By Paulina Porizkova

An incisive, fantastically written first novel via a former stick insect that explores the glamorous and gritty global she inhabitedOnly a handful of ladies on this planet have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, achieving the head of the career prior to her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to trap it on paper.In her first novel, Paulina tells the tale of Jirina. A tall, scrawny fifteen-year-old lady 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 alterations while her in basic terms buddy, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. nearly sooner than she is familiar with it Jirina is on a airplane to Paris, the place she's going to spend the summer season in a milieu solely alien to her. residing on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and continuously subjected to blunt actual tests, catty and sometimes merciless fellow versions, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously sufficient, whereas occasionally feeling really appealing -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among photograph shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with types and musicians, Jirina manages to make a couple of buddies, fall in love, and, finally, think the very grownup discomfort of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy that may simply come from real-life event, A version summer season is either the debut of a particularly proficient novelist and an strangely well-informed glance behind the curtain at a global many of us fantasize approximately, yet few rather comprehend.

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Sample text

It’s in the boondocks,” according to Britta. “Yeah, but it’s for Elle magazine,” I say and watch her face drop a little. We descend into the Metro together and buy a carnet de ticket, ten small yellow tickets stapled together. “Break a leg,” I shout to Britta over the din of trains and French babble that echoes in the white-tiled tunnels. ” she yells back. The doors of the Metro car swallow me with a hiss. I sit down on an orange plastic seat and marvel at the darkness rushing by outside. I’ve never been on a subway before.

BRITTA HAS A NICE, sleek suitcase with polished metal locks, but it hits the luggage carousel at the very end along with my lumpy orange duffel. So much for my theory that nice luggage travels faster. We get in line for a taxi and inhale French air, which seems mostly composed of cigarette smoke and diesel fumes. It’s a little past noon and the flat, leaden sky threatens rain. My stomach lurches uncomfortably. At this point I’m not sure if it’s due to hunger or nerves. By the time we get into a taxi, sharp raindrops tap the windshield.

And this—is the toilet. ” She ambles back into the depths of the forbidden hallway, her slippers whispering on the bare wood floors. This is really not that different from a diaper of a three-year-old. I breathe in through my mouth as I scoop. Marina hasn’t given me any cleaning products, so I make several trips with loaded toilet paper, and end up rinsing the bidet with Joy body wash I find on the bathtub rim; touted as the most expensive fragrance in the world, it’s not likely Britta’s. When I come back to our room, Britta sits on her bed, in tears.

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