He swore black and blue he’d have an early one tonight. But as he hugged her tight in the midnight hour, hopes of that were dashed. Because if ever there was a time to say it, it would almost certainly be now. And if ever there was a moment as fearless as now, they knew it would be one that may never come again.

She curls herself in the goodness of his arms as they lose themselves in careful conversation. The sky twinkled against a pitch-black canvas. They were in the throes of winter but his virtuous blanket of adoration kept the cold at bay. 

She began.

“It’s bottom-of-your-heart-type-stuff. When you can’t see it, you can feel it. And you know that even though it may change, it will never, ever, fade.”

“It’s so different from being in love. Because loving someone is a choice. An action. A doing-word.”

He scrunches up his nose in confusion. 

But then, he starts to smile back at her.

Because definitions and rules aside, he never doubted how he felt. 

He knew she was the one.

And stars in the sky aside, it was his words that would set this moment ablaze.

“I do. God, of course I do. There is no other feeling. And no other choice.” 

He grasps at a handful of words to find only three that really mattered.

And it was this moment that she knew she felt the same way too.

“I love you.”

When: 17:00 on a flippant Saturday afternoon

Where: Port Beach, Fremantle.

Wearing: Shakuhachi dress, Scanlan & Theodore japanese silk bomber, Balenciaga bag, Country Road leather waist belt & sandals. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All photography credited to my uber talented bf Jamie

My late grandmother once told me to never get married.

Whilst it seemed like eccentric advice at the time, over the years I began to understand. Because how do you know you will spend the rest of your life with just one person? Where would I find someone who wants to spend the rest of their life with me too?

And what will it take for you to weather the storms with me? What happens when love isn’t enough?

Because I’ve been there, done that. I’ve dated someone longer than some people have been married. And I was there when I bitterly discovered love wasn’t enough. 

But what once appeared preposterous and ridiculous to me has suddenly become believable. So believable that it’s truly unbelievable.

Because he made me realise why people do it. Why I would give up everything in this world to spend the rest of my life with him. Why handpicked flowers and sweet post-it notes aside, he’s so incredible.

And I don’t know how you did it but the thought of waking up next to you just to see your smile in the morning is what it will take for me to weather the storms.

With you.

I started this blog to help me see the luster in all my rough patches. And as it saw me through the darkest periods of my life thus far, I also feel so incredibly special to have inspired people I’ve never met, and people I’ve known my whole life.

But I’ve always believed it’s not that we don’t have enough time; rather, it’s that we don’t make the time. And so, many 4am bedtimes and 7am wake up calls later, something’s gotta give. I’m giving up blogging for a while whilst I reel my life back in, or until I figure out a way for books to write themselves!

So rest assured, I’ll be back – one day.

The photography dilettante cradles her day-old Nikon in her hands. Peering through the lens, she waits for a beautiful ribbon of water to make its way to the sandbar. Then, underneath the stars, she presses the shutter. Once. Twice. 

And on thrice, she feels something rouse to her left. A presence so stirring and simply magnetic: something unmistakably electric but so breathtakingly compelling. 

In photography terms, she is the rookie and he is the enthusiast. And in so many ways, he is the Jedi and she is the Padawan. But this, they do not know yet. Because little do they realise this is just the beginning.

She looks out into the twilight and, breathlessly, she begins to think aloud.

“There’s something about the sound of waves crashing to the shore that’s so god damn beautiful.”

She doesn’t turn to face him. And he says not one word in reply. But she knows he was listening; that he understands just how much a glimpse of the ocean can take the pain away.

But what he doesn’t know – and not for a while yet – is how much she is hurting. That she has plans to leave, to fulfill an insatiable desire to escape this town. Just her, a battered mind, an assaulted heart and a bruised ego.

The sound of rolling waves have taken her hurt away more times than she could count in a calendar month. And so it seems that tonight – the evening the full moon was nigh – will become another one of those times.

*  *  * 

There was something so cavalier about getting to know one another over chamomile at 2 in the morning at his.

She was way past her curfew but kind of thirsty after their photography excursion. As he poured the tea out of the glass beaker and warmed it in a mug for her, she propped herself up on the counter and lamented the perils of her quarter life.

The sound of tiny fish beckoning wayward in a tank filtered through his kitchen. The ruffled snore of his aloof but enchanting dog and the rustling of an albino pet rabbit provided a background symphony to what would become a love story in its infancy.

He watched her speak articulately, with a lucid sincerity beyond her allure and a maturity beyond her blossoming years. In between careful sips of chamomile, her eyes lit up with such animation that he thought he could lose himself in her charisma. And without even trying, she blew him away; and he was certain he had never met anyone as inspiring as she. 

She knelt down on the cold tiles to greet the endearing treasure that was his dog. And as ivory marshmallowed mops of fur nuzzled her neck, he looked over at the beautiful élan that was her and wished she didn’t have to leave tonight.

But he had already made up his mind. She was the one. And in those moments that she would smile to herself whilst she spoke, he knew she was the girl he had waited 27 years for.

“Oh… I’ve found you.”

Breathlessly. But before she can muse any further, he breaks her train of thought. As she curls up next to him on the plush leather couch, he points to an antique poster of a Miyazaki masterpiece that is anchored on the wall above them. 

“My favourite film…”, he coos. In awe of the beautiful coincidence, he proceeds to enlighten her on a special castle that swirled in the sky once upon a time in a place called Laputa. 

It is his first time in this literary sanctuary of hers. She brought him here because he can never find the time to sit down and read. Books of all shapes and subject matters are stacked like Jenga blocks at their feet. Her head rests on his shoulder as he thumbs through a colourful book on the brilliance of animations. His other hand has curled itself in hers, resting in her lap. And the two of them simply just read.

As she catches her breath at the sublime way Nam Le weaves simple words in his debut novel, he steals a glance at her. And he thinks to himself this:

“In amongst a crowd of beautiful thoughts, this one resonates the most tonight. I could see us doing this in our own living room one day.”

He looks at his girl, who attempts to juggle the pages of her paperback with one hand just so she can hold his hand with the other. And she thinks to herself this:

“He is so incredible. And I could spend the rest of my life curled up just like this.”

“YES! Say it a million times. Then say it a million more.” – Yes Man (2008)

She blushes madly. And there’s something about the way he smiles at her. And in that moment, they knew this was It. It was unexpected, unplanned, and it was downright crazy. It was dizzying, it was dazzling, but it just felt so right.

It is an hour past midnight. The cafe moonlights as a revered hang-out, popular for debuting embryonic jazz bands and arousing intimate chats in mellowed booths. For hours, they have found themselves engrossed in conversations concerning movies, music and heartbreak.

He sits across from her in mesmerised disbelief. As he crosses his legs nervously under the table, she faintly grazes her bare calf against his well-worn jeans, half-hoping he’d notice. Their eyes dart back and forth, from coffee machine to his heartfelt expressions, from the glass of water she sips periodically to the way she wears his jacket with such a graceful aloofness.

The sleeves of his jacket are upturned because they are too long on her. The silk slip dress she chose to wear tonight peeks out from underneath. But he keeps her warm with his smiles and his beaten windbreaker, with its crimson lining covering her small wrists. And it is magnificently addictive: him watching her watching him watching her. And for a good five minutes, they wish they had the courage to think aloud; to say what they’ve wanted to say for so long now; to be together, at long last.

It feels so right that it doesn’t feel real. And in their eyes, they search to make sense of their feelings for one another. 

Finally, her eyes ask him what he’s thinking about.

And his lips say this:

“What I’m about to ask you is something so unplanned.”

He dares to look at her for a second. There is an indescribable beauty in the way she smiles tenderness at him.

This is the moment. 

And he starts by saying this:

“I was wondering…”

 And his eyes lose themselves deeply in hers…

“…if you would like to be my girlfriend.”

Poetry.

In the dimly lit cafe, the excitement of a budding romance is clear as day. She reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers for the very first time.

He has left her wondrously speechless. But in the cafe that buzzes with the sounds of jazz music, she drowns out the music to finally catch her breath, and to him lyrics this:

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Haunt: The Beaufort St Merchant, Mt Lawley

Poison: Soy Latte in a mug – $5

Time: 7:45 in the a.m.

Garb: Fleur Wood broderie dinner jacket cinched at the waist with Aurelio Costarella black silk wide belt, black linen boyfriend trousers & ballerina slippers

The lady in a fuschia cashmere scarf ambles out of her anthracite 320i. Immaculately groomed, she sports tousled auburn hair and a battered black leather doctors’ bag in the crook of her arm. She takes a seat by the window and shortly after, her piping hot flat white arrives. 

A suit and tie, progressively greying, is only a step behind her. Adorns his wedding finger is a gold band. He is possibly an empty-nester and a prominent businessman if his furrowed expression is anything to go by. He doesn’t occupy his seat for long, he is most likely on the go. I’d go as far as saying he will probably join the herd on the Terrace this morning.

Then a willowy attractive blonde steps in, with her partner – good looks and all – in tow. Your usual nightmare. She makes a beeline for the antique leather couch and opens the daily whilst he orders for the both of them. They chat sporadically, like most comfortable couples do, reading newspapers separately. Her choice read? The middle part of The West, like most thespians, and girls alike on any given Wednesday. Naturally, I notice her sublime, effortless morning outfit. Like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s; she could give Holly Golightly a run for her money. Nonetheless, she is enveloped in a black drapey robe cardigan that falls past her knees. Peeking out from underneath is a silk faille slip dress, lace-trimmed, I think, in a brilliant shade of fairy floss pink.

In amongst the quiet calamity, a middle-aged woman adorned with black-framed specs tucks into her fruit toast. Her flat white has just been delivered by a spunky waiter with a neat crew cut. As always, my eyes travel to her choice of handbang, languishing on the timber bench where her coffee has taken pride of place. I recognise the unmistakable Prada triangle but deliberate its authenticity given the tarnished gold hardware. Ah, such frivolous matters enthrall me so.

The ensembley-challenged couple to my right appears as though they live in the area. He is endearingly dressed in jeans, sneakers and a moss-brown cotton overcoat. She is clad in a white crochet concoction of some sort, layered over a black camisole. Whilst he devours in his bacon and eggs, she catches up on the breaking news in newspaper form. They are a stark, but refreshing, contrast to the rest of the suits and ties in the coffee institution. 

Cars flash by outside. People have places to go and promises to break. Buses whizz by, collecting office workers and uni students.

The man in the moss-brown jacket kisses his wife goodbye and boards a bus. But no matter; her scrambled eggs and news of stocktake sales will amuse her for the next half hour.

I crane my neck to read a blackboard hitched high on the wall behind me. I think it’s totally cool how they knocked off an old door and transformed it into a wall piece, and slapped some blackboard paint onto it. The chalky scribble reads something quite long and winded, but ends with “…mmm, beer.”, quoting none other than Homer Simpson.

He looks like he is on his day off. Or perhaps he was recently made redundant and drowning his sorrows in a large mug of latte and a magazine. Converse sneakers, a striped hoody, and sunnies perched on his head: all essential ingredients for a languid day off.

I love winter clothes. A blonde woman with nape-of-neck-length hair strolls in, hiding behind her black Wayfarers. She is wearing all black; with the exception of a sensational bright pink pashmina draped effortlessly over her shoulders. She’s all cool. I have just noticed the colour of her canvas tote: mustard yellow. A beautiful collision indeed.

Another waiter drops by my table and notices I am almost through my mug of soy latte. He asks if I’m up for another one. Hm. Cute smile.

The florist across the road prepares to open shop for the day. Dandelions, tulips, gerberas, carnations and the ubiquitous roses. I wonder which ones my mum would like today?

The lady with the mustard yellow handbag takes her sunglasses off. She is joined by a hoard of similarly-aged women, all dressed in black. Why the drab garb? Is Perth the new Melbourne? The phethora of morbid-garbed women are juxtaposed by the youthful exuberance in manner of a cherub-faced girl in a Perth College uniform. But don’t let her embryonic looks fool you: she fits in rather nicely with the ladies of old money and wealth.

Men in suits. This one is wearing a dove-grey slim-cut ensemble, accessorising it with a black leather compendium. I catch him looking at me for a fair while. Me providing him with early-morning eye candy? Nah… I didn’t even brush my hair this morning – because it was so knotty that I gave up halfway straggling a comb through it – and my dark circles would scare little children despite the Becca concealer I’ve caked on in the wee hours of this morning. I conclude that he’s probably attempting to decipher Homer Simpson behind me.

8:35am and an enormous amount of passer-bys flock into the Merchant. 9-5′ers no doubt.

This place seriously rocks. 

The waiter interrupts my thoughts and asks me what’s wrong with their music. I unplug the white earphones and tell him I’m writing and I like to listening to Jessica Mauboy whilst doing so. He asks me if I’d like another coffee. Soon, I say.

Hmm. About time for more poison. I do the really nice thing and take my empty mug to the counter so the lovely waitstaff don’t have to drop by my table for the quadbillioneth time. As I order a small mocha, the barista asks me how my latte was. Fantastic as always, I reply. Referring to my gesture of bringing my empty mug to the counter, the other waiter taps me on the arm and jokingly enquires why Australians don’t like table service. I laugh warmly and retort with “No, Australians are just nice and considerate.” Cue my trademark cheeky smile.

Aww. Obligatory cute moment. A toddler in a knitted rainbow cardigan stumbles past my table. With pom poms on his sleeves, he looks like a licorice allsort with a mop of blonde hair on top. I look to the counter and see the barista preparing a babycino for this cutie, who just so happened to throw a tantrum at the table, whilst his mother, up to her elbows with another rambunctious infant, tries to curb his wallowing.

I wonder if the Merchant knows I’m people-watching. Or if they suspect I’m reviewing their coffee. Because when my mocha arrives, complete with a smile from the waiter, I not only get two marshmallows but also an adorable leopard-speckled yellow frangipani on the side. I look around and revel in the fact that no one else gets handpicked flowers with their order…

Hmm. Perhaps next time I’ll work on a free coffee.

“There is a sort of melancholia which I find quite elegant after the ‘bimbo years’.” – Karl Lagerfeld

wearing fleur wood eliza maxi dress in blush pink, handmade floral headpiece & bare feet.

alone with my fancies

Wearing Camilla & Marc Adelia frock in ink navy & Country Road platforms

A symphony of awkward silences orchestrate a melody ever so tenderly. Three months ago, he would be tracing his fingers along the small of her back. She would nestle herself in one swift jigsaw move, to discover the infatuation personified in his embrace.

“You are all my Christmases.”  

He always so effortlessly elevated her to the lofts of perfection. His words of adulation read like poetry.

And poetry was her ultimate Achilles. The spin he charmed her with gave her love and light, breaking down the walls she had built in the wake of her previous heartbreak. He unravelled her with every word giving her a glimmer of hope that perhaps one day when he wasn’t 4300km apart they could be together again. Theirs was a simple happiness defined by a summer romance so intensely profound but fleeting all the same.

Three months later, the bench is frosted with the seaside midnight air. It is crisp and it pinches, startling her, as she gregariously settles down next to him. 

The murmur of evening fishermen inspires him to break the awkward silence.

“I’m not worth your thoughts anymore.”

“Our time together was great and it was amazing, but I was in the moment.”

He senses two once-idyllic forces opposing one another. He knows they both want different things but he is no longer what she deserves. 

“I wake up and want to do so many things. I’m fickle, I’m selfish, I can’t offer you stability.”

She hears her heart break. She let him in, she gave him everything, she was the one who was supposed to change him. She could have easily loved him all her life if he had simply liked her back. But clearly, she never had his heart and they were never meant to be. 

“Forget about me… and us.”

“Even if I had stayed… we wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

Without a doubt he had an innate ability to know exactly how to twist the knife.

‘Forgetting’ meant disregarding the amount of times he told her she was the one and only. How many times did he tell her she was unlike any other girl he knew; and how often did his lips find his way in the nape of her neck late at night?

Clearly, none of this mattered to him anymore. She couldn’t comprehend how swiftly he could forget all of it. Did he not mean a word of the amorous things he used to say to her? The passionate embraces, the charismatic serenading, the sweeping-off-her-feet, the way they used to melt. The times they sat on the end of a jetty, losing themselves in each other, until dusk beckoned. Was it really that unforgettable? 

Because you told her that day underneath the timber steps that you could never forget the first time you saw her walk into the room. The way she sent you weak at the knees with her beautifully enigmatic presence. You convinced her to subsist on imagining life together, that forever was foreseeable. She gave you everything and in return you didn’t even have the balls to fulfill the least of all your futile promises.

Do you remember that night you looked her in the eye and promised you would do everything in your power not to hurt her?

So you need not call her anymore. Don’t tell her you miss the sound of her voice. Don’t tell her she is the most beautiful person you know. Don’t promise her a spot on your couch for her. Don’t write a song about her and pretend you meant every single word. Don’t you dare come back and lie to her face ever again. And don’t you dare fool yourself into thinking that this meant nothing to you.

She deserves so much better than you. 

He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, nonchalant of the inconsolable misery he has inflicted on her. A girl who was never able to take off her rose-coloured glasses is now one filled with profound bitterness, beguiling the sweetness that once defined her.

Screw you.

She is done writing this chapter. He no longer deserves any part of her. She catches herself from despair, hits the pavement, and keeps walking.

Thank you for finally giving her a reason to get over you.

 

Much is said of the first kiss.

But what about the last kiss?

The guitar lies by the wayside after fearlessly strumming a song that was written about me. It was unbelievable, dizzying, tear-inducing. The most incredible thing I’ve ever heard in my life. 

We sit in the backseat of my car, by a pond that is home to turtles, and prepare our goodbye speech. For the past two months, we feverishly borrowed time we couldn’t have, delaying our misery until one day time would escape from our clutches.

Today, that one day has arrived. Tomorrow will bring all but one desire; he will leave me behind, and there will be 4300kms and a different time zone separating us.

The goodbye is heartbreaking and gut wrenching. Bittersweet and cruel. Beautiful because it is courageous.

As much as I have tried so desperately to fight it, tears get the best of me. I fall to pieces in his arms, hoping he couldn’t care less about the saliferous legacy I’m leaving upon his shoulder. The silence resonates, but is punctuated by the bravery of our conversations. He interrupts my coming undone.

“How am I going to get over you babe.”

I paint a face of pragmatism. Brutal honesty encapsulates my reply.

“You’ll miss me for a while. But then you’ll start to think of me less and less, until you almost forget what it’s like to miss me. And somewhere down the line, you’ll move on and you won’t miss me anymore.”

I am scrupulously emphatic in a lame attempt to pull myself together.

But. I lose it.

I kiss him with tears streaming down my face. It’s messy. It’s salty. But it’s beautiful and so damn poetic. It’s the kind you see in movies. Impulsive, passionate, gutsy and heavyhearted. A perfect cliche.

It’s like lingering magic, naturally something we never want to wind-up. But the minutes cruelly tick over until we only have five of them left to explore every nook and cranny in our embrace.

Eventually and reluctantly, we adjourn. I rest my weariness against the window of my car. So sad, but a rush of sweetness fills me up inside.

My lips are violently bee-stung and turn a shade of just-bitten crimson. They know this taste of alkaline all too well. He catches the tears from my pillowy cheeks and I flash my beaming smile.

For all the park-bench moments, the wistful late-night rendezvous, the head-over-feet infatuations. 

For the Simple Happiness that has articulated this sweetest last kiss.

Write about a third date.

Quarter past nine on an unruffled Friday evening. The air stands still, and from the moment he steps out, my heart ticks over a little more briskly. I wait for him across the road, leaning against my car, and pull the daggiest grin. Unlike our first date – and even the second – any awkwardness dissipates, and what remains is an insatiable sense of anticipation, excitement, intoxication – the ridiculous but beautiful things that transpire from seeing someone for only the third time.

Our eyes meet, and as we lose ourselves in each other’s fervent gaze, there are no words. Nothing that could better convey such sweet intensity.

As he throws a picnic rug into my car, I wonder where he’s taking me tonight. Guiding me through his neighbourhood of glittering streetlights and immaculate gardens, we end up pulling into an empty parking lot framed by a tremendous park. As I leave my car behind, he takes my hand and leads me down a path that is heavily concealed by the rustling and darkening of eucalyptus and paperbark. Giggling our way through the shrubs, we finally stumble across a street lined with ivory pillars, dapper mansions, resplendent iron gates, and driveways decorated with glossy cars. 

Our hands intertwined, we walk past each masterpiece and I marvel. He points out where he used to play; where his childhood friend once lived; and essentially how he spent his formative years, so grounded amongst such affluence.

We begin to breathe the same air as avid joggers and dog walkers – clearly oblivious to the dark, winding roads before them.

I can’t help but notice festivity wafting in the air. A warm glow exudes from the panes of bay windows. The latter fringes of November spells the beginning of Christmas celebrations, and I can feel the revelry grazing my senses. Onto Jutland Parade, and the castles grow. He assures me that we are close to finding his secret place, but in the meantime, we lose ourselves in each other’s mutterings and musings. He is incredible, it is beautiful, something kind of wonderful.

It turns so dark and eerie that I find myself looking over my shoulder possessedly. I hold his hand a little more intensely only to discover overwhelming solace in his clutch. I had almost forgotten how much I missed this feeling.

We reach Dalkeith’s dazzling raptures; on a cliff edge that overlooks the winding sandspit of Point Walter. The revelry has followed us in the form of a rambunctious chartered vessel meandering past Millionaire’s Row. Their debauchery slips through our fingers because we know that standing on this cliff tonight is as good as it gets. 

He takes me further into the abyss to uncover his secret hiding spot. We scamper down a flight of gravel-covered steps and find ourselves at the pebbly shore. Complete and utter solitude. The moon kindly weaves its luminosity through stems and branches, and eventually finds itself upon the beribboned stillness of the river.

Conversations unravel.

“Will you come visit.”

“Maybe.”

“Our days are numbered.”

“Life is numbered.”

I shrug.

The rug unfurls and he begins to enlighten me on a belt belonging to Orion.

“She sailed to America with the swan, planning to have a daughter who is just like her, but without her sadness and oppressed life. But immigration officials took the swan away from her, so she was left with only a feather. She wants to give her ignorant daughter this feather, but she is waiting until she could say what it meant in perfect English.” – The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan

Where: Lake Monger, West Leederville

Time: 19:00-ish

Poison: Chai Tea Latte

“As a model, you’re so used to taking your clothes off that you just don’t care.” – Tyra Banks

Day 1 – Saturday 21 February 2009

11:00

Dressers, stylists, event coordinators, and Important People trickle backstage, the latter of whom are mostly in a flurry and very, very high-strung. The adrenaline starts pumping already. There is a lot of waiting around and a great deal of watching a myriad of personalities skulk their way through secret passages and locked doors. Whilst waiting, I strike up a conversation with fellow dresser Tammy and we chat about her exciting foray into shoe-designing and shoe-making. We both have various contacts in the industry, whom regularly enlist very ordinary people like me to put clothes on models. It’s an interesting path I’ve gone down since dressing at my first fashion show – Boobalicious Ball – a year ago, and provides an unreal escape from my 9-5 job. 

11:15

The 10 or so dressers are led backstage and as we plop down on the floor, our Head Dresser, Zoe, briefs us on the parade. There are three parades in total, each encompassing a different theme – Soft Goth (lots of lace, dark rimmed eyes, black leather gloves and tailored suiting), Festival (think fringing, liberty prints, paisley, oh so 70s), and Country (plaids, puffer jackets, denim, suspenders!). There are 16 models, three of whom are male (Luke Quill – of Make Me A Supermodel fame, Adam, and Lloyd). Amongst the many enviously long-limbed girls, Gemma Bidstrup (winner of Search for a Supermodel 2001) and Courtney Chircop (who achieved a top 3 placing in Make Me A Supermodel) secured gigs at this Myer A/W parade. Courtney is shorter than I had imagined, however I struggle to see the weight she allegedly put on during the latter stages of the reality modelling tv show – she is tiny!

11:30

Renowned Perth stylist Sylvia Gauci, powerwalks in and apologises for her tardiness. She cordially introduces herself and gets down to business. Sylvia is the utmost professional, and possesses an extraordinary amount of patience (given only 10 of the 16 dressers have turned up, and the racks of clothes are very, very late). Tasks are delegated to us Dressers – we start by organising the shoes by model and theme. I tack model comp cards up on the wall, and then hurry into the service lift to see if the racks of clothes have arrived yet. 

11:45

No sign of clothes yet, and the first parade is due to start in 45 minutes. As with all fashion shows, there is an extraordinary amount of waiting that goes on backstage, with most of that time spent anticipating the next orders. Sure enough, the phone call to notify us the beloved clothes have arrived, finally comes through. 

Noon

The models arrive, having been in hair and makeup since 9am. Sylvia barks orders and each Dresser is assigned a model to work with for the entirety of the day. I am dressing the tall, handsomely ripped Lloyd (I swear, I had no choice in this matter!) but secretly breathe a sigh of relief – no fumbling with stockings, bangles, gloves, buckled boots and complicated dresses! I’ve worked at half a dozen fashion shows and have only dressed female models, so this should be an experience!  Guys’ clothes are so simple, are they not? 

Tantrums, diva behaviour, cattiness and ice queens – these are the most common misperceptions of models. But surprisingly enough, I have actually never witnessed a single episode of Divaism. In fact, the models are incredibly easy to work with, friendly, and extremely professional. Most of them are pretty down to earth and find enjoyment and frivolity in what they’re getting paid to do.

12:10

With the A/W fashion launch due to get underway in 20 minutes, backstage inevitably transforms into a madhouse. Yes, the models fling off their clothes, bras, shirts, shoes, and… before you start to fantasise about it turning into a pillow fight or pajama party (here’s looking at you Rob), the models quickly step into their Goth digs. Whilst the girls negotiate 1940s-inspired looks, I thread a belt through Lloyd’s jeans loops, button up his shirt, and ensure everything is tucked in where they should be. Too easy.

Something’s missing though. Like a veteran, Lloyd points to the tie languishing on the rack, and at a frantic pace, we windsor knot the tie – to no avail! Too short, too long, the knot is too thick. Lloyd gives windsor knots a go but it turns out a little awry. He gives it to me and I admittedly do a better job, but it’s too short! Eurgh! Who said dressing a guy was a cinch again? We consult Zoe, who instructs us to tie it neatly. I hurriedly give it two last shots, and ta-da! It’s possibly half a centimetre too short, but it will do. 

12:25

Fashionably late, Jennifer Hawkins walks in, and yes, everyone gawks and gasps. And yes, she is unbelievably stunning. Beyond beautiful for words almost. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in the flesh, let alone be standing a few centimetres away from her. She quickly says her hellos, and everyone watches as she is reunited with Courtney and Luke (Jen hosted Make Me A Supermodel). Jen is opening the parade so quickly ducks into her own dressing room with a couple of her minions to primp and prime herself. 

12:30

The fashion parade is running behind schedule, as it can’t start without Jen. In the meantime, the Dressers stand back, whilst the models practise their walk in six-inch ankle boots. Gemma Bidstrup, who is struggling in her boots, recounts a story to me and a couple of Dressers about how she once got to the end of the runway and one of her shoes suddenly flung off into the crowd, hitting a photographer in the face.

I am completely enamoured with a particular Camilla and Marc plum silk drapey dress that looks breathtaking on the model. All love. Paired with black tights and those six-inch booties, with a messy bun peeking out from underneath a woollen beret, the  look is complete, and pays tribute to the sublime craftmanship and extraordinary talent of the brother and sister duo.

12:40

Jen emerges, looking every inch the Miss Universe, and quickly steps up onto the podium backstage to be briefed on her guest appearance. She wears a deliciously violet, tiered silk, off-shouldered concoction by Nicola Finetti, a dress clearly referenced from Herve Leger’s trademark bandage aesthetic. Her dark blonde tresses cascade in loose curls past her shoulders, and I am in absolute awe of her flawless, delicate bone structure. She is much taller than I thought, in real life, and admittedly she does look a tad healthier than the rest of the models. Jen is quiet, possibly jetlagged, but ever so friendly and amiable. 

12:45

A Channel Seven news personality MCs the event, and introduces the shows to his captive audience. We hear them cheer (and a great deal of wolf whistling) at the announcement that Jennifer Hawkins is about to step out). The models line up in order and Sylvia coordinates their positions. The music starts. Jen walks out first to a bellow of cheers and claps, and the rest of the models follow.

A flurry of models come off the runway and the second change begins. The intensity of the atmosphere and stress levels hikes up a notch. Half-naked models, both male and female, get ready for their next lot of digs. Shoes, skirts, and blouses are strewn all over the floor, and it will be the Dresser’s job to put them neatly back into order. I dress Lloyd in a black embroidered shirt, a perfectly-fitted grey suit and black leather loafers. No tie this time, thank God. And this time, dressing him is over in a fast 10 seconds.

All the models line up once more, and walk the runway.

13:00

The first parade is over, and everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. But our thoughts immediately turn to the next parade in 30 minutes. We need a new rack of clothes, and the models need some fresh air. The Dressers rest for all but five minutes – there are shoes to be put away, shirts to be hung correctly, and clothes to be transported away, ready for the Festival rack.

I accompany a couple of the Dressers to the storeroom where we work swiftly to swap old clothes with new. We triple check that we have all the clothes, and that they are in perfect order.

13:15

Like scenes out of The Devil Wears Prada, we run back to headquarters with a rack of clothes in tow, and like vultures, the Dressers claim the outfits that have been assigned to their model.

Most of the models are back now, and start getting changed.

All but one – Lloyd has gone missing! I wait earnestly for a while, but still no sign of him. Sylvia desperately tries to get a hold of him. I stand forlorn, holding his shirt and jeans, which thankfully only entails a quick change.

13:30

But Lloyd is not the only person tardy. Jen is running late again, and Parade 2 is delayed by another 15 minutes.

Lloyd finally bursts through the door and quickly pulls off his shirt. I put a new one on him – a floral Wayne Cooper oxford…sounds cruel and torturous to put onto a man’s back, but it is far too frantic to chuck a tantrum. I make a conscious effort not to ogle as he strips down to his briefs, and hurriedly give him the jeans he is to wear. He slips on his own bohemian necklace to complete the look.

13:40

Jen Hawkins finally arrives and knowing full-well she is running behind schedule, madly steps into her dressing room. She reappears, dazzling in a black, beaded shift dress. Everyone assumes their positions, and Parade 2 begins.

The next 20 minutes entail more wardrobe changes, running backstage in six-inch heels and more flinging off of various garments. Oh yeah, and a major music malfunction occurs midway. The look on everyone’s faces is priceless, but the show goes on.

14:00

As the second parade comes to a close, we put everything back in order, ready for the next rack of clothes. There is (thankfully) only one parade left – the third one due to start in half an hour. Sylvia has put a ban on anyone leaving the backstage area (thanks Lloyd) so whilst we wait for the arrival of the new racks, models and dressers take a breather. Some models grab a quick bite to eat whilst the others talk amongst themselves, or take some timeout on the floor. 

14:15

The clothes are here! And models, dressers and stylists alike get to work. Lloyd is unnerved to find he is wearing a farmer shirt underneath a pair of suspenders. Sounds heinous but he pulls it off effortlessly. Naturally, it doesn’t take too long to dress him, so I help out some of the other girls whose female models are struggling with pulling off their boots, and unbuttoning their tops.

It might sound a bit pervy but things backstage go at a million miles an hour that even the male models don’t flinch when the female model next to him is kind of topless! I guess a job is a job, and much to the envy of a many men out there, they probably see it all the time.

14:30

It is Jennifer Hawkins’ last roll of the dice, before she spends the afternoon signing autographs and taking photos with a multitude of fans. She stands next to me, waiting for instructions, wearing a breathtaking Yeojin Bae dress – a coral silk georgette draped bodice that connects to a silk satin tiered bandage skirt. The coral is amazing against her tan, and her hair, now in a loose ponytail, is so effortlessly chic.

14:35

The third and last parade kicks off. Lloyd comes off the runway and announces that he is loving the suspenders. But no time to spare. I quickly pull off his clothes and dress him. Zoe gives him the ultimate accessory – a pair of bongo drums! Whilst he spends a good 10 minutes figuring out how to carry such an accessory, Zoe unsuccessfully convinces the other model, Adam, to carry the tambourine. Too funny.

15:00

The shows wraps up, and everyone clambours to get a photo backstage with Jen. She is clearly tired, but obliges for a few. I note that she is always so pleasant despite being carted to and fro, most likely all weekend, and having instructions barked at her; what to do, where to go, what to wear.

As she prepares to pack up and leave for Sydney that same evening, we pack the clothes away, before grabbing some much-needed sustenance with the models. After polishing off the sandwiches and fruit, we are amused to find a hoard of people hanging around the entrance/exit to backstage, eagerly awaiting their brush with fame, in the form of Jen. There is burly security outside, ensuring the camera flashes and overzealous boys don’t obstruct the former Miss Universe.

15:10

Jen emerges, wearing her own clothes – clad in a simple tee shirt, jeans and a tan fringed bag. Stunning. She navigates a fuss-free way out after saying a personal goodbye to all of us dressers and stylists. Wow.

A couple of dressers and I, along with Sylvia, head into Jen’s dressing room to find her parade outfits hung haphardly on the racks, or strewn over the floor. Nicola Finetti, Rebecca Taylor, Yeojin Bae, Steve Madden boots. We fold them away and pack them into Jen’s suitcase, so that she can take it back with her to Sydney. I notice she takes a size 40 in shoes, and that she borrowed Courtney Chircop’s strapless bra for the parade! Sylvia takes care of that, whilst we finish up, in awe and totally spun out that we just packed Jennifer Hawkins’ suitcase! 

15:20

Our day ends an hour ahead of schedule (relief!) and after tidying up and transporting the rack of clothes back to its home, we are free to spend the rest of our day as we please.

Roll on tomorrow!

Day 2 – Sunday 22 February 2009

Before the show

Less Dressers turn up today so I volunteer to coordinate the dressing of two models – I stick with Lloyd, who I hope requires minimal attention, and I primarily shift my focus to Gemma Bidstrup, who is sans Dresser. I familiarise myself with her SIX pairs of shoes, the myriad of cuffs, necklaces and headpieces she must wear, and the dreaded stockings. Thankfully, she’s a consummate professional, having taken part in countless runway shows in the past. 

During the show

Everyone’s in a noticeably more relaxed mood today, but unfortunately it shows on the catwalk. In between parades, the models are blasted for not performing their formations correctly, and for appearing slack and out of touch. They are warned that if it continues into the next parade, Myer won’t be booking any of them for future shows. It really hits home what an integral role the model has in selling the product they’re wearing – and it’s especially an eye-opener seeing how they react to criticism of their work.

Before the third parade, the models spend their break rehearsing their formations over and over again. They are told their looks have to be  ”strong” and “energetic”, with “half-smiles” dictating the last parade.

Dressing the uber lithe Gemma B is an absolute dream – she’s polite, friendly, intelligent, conversational and, in my personal opinion, just as flawlessly stunning as Jennifer Hawkins. During the parades, she takes me through the various jewelry she had grief with putting on during yesterday’s parades, as well as the exorbitant amount of shoes she has to change into. 

I run back and forth between Lloyd (who seems to be doing okay, solo) and Gemma, working up an absolute sweat. It’s completely crazy and mad backstage, belts are buckled, hair and makeup run frantically around, and the models try to grasp the concept of teetering around in 17cm stacked heels. It is so much easier dressing a man.

Show’s over!

The Myer fashion parades are over for another season, with A/W 09 particularly noteworthy due to Jen Hawkins’ first ever Perth appearance and her Supermodels-in-the-making, Courtney and Luke, making their catwalk debut since appearing on Make Me A Supermodel.

After she pulls on her off-duty model outfit (faded denim cut-offs and an oversized white tee) and powders her nose, I grab a quick photo with Gemma, and thank her for being so great to work with. I also apologise to Lloyd for neglecting him for most of the show!

The models congregate for a professional group shot, and us dressers start ripping the gaffa tape off the soles of the shoes, and return the clothes to the rack one last time.

Having worked virtually seven days this week, I am pretttty exhausted. Who would’ve thought dressing models would come down to such a fine art? Fashion parades are always a heap of fun though, and it has definitely changed my perception of the industry. Yes, it can get insanely frivolous, but it’s a multi-million dollar business, and one that undeniably has major cultural influences on our era.