone was chic. And they were all wasted out of their minds. It was like living in a Fellini movie with French dubbing. And Alexandre knew everyone.

One night, I found myself at a banquette with all the supermodels of the era—Naomi, Claudia, Cindy—with bottles of champagne in front of us. They were aloof. Smoking, drinking, and dressed to the nines in a chic yet casual way. They didn’t talk to me. I wasn’t a model or part of their club (like a flashback to junior high). But I was dazzled by them, and watched them joke with one another and dance with my jaw unhinged. Men flocked to the table. When Naomi and Cindy ignored them, they asked me what agency I modeled for. I guess I was blond enough to pass. When I danced on the tables with the models in my high boots and tights, I blended.

On any given night, I didn’t know who would come through the doors of Alexandre’s clubs. Celebrity sightings were commonplace. And then a man came into the club du jour, and knocked the
ennui right out of me. Sylvester Stallone, my junior high fantasy boyfriend, arrived with his model wife, Jennifer Flavin. Alexandre welcomed him and introduced us. Sly was much shorter than me. I had to lean down for a double-cheek kiss. He smelled like soap and the well-oiled leather of boxing gloves. I was in heaven! Later that night, I was on the dance floor with hundreds of people jumping up and down. Alexandre and Sly were watching me from a balcony.

Allegedly, Sly said, “Yo, Alex. Your girlfriend can really dance.”

When I played this back in my head, he sounded like Rocky Balboa (“Yo!”). The next night we all had dinner together. Sly was delightful in real life, a lovely person. I sat next to him, and we shared a dessert. After that teenage dream come true, I was officially addicted to the nightlife. The thought of a quiet evening at home made me antsy. Alexandre was only too happy to have me at his side at the club. I loved being his girlfriend, too. Alexandre was no-nonsense, not a Pepé Le Pew arm-kissing French romantic. His brain was more than enough to seduce me. He knew everyone in Paris and I felt connected and protected.

We fought sometimes. Being a creature of the nightlife was a blast, but it was also fast and furious. A lot could happen when you stayed up until dawn. The intensity was stressful and overwhelming. Every day, I was studying and challenged at my classes. Every night, sex, drugs, and booze surrounded us. Even though we did not partake, the temptation was always there. I flirted with guys. Alexandre didn’t love that. Nonetheless, I was head over heels (flats, whatever) with our life together. I couldn’t imagine anything going wrong between us.

It was my honeymoon in Paris, with Paris. Like all honeymoons, though, it ended too quickly.

•  •  •

After two semesters abroad, I was supposed to return to Vassar for senior year. If I didn’t, I might not graduate with my class. I flew to New York, drove to Poughkeepsie, wheeled and dealed, and came up with a plan to earn enough credits to graduate. I stayed at Vassar for one long semester and got my degree. Finally, I returned to Paris as a student in New York University’s Masters French Program. I was back in the place I loved, doing what I loved. My year abroad had changed me inside and out. The result of my reinvention: I felt like a foreigner at home.

I moved in to Alexandre’s converted garage loft in the Bastille area. Our apartment was rough around the edges—as was our relationship. The fighting got worse. I hadn’t really realized it when I lived in my own apartment, but Alexandre had a bit of a temper.

One day, a New York pal called and said, “My friend Jennifer is coming to Paris. Can you take care of her?” She showed up in jeans and a ponytail, looking exactly like what she was—an Upper East Side Jewish princess, recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. She reminded me of New York. For the first time in a year and a half, I felt nostalgic for home. I did not look like a Vassar graduate. I’d gone native, a wild club chick, in miniskirts, sparkly tops, big hair, and dramatic makeup. Jennifer and I became friends instantly and continued to take Paris by storm.

The minute Jennifer entered my life, so did her mother. She called every day to tell me what Jennifer should eat and whom she should date—only wealthy men. I didn’t have a controlling Jewish mother. I had a sweet shiksa mom who respected boundaries. Listening to Jennifer’s mom call the shots was more of a culture shock than living in Paris.

I started spending a lot of time with Jennifer and other Americans,
including Lizzy Guber, the daughter of film producer Peter Guber. We were a fast group, and really lived it up. We studied during the day, and indulged in restaurants and clubs at night. Nothing seedy or dangerous. We were actually pretty staid. We called ourselves the Golden Girls because we acted like old ladies. For lunch, it was the Ritz. For dinner, Stresa or Le Grand Venise, an incredible Italian restaurant, were our favorites. We didn’t think twice about eating pasta every night. Carbs weren’t the enemy back then.

Fashion was such a huge part of living in Paris. I tried on all kinds of looks. One week, I was decked out head-to-toe in classic Chanel. The next, I was in Jean Paul Gaultier. Jennifer, Lizzie, and I combed through Hermés sample sales. I started collecting Birkin bags before they were popular in America.

No one knew about my leg, except the New Yorkers and Alexandre. He never saw my stump, though. I could tell he was the queasy type. I was careful about that, and kept my prosthesis on at all times. Paris, like New York, was a walking city. The abrasions turned my stump into steak tartare. I needed to find a prosthetist in Paris to make adjustments. Through Alexandre, I met an artist named Yves Corbassiere. He was at least eighty, and wore a big black hat. He hung around the clubs and always had a group of beautiful, sexy young women with him. He wore a prosthetic leg, too, and connected me with an alleged genius prosthetist outside of Paris. Although that turned out to be a disappointment, I was thrilled to have made a friend of Corbassiere.

One day, he asked me to lunch. The restaurant ceiling had a Michelangelo reproduction painted on it. At night, the retractable roof would open up, and you could see the sky while you ate. He knew every precious spot like this in the city, and loved sharing them with his friends. He solicitously poured my water and was adorably fussy about the food. Living was an art form to him. Everything had to
be just so. He spoke passionately about any topic. And wherever he went, sexy women surrounded him. At our lunch, they were relegated to a nearby table, and kept looking over at us.

When we left the restaurant, Corbassiere took my arm. The girls followed behind us in a row.

Muses, groupies, hired girlfriends, whatever those women were, they kept his passion burning. An artist needed his inspiration. I would have loved it if Corbassiere painted me, but we never got around to that, regrettably.

My parents came for a visit. Although they liked Alexandre, they gently insinuated that he was not right for me. I was getting tired of nightclubs and the party people that came with that scene. The novelty was wearing off. I stayed home some nights, and Alexandre didn’t show up until dawn. I started resenting him. We fought more often, loudly, like a French movie couple. It seemed romantic, for a week. But then I just felt sick of it. I hadn’t come to Paris to argue. I’d come for freedom. But the relationship started to feel uncomfortably restrictive. This lifestyle was vapid. Our fights were ridiculous. I told Alexandre how I felt, and it just launched another French-accented screaming match with wild hand gestures.

Jennifer’s living situation changed, and she needed a place to stay. I invited her to move into Alexandre’s. That might not have been the best idea. His apartment was a wide-open loft. It was eclectic and cool, but there wasn’t a lot of privacy. Alexandre and I weren’t getting along well. I thought having Jennifer around would put him on his best behavior.

She came home one afternoon when Alexandre and I were in the midst of another row about our lifestyle. I said, “I’m done with it. I can’t do it anymore.”

Then he put his hands on my shoulders and shoved me so hard I
went reeling. At the same moment Jennifer opened the door. I flew across the room, right past her. She stood there in shock at the sight. I landed on the floor, hitting it hard on my hip. Like my accident, there was no pain at first. Only shock. I glanced across the room at Alexandre. His chest was heaving and he looked furious. It was as if Jennifer didn’t exist. She actually giggled from fear.

Then she came over to me, scooped me up, and got me out of the loft. In a daze, I went along to a nearby café. She ordered us coffee.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked.

“What?”

“The pushing? Has he hit you?”

“No!” He had pushed me before, though. Would he hit me the next time? I had no idea. “He’s just afraid of losing me. It can come out as anger.”

She was silent for a minute, and I realized how irrational that sounded.

“It’s time you went home,” said Jennifer. “You have to get away from this guy. Come back to New York with me.”

She was scheduled to return to New York in a week. I’d been in Alexandre’s orbit for a long time by then. His night world became mine. I was swept up in it, and had lost perspective on myself. Jennifer was like a protective Jewish mother herself at age twenty-one. She shined a harsh new light on my French affair. I’d accepted Alexandre’s possessiveness, his temper, and his criticism as part of who he was. In the artificial atmosphere of the demimonde, I thought that passionate fighting and fierce possessiveness were proof of his love for me. But they were just proof of how far I’d strayed from my own true nature. I’d let a man turn me into something I swore I would never be: someone who felt bad for herself.

Even if Alexandre hadn’t shoved me, our relationship wouldn’t
have lasted. He was thirty-three, a confirmed bachelor. Being part of the club scene perpetuated his youth. He had no intention of growing up. If I stayed with him, our future would be more of the same: clubbing, partying, big fights—possibly escalating from shoving to hitting—and passionate make-up sessions. Children, marriage, and a quiet, safe home life were out of the question. I’d been raised on crazy in New York and had come three thousand miles to replicate the old patterns. If I was going to be unstable, I might as well do it at home. I missed my parents.

I had no regrets about my three years in Paris. I learned to speak fluent French and learned a lot about myself. I had my master’s in French literature. I was twenty-three years old, an official adult. It was time to go home, and for my real life to begin.

“You’re right,” I told Jennifer. “I’m ready to go back.”

I flew back to New York within the week.

I couldn’t as easily swan back into my old life. Paris had changed me. My old friendships felt forced. It seemed like everyone had moved on to a new life with jobs, college friends, and relationships. But none of that was as disturbing as events at home.

While I was away, my parents had been in turmoil. They kept the truth from me that Dad’s business was in serious trouble. They decided to put the Kenilworth apartment on the market and were moving to Miami. Dad was in his sixties. Mom was just fifty. They were too young to make the traditional Jewish migration south.