Free Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect by Janice Dickinson Page A

E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K
E . . . A N D I ’ M P E R F E C T
                    239
                    The minute a hot model announced that she
would be “rehabbing,”
                    though, the shit usually hit the fan—the
corporate shit, anyway. First of all, Susan’s agent didn’t think “a holiday
break” would be a good thing, because he knew he could book her straight
through to the New Year—
                    racking up more money for her and more
commissions for himself. For Susan, of course, that would just mean more
opportunities to stress out and get wasted. But what did he care? What he
certainly didn’t want was his racehorse hanging out where the getting-to-know-you,
let’s-make-adeal cocktail of choice was Crystal Light or cranberry juice. Susan’s
bookers also went apeshit, warning her that she’d lose her spot in the modeling
pecking order if she dropped out of sight even for a few weeks. What was a girl
to do? Well, Susan was strong enough to tell them all to go to hell. “Happy
holidays, you assholes!” she said. “I’m going to rehab!”
                    After clearing all the vodka and coke out of
her condo, she checked herself into a lovely California facility filled with
glamorous movie stars, rockers, and other beautiful people looking for a better
way. Her days were spent in group counseling sessions, where she talked about
her crappy mother and the guy who had raped her at age thirteen. For the first
time, Susan was actually talking about the things she’d been burying under
layers of designer clothes, pounds of makeup, and tons of drugs. The fashion
industry, of course, didn’t come to a grinding halt just because one babe went
AWOL for eight weeks. But there was one glitch for Susan. She was forced to
miss one final Perry Ellis shoot before the end of the year—and the rehab
offered no furlough for strutting your stuff in the Big Apple. Perry Ellis
cancelled her contract and refused to give her the promised Christmas bonus she’d
planned to use to pay for rehab. Her agent left her several frantic messages
explaining that she was also seriously pissing off Calvin and Ralph, who wanted
her to do holiday shows, and might not want to “deal with her” in the coming
year if she didn’t come through.
                    I have to hand it to Susan: she finally told
the rehab people not to give her any more phone messages. She was sticking with
her plan—and if 240
    J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
                    she had to work at a convenience store when
she got out, well, so be it. She would wear polyester and be clean. End of
story. Cut to February. Susan was out of rehab, clean, sober, and feeling
great. An exec from one of the major fashion labels promptly invited her out to
dinner at the Ivy in Beverly Hills to discuss future contracts. (So much for
working that register!) It turns out he was willing to negotiate a nice long
contract with Susan, and to celebrate he had a wonderful idea.
                    “I want to order the most expensive bottle
of wine on the list,” he announced. Now, this man knew Susan wasn’t drinking:
his company was one of the fashion houses that had wanted her while she was in
rehab, and her agent had been honest with them all.
                    “But I’m just out of r-rehab,” Susan
stammered to this exec, not quite believing that anyone would want her to slide
back into the pit. “I’ll take a cranberry juice, and we can toast that way.”
                    The exec just shook his head and ordered the
$200 bottle of wine. When it came to the table, he went through the whole vino
ritual: sniffing the cork, swirling it around in his glass, and tasting it. He
even took great pains to pour Susan her glass, and insisted that they toast. “Who
cares about sobriety?” he said. “You were