- I can’t help but love Katy Perry. While leaving the Real Radio studios in Manchester (before her Halloween concert at the MEN Arena), she was spotted wearing a cashmere coat by Valentino from Fall/Winter 2011, a Royal British Legion poppy (Anglophilia!), a light-catching silver threaded pink scarf, black tights, black suede knee-high boots, and – the cherry on top – a blue kitten face mask. Let’s see Blair Waldorf’s headbands compete with that.
- Last night, Vivienne Westwood and her two sons spent two hours visiting and supporting London’s Occupy protesters. Infamous for her anti-establishment views, it will be interesting to see how the “Occupy” hoopla may inspire further collections.
- Say goodbye to New York Fashion Week at Lincoln Center! Though it wasn’t too long ago that the Big Apple’s portion of Fashion Month moved from Bryant Park, Mayor Bloomberg is pushing for the event to be moved to Hudson Yards. The move will be part of a $15 billion development project on Manhattan’s Far West Side and will likely redirect all of the shows to Hudson Yards’ Culture Center.
- I am truly frightened by this octopus necklace.
- Carre Otis – supermodel turned plus size supermodel – has just named and shamed her rapist in her new memoir, Beauty Disrupted. Upsettingly, the man accused is Gérald Marie, the same man who was accused of the same crime by Karen Mulder, Linda Evangelista’s ex-husband, Carre’s agent at the time, and the former head of prestigious modeling agency, Elite Paris.Otis recalls the evening below, at a point where she was 17 years old and staying in his home while under his care as agency boss, while he was both engaged to Linda Evangelista and in his mid-40s. Warning: graphic.
Hours later something woke me suddenly. I heard the drunken shuffling of feet moving down the hallway toward me. Filled with alarm, I pulled the covers up around my head. But in a flash my safe haven was invaded and I was exposed.
Gérald stood above me, ripping the covers from the bed. Before I could react, his sticky body was on me and those disgusting wet ringlets of his were falling on my face. I pushed back, but I could barely breathe with the weight of him pressing down on me. I cried out, a lame attempt to shake him from what seemed like a drunken stupor. I could smell gin on his breath as he harshly pushed his mouth onto mine, a sharp tongue darted out, trying to open my pursed lips in a grotesque kiss. The smell of him made me want to vomit. The fury in me made me want to throw him off me. But in my naked, fevered state, I couldn’t seem to find the strength or the leverage to move him aside. Gérald seemed all too expert at getting what he wanted, and in the tangle of my naked legs and pleas and cries his hand found my mouth and clamped down, trying to silence me. Why even bother? I wondered. I knew we were alone. And I knew that even if I were to fight back and scream, no one would hear me. No one would come.
Gérald proceeded to viciously penetrate my body, his grunts and groans mixed with the sound of the rain that had begun to pound the tiny window in that tiny room. My thoughts drifted to his little daughter sleeping in this same bed. How could he do this here? Then I thought of the other models who were temporarily housed in this room. I fleetingly wondered if I might not be the first girl to be violated in this strange place. I cried silently as well as out loud. I cried a river. I cried while the rains fell steadily outside. I became the rain. I became the room. I disappeared in the awful endless rocking.
I remember the horrific feeling of his penis sliding out of me, the wetness that told me he had come inside me. I remember nausea welling up, and then the involuntary gagging that began as he stood, looked down at me, then turned and stumbled out of the room.
In response to a request for comment, Elite have responded by saying, “Elite London re-opened under new management in 2009, by which time Gerald Marie had already left the Elite Network, so I’m afraid we are not in a position to comment on this story.”