By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, fantastically written first novel by way of a former stick insect that explores the glamorous and gritty global she inhabitedOnly a handful of ladies on the earth have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, attaining the top of the occupation sooner than her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to catch it on paper.In her first novel, Paulina tells the tale of Jirina. A tall, scrawny fifteen-year-old woman from Sweden, she's even more conversant in scoffs and disdain than admiration and affection, no matter if from her classmates or her circle of relatives. that each one adjustments whilst her in basic terms pal, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. nearly sooner than she understands it Jirina is on a airplane to Paris, the place she's going to spend the summer time in a milieu completely alien to her. dwelling on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and consistently subjected to blunt actual exams, catty and infrequently merciless fellow types, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously sufficient, whereas occasionally feeling really appealing -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among picture shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with types and musicians, Jirina manages to make a number of buddies, fall in love, and, finally, believe the very grownup ache of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which could in basic terms come from real-life event, A version summer time is either the debut of a significantly proficient novelist and an surprisingly well-informed glance behind the curtain at a global many of us fantasize approximately, yet few particularly be aware of.
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Finally she blows out a cloud of smoke. “Vennez,” she says. She rushes us through a tour of the apartment. There is only one bathroom we are all to share, tiled in dark blue and lit with fluorescent lights. “Keep it clean,” Marina says and flicks cigarette ashes into the bathtub. She shows me the toilet—housed by itself with a stack of out-of-date magazines in a claustrophobic closet accessible only from the hallway—while Britta reapplies her lip gloss in the bathroom. From here, the hallway veers a sharp right, leading into complete darkness.
I didn’t really hang out with him,” I say and try to ignore the squelching sound of nuts and saliva. “I think he’s hot. ” I compare my impression of Jean-Pierre’s cow eyes and overbite to the dashing French actor. “They both have dark hair,” I concede. ” “I like older men,” Britta says with a wink. ” My Coke burns my throat. ” I’m suddenly no longer resentful of her loud chewing. At least I have a father, even though his presence in my life is as intangible as the Holy Ghost. “It’s okay,” she says and pats my arm.
Britta blushes. ” Jean-Pierre sidles over to her and puts an arm over her shoulders. “The pizza no more. Tu comprends? ” Britta laughs with obvious relief. Her measurements, thirty-six, twenty-five, thirty-five, are noted, as is her height, five-eight; hair color, blond; and eye color, brown. This does not in any way do her justice. Why not describe her hair as gold with hints of champagne, and her eyes as chocolate? The bookers scrutinize her perfectly manicured hands at close range, debating whether she merits an “Extraordinaire” under the heading of “Special Qualities,” and decide against it.
A model summer by Paulina Porizkova