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I’m colder than I’ve ever been and I burn with need Mine is not a transforlea, well-heeled beast--because once you understand the world is yours, it’s easy to do whatever you ith it

Touching ue to sharpened teeth, I wonder when ine it will be difficult but we’ll do it We’ve always sacrificed for fashion

Chanticos, beware

Waifs

Die Booth

The girl in this photograph, her name is Marie Bochert You know this because across the white panel at the bottoe, that name is written It doesn’t seem likely that Marie wrote it herself This hand is sure and forward-slanting, the pressure so confident that the pen point has engraved the paper with its en-guarde "t" Marie looks softer than that Marie looks more the 2B type, with her white, heart-shaped face and her pink, heart-shaped lips Her dark hair hanging and her broad cheekbones, this is what you see in this picture Her disheartened eyes, scolding you for noticing the what is important

"She’s pretty"

"She’s certainly pretty"

The woarded the square, black back as if expecting there to be additional infore side and shuffled again through the handful of casting Polaroids, pursing and s and sht She continued to the man at her side, "Marie Bochert But is she now?"

The ers until it became a fan-shaped blur He looked at his hands, at the table top, not up "What’s she done? Magazines--any catwalk?"

"London, spring collection, Holly Fulton: the silk jersey monochrome print"

"Oh yes, I remember" The man did not sound as if he reertips to his eyelids "I remember her more than the collection"

The woe labelled Marie Bochert to the back of a second pile "We can’t use her She takes attention away froreed Who’s next?"

"We haveAndrea Pollici"

The e and peered "Ah yes, much better--much,towards the now-open door where an assistant was beckoning curtly Behind hiainst the apple-white wall With effort not to make a sound, Marie inched back the plastic chair she was perched on and stood, scuttling to the exit with a parting glance unnoticed by the agents

First shelf: nothing Second shelf: nothing appealing either Marie picked out sardines canned in chilli to-pull lid to eat thery, all she could think of was couture Ruffles like crea across the catwalk, biscuit-base separates in oat-textured tweed She wasn’t trying to diet, it was just her calling Fashion was her nourish was: Marie Bochert really, really loved clothes

When she’d finished school with quiet grades, Marie had told people she wanted to be a fashion designer Her friends applauded her, her teachers hid smiles, and her parents raised their voices after dinner in favour of real work Design was real work It was hard Marie struggled through "Fashion Portfolio" in a foundation-level wash of h, people told her, you could be a h-street versions of the clothes she should have been creating It supplemented her parents’ payments of fees but it didn’t stem their coawped at her one-track poise Boys worked hard designing creative ways to ask for her telephone number When her foundation year finished, Marie applied for an Honours Degree in Fashion Design and Developh research methods and concept initiation baffled and bored her; she just needed her ideas rades were mundane and her portfolio muddled, no clear marketable path defined The saht Maybe not the ideal career path for you, the interviewers suggested gently, perhaps consider retail ement? They said, you’re very pretty

"Perhaps I could be aalive someone else’s vision That was one way to look at it; another was, in Marie’s experience, that ers She was "so pretty," but she was so little often right She wasn’t expressive enough, or else she pulled the wrong faces She put her feet out of line She was too obtrusive Really, she was none of these things--or rather, allclothes as any of her peers And what clothes!