No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World's First Supermodel (17 page)

FRENCH

VOGUE
,

1979.

((((((((((

120 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

He seemed surprised. Surprised and impressed.

Mike called again the next morning, this time from Paris.

“How did you get my home number?” I asked.

“Patrick Demarchelier gave it to me,” he said. “He

thinks we should be working together.”

“Is that what he thinks?”

“Yes.”

“This is my home,” I said. “In the future, I’d advise you to call my booker.”

He ignored that. “You know,” he said in that beguiling voice of his, “it’s crazy . . . I can’t find a single girl in Paris that’s right for this
Vogue
shoot. And the pity is, it’s a cover.”

I took a beat. “I travel first class,” I said.

There was a flight later that day. He told me he’d be waiting for me at Orly.

I hung up and called Willie.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

“I don’t want to be here right now,” I said. “My husband is out of his head. I hate that dump on 14th Street. I miss Paris.”

“You just got back,” she said. “You’re a star. You are solidly booked for the next three months.”

And I said, “Something happened at Mike Reinhardt’s studio.”

“Watch out for him,” Willie said. But I could feel the smile in her voice. “He’s trouble.”

I didn’t care. A little French trouble sounded pretty good.

Arriving at Orly was like a replay of the first time, with Reinhardt in the Dominick Silverstein role, red roses for daisies, and a limo with Cristal waiting for me outside.

“That’s a lot of props you’ve got there,” I told Mike.

“Flowers, champagne, a limo. Are you really that inse

Photograph not available for

SO MUCH

electronic edition

ENERGY! SHOT

FOR FRENCH

VOGUE
BY MIKE

REINHARDT.

ªªªªªªªª

cure?” Mike laughed. He

knew I was just messing

with him.

“If you think I’m trying to

seduce you, you’re wrong,” he shot right

back. “I’m simply apologizing for past sins.”

The limo dropped us in front of a gorgeous

building on the Left Bank, near Notre Dame. I

half-expected to see Quasimodo loping past, on his way to the bell tower.

Mike took me upstairs. The apartment was bright and cozy, but it had only one bedroom. Hmmm. I wondered where poor Mike was going to sleep.

I showered and we went to the Brasserie Lipp for lunch.

I sat there drinking white wine from one of their green-stemmed goblets. If he was trying to get on my good side, he was doing a pretty good job. I loved this place. I smiled at him. It was more of a tease than a smile. He smiled back, hopeful. “What are you smiling about?” I asked. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to get lucky. I’m here to work.”

122 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

He laughed and paid the bill and we spent the afternoon walking around Paris. It’s the best walking city in the world.

We didn’t get back to the apartment till nightfall. I was hungry again from all the walking. Mike opened a nice Burgundy and I sat with him in the kitchen and watched him get to work. He made a simple pasta with
haricots
verts
and tiny tomatoes. It was delicious. I liked the way he handled himself in the kitchen. I like men who cook. Men who cook are generally good lovers.

“So,” I said, “I get the bedroom, right?”

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

I got the bedroom. I wondered how long it would be

before I heard his footfalls. And I must tell you, Dear Reader, it wasn’t long at all . . .

I couldn’t get enough of Mike, but—and I’m genuinely sorry about this, Mr. Reinhardt—it wasn’t about sex. It was his mind I fell in love with. He was all about culture and good breeding. He spoke flawless

English, of course, along with

Italian, French, and German. He

gave me tours of the city’s finest

museums—in four languages.

He explained expressionism

and impressionism and degenerate art. He took me to see the
Mona Lisa
. He spent hours

showing me how much he had

MIKE REINHARDT

LOOKING GORGEOUS.

SOUTHAMPTON, 1981.

ªªªªªªªªªªªªªªªª

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 123

learned about light and composition and depth of field from Leonardo Da Vinci.

Here I was, a Florida pom-pom girl, getting a real education from a man who actually knew what he was talking about. Who cared if sex was an afterthought? It was over fast, anyway.

I was in awe of him. I didn’t speak; I listened. He was flawless. Mike Reinhardt was the man I’d been waiting for my whole life. (Love has some side effects, including tremors and delusions.) And there was an added bonus: When those first proofs came back, I looked better than I’d ever looked in my life.

On the third night we took a break and went out to

dinner with Debbie and a “new friend” of hers. Debbie looked great, but I didn’t like the guy. He was close to forty, older than Mike. She was a kid. I wondered what kind of evil father-daughter thing was at play here. It’s amazing how much a parent can damage a child. I wanted to say something to Debbie, but who was I to talk? I could see myself in her. We’d been shaped by the same forces.

Worse still, the next day I found out that the sonofabitch was running around claiming that he’d had his way with Debbie, not because of who she was, but

because she was my sister—the sister of Janice Dickinson, the hot model. I was a little flattered, sad to say, but also furious. So here’s what I did: I called the guy and told him I found him irresistible, and I wondered why he was settling for my little sister when he could have the Real Thing. I said I was doing a shoot the next day at the airport, miles from town, and suggested he book

a room for us at the Hotel Sofitel.
The penthouse would
be great. Oysters and champagne. Lots and lots of both.

I’d sneak away at lunch and join him. “I must have you,”

I said. I swear to God, I heard him whimper.

124 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

Poor sap. I had planned it so beautifully. Mike was gone all afternoon, riding his beloved ten-speed bicycle, and I was out shopping. But I stopped at pay phones every hour on the hour to call this character.
I’m coming. Please wait;
I’ve been delayed but the shoot is almost over and I’ll be
there momentarily, honest.
I made my last call around midnight, shortly after Mike had fallen asleep.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, shithead, it’s me,” I said. “I’m not going to make it, so why don’t you just fuck yourself?”

I went back to New York two days later and called Willie in advance to let her know I was ready to book and boogie.

When I set the phone down, it rang immediately. I was sure it was Mike, but it was Ron. He was coming home. “I’m sorry I went crazy on you last time, babe,” he said. “But I’m good now. I’m clean.” Uh huh. He could barely speak.

I hung up and headed for the salon. My hair was fine, but I was feeling lost, and I wanted to see a new friend of mine: Edward Tricome, this wiry, high-energy kid from Brooklyn who worked at
the
hottest salon in town, on East 57th Street.

“What’s wrong, Janice?” he asked. He was standing

behind me, the two of us reflected in the mirror. He had his hands on my shoulders. I told him the Ron story. He thought about it for maybe two seconds, then said, “Why don’t you move in with me?”

I packed a few things and went over to his apartment later that night. “You can’t live here,” I said. “This is a dump. We’ve got to find a new home.”

Mike reached me at the agency the next morning.

“Where the hell were you last night?” he asked.

“I moved out.”

“Where’d you go?”

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 125

“To Edward’s place.”

“Edward? The hair guy?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But he’s not gay!” Mike exclaimed.

“I know,” I said. “Neither am I.”

“Janice—”

“Would you relax!”

“This isn’t working for me,” Mike said. “I don’t like this at all.”

I should have been smart enough to see right then and there what fate had in store for me, but I was foolishly, blindly in love. “Mike,” I said. “You’re the only man for me.”

Guys like to hear shit like that from time to time.

He called every day. He was completely in love, he said.

I swore I’d hang up if he told me I was the best thing that ever happened to him. It’s a line I hope never to hear again.

Of course, love is never uncomplicated. Mike was “sort of ” dating another model at the time, Barbara Minty.

“Have you told her yet?” I asked.

“As soon as I get back,” he promised.

I worked like a banshee that next week. But every night after work, no matter how tired I was, I’d hook up with Edward and this mousy little broker and we’d trek from one apartment to the next. On the third night we found ourselves in a duplex on East 59th Street. There was something really tacky about the place. We loved it.

The following Saturday, Edward and I moved into our new digs. In the middle of the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Edward answered the door. A middle-aged man was standing in the corridor.

“Is Kathy here?” he asked.

“There’s no Kathy here,” Edward said.

ªªªªªªªªªªªªª

FRIEND, ROOMMATE,

PROTECTOR, AND

BOYFRIEND-TO-DEBBIE:

EDWARD TRICOME.

The man looked confused and left.

Twenty minutes later another

guy stopped by. He was looking for

Sybil. Ten minutes after that it was a Haitian businessman looking for Candy.

“This used to be a fucking whorehouse!” Edward said, doubled over with laughter. We couldn’t believe it. We went back to our unpacking but a few minutes later the doorbell rang again. A big guy was standing there. He looked like a mobster.

“Is Alice around?”

I couldn’t resist: “Alice doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy said. He pushed his way inside and began to look around.

“Hey! You can’t do that, pal,” Edward said. Edward, who was half the guy’s size. The guy ignored him. We followed him into the kitchen. There were boxes everywhere.

What did he think, that we were bullshitting him?

“The girls are gone,” I said. I wanted him out of there.

“Oh yeah?” The mobster turned and took me in with his lopsided grin. “You look pretty good to me.”

Edward grabbed a butcher knife and put it to the guy’s throat.

“Hey, pal, I don’t think you’re listening too good.

There’s no hookers here no more. They went bye-bye.

And you better go fucking bye-bye, too.”

The guy left. I slammed and bolted the door behind

N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 127

him. I was terrified. “Jesus! Edward! I can’t believe you did that! You’re my hero.”

“Don’t look now,” Edward said. “But I think I peed my pants.”

When Mike came back from Paris two weeks later, he

invited me over to his studio at Carnegie Hall and cooked me an amazing dinner. By the time we got to dessert he told me he’d broken up with Barbara and asked me to move in with him. I said I’d think about it.

I did think about it. But not too deeply. My last stab at conjugal bliss hadn’t exactly been a resounding success. I wanted to get to know Mike better, not get in too deeply too quickly. Plus I liked my newfound freedom. And I liked living with Edward. Well,
living with Edward
is a bit of an overstatement: I was at Mike’s about four nights a week.

This went on for several months. And it was working.

Mike kept begging me to move in with him, and I kept saying no. Still, it’s nice to be asked, nice to be wanted.

Then Debbie came back to New York and crashed with

me and two nights later I came home and found her in bed with Edward. It was kind of weird. My little sister and my roommate, lying there, grinning up at me like naughty children.