Страница 1 из 1

октябрь 1991, журнал The Face (фотограф Andrew Mcpherson)

Добавлено: 03.10.2018 20:47
Изображение Изображение Изображение Изображение Изображение Изображение Изображение

Gossiping and clubbing with the Australian soap star who has become a British Icon.

The woman is maybe 40, a bit dumpy, and she comes through the cafe at Kylie like a runaway train. She started staking Kylie out a couple of weeks ago with her three kids. The first time, she ran up and kissed her. which left Kylie aghast. Kylie likes her personal space. Today she has bought Kylie flowers. Nine pink roses. “That is so bitter and twisted.” Kylie says to me later. Kylie has trouble understanding what this woman does, what it’s all about “Does she have a job or does she just run around with her children all day finding celebrities?”
читать полностью
We were leaving anyway. We stroll down London’s King’s Road. Kylie says she has leant to take the path of least resistance. She says it’s funny when she’s out with a man and the hassles start, because they hate it and get over- protective. She giggles. “Which of course I love.” A man pulls up on his motorcycle and chats.

He’s a photographer. Someone waves from a car. Friends. This is Kylie’s patch. She’s got a flat near here. She likes the atmosphere. She worries that the small, cool shops are being driven out by rising rents. In her favourite bar, the barman makes her a drink from crushed limes and soda water. It’s not on the menu, because it’s too much bother to make it for normal customers. The barman complains when Kylie asks for it, but she smiles be­seechingly. They both know he’ll do it for her.

Kylie. She used to be “Smiley Minogue”, as Smash Hits christened her, the cleanest and cheesiest of pop creations. She was the goody two shoes sweetheart of the ration. Vera Lynn without the war. But she has changed. It says so in the newspapers. She is now a 23-year-old pop temptress who has discovered sex. wants to dress up as a prostitute and has earned the respect of her peers.

There are, of course, reasons to be suspi­cious. Kylie Minogue is one of those inter­viewees who has reacted to being asked too many dull questions too many times by having a stock spiel about who she is and what it means, and she has got used to people accepting whatever she is saying this week. Two years ago she told every interviewer the story about how there was Kylie Minogue person and Kylie Minogue Proprietary Limited, and how they operated independently in her mind, and everyone wrote about what a well-adjusted, together young wo man she was. This year’s story, in a magazine rack near you right now, is “I used to be a bit geeky and crap but now I’m taking control”. And “I’m a bit sexy”. And “I really do quite naughty things though I’m not going to tell you about them”.

The strange tiling is that it is working. Britain is entranced with Kylie in a way that it rarely gets entranced. Most people I ask put it down to animal lust Some say that she’s obviously just playing at being sexy, and that’s even sexier.

Even Kylie is a little impressed by how sharply such things have turned around. Over a lime juice special I catch her admiring a Betty Jackson outfit in Elle. She hasn’t spotted the photo caption, so I point it out “Betty Jackson’s baby doll owes more to Kylie than Beryl Reid in Entertaining Mr Sloans.’ She is quite thrilled. “That’s good,” she says. “I’m an influence!”

It’s not just working for the public, but in her life. When most teen stars try to move into more fashionable milieux, they are laughed at People may fete them a little, but only so they can swap stories with their real friends about how imbecilic, how naive and how pathetic the star is. But fashionable London seems to like

“I still can’t be as carefree as I would like. There are times when I could well see myself dancing naked on tables”

having Kylie around. She’s the girl they talk about She has new chic friends: photographers, make-up artists, model agency bookers, stylists.

John Galliano is designing her clothes for her October tour. She goes to dinner parties and already swears by the traditional young-girl-in- the-big -city dictum that the finest of educations is to talk to interesting people over supper.

I ask about old friends from Australia. “I don’t see too much of them because I have nothing in common with them,” she states frankly. You go so far together, then you just keep going.” Her best friend through childhood was called Georgie. She’s a hospital secretary, just married. Her first boyfriend — on and off for two years — was a surfer bum. He’s now a hairdresser. Some­times she calls him up. “He goes. ’Hi gorgeous!’ He’s so Australian.”

WE WANDER TOWARDS an outdoor cafe. At the entrance gates Kylie stops to look at a small dog tied to the railings. Two old ladies are watching the dog too. “We’re just waiting to see if someone comes and gets it,” explains one. She and Kylie exchange a little dog talk and we move on. “Incidentally,” says the lady as we draw off, “I know who you are.”

We sit in the sun. Kylie spots a copy of September’s FACE in my bag and pulls it out to look at Michael Hutchence. She likes the photos. “He’s just like that.” she laughs. “Give him credit. Pouter.” They talked on the phone for an hour last night, him from Hong Kong. We have a playful conversation about post-relationship etiquette. I ask whether I dare inquire: was she the dumper or the dumpee? “No,” she says, not ruffled in the slightest, “you shouldn’t inquire.”

She laughs, apparently amused. “Straight to the dirt. I like this kind of interview. Put the knife in.”

You pulled out the magazine. “I did, didn’t I?” A coy smile.

She studies the photos inside and muses over the way Michael’s holding a knife. “There’s a lot of things I’d like to do for art’s sake,” she sighs. “I’m heading more and more towards that, but I have to keep my business head and remember I’m trying to sell records...”

Kylie is a little evasive as to exactly when, or why, her life changed, but before the release of “Better The Devil You Know” last May she took control of all videos and photo sessions, resolved to work with other producers besides Stock Aitken Waterman, and began to send back their tracks, demanding remixes. The paternalistic PWL organisation had never had much sympathy with other acts who bucked the system. Kylie’s first nine singles had reached the top five: why change? “If they had their way they would put me in bright clothes, and as long as I smiled, looking clean and happy, they would be satisfied.” It seemed Kylie and they would part.

But over the last year circumstances changed. There is a white board in the entrance to the PWL kitchen, and on it each week they write all their current chart hits. For five years it has been crammed. Not recently. “It was beginning to look a little bit sad and pathetic,” says Kylie. They agreed that they would make records the way she wanted to. “I think they had to. They didn’t have much else.”

For her new LP she wrote eight or nine songs (some of which will be B-sides) with Mike Stock. (Matt Aitken has departed. A little disingenuously, I suspect, Kylie claims not to know why, though she does let slip the strange sentence, “I wouldn’t say it was only due to that our relationship has got better.”) Pete Waterman will often provide a title – he’ll walk in shouting. “Got a hit! Write a song called ’Live And Learn’” — then she and Stock will work out the song. They’re in the same vein as before, “but not as pure and fluffy ... we can mention the words ‘sex’ and ’bed”. Kylie used to dread going in to PWL. “Now,” she says, with a phrase that eerily straddles where she came from and what she’s becoming, “I feel like I’m part of my product”

The tabloid common-sense is that it was Michael Hutchence who caused all this. One moment she was the brainless, sexless soap star, the next after caressing the raging loins of INXS’s wild man, she was the flirty sex goddess who was out to get what she wanted in the world. She’s dealt with this suggestion so often that she always says the same thing: “It annoyed me if people thought that it was solely because of Michael...” »

Of course. I put to her, the other way to look at it is to see you as a great Madonna-style sex schemer, using your latest lover as an inroad into a new artistic area. “Oh God,” she says, both horrified, and, I suspect, quietly tickled by the idea. “That’s the first time that’s been suggested to me, that I went out with Michael as a career move. No way.” She says it was all something neither of them intended, or expected. “The images of us were like chalk and cheese, and we met somewhere in the middle, because I wasn’t as good as everyone thought and he wasn’t quite as bad.”

HAVE YOU BEEN TO SEE your waxwork recently? Kylie screws up her features and contorts them, mugging unbearable torment. “Do you think you can describe what my face did then? Oh my God! No! Aaargghhhh!” Her cheeks are red. “And I don’t blush too easily.”

She might call Madame Tussaud’s and ask them to update her. “I’m flattered to be in there, but I wish they’d whack a bit of eyeliner on.”

Four years ago Kylie was presented as homely mum’s girl from Melbourne who was proud of making her clothes out of off-cuts. “Yeah, but that’s what I was,” she smiles, “that’s the funny thing. I seriously can’t believe it I look at old photographs and I cringe and I shudder. My world was so blinkered.”

She says it was a blur, a blur of awards and lucky-lucky-luckys, that she didn’t particularly enjoy. If someone told her to do something, she did it — and there was no shortage of people to do the telling. “I’ve done some of the dodgiest things,” she says. “Nothing’s original. They’re repeating them now with the new girls.”

The new girls. What a chilling phrase. Like Dannii? “Yeah, but she won’t have half the problems I had.” They share the same manager.

Terry Blarney. Terry and Kylie made a lot of mistakes. “He’s a much better manager now. I think he was thinking of the moment, not long-term at all. And I was just thinking about my schedule for the next day.”

In those days she didn’t really have a social life. When she met people she’d meet them “in a real business manner” (she thrusts out her arm in cold greeting, a distant smile on her face, to demonstrate), because that’s what she was good at. It took her a long time to learn how to relax, to enjoy herself. “I still can’t be as carefree as I would like to. There are times when I could well see myself dancing naked on tables. But if I’m at a party with half a dozen people, or 50 people, I just can’t do that”

Why not? This halts her for a second. Why not? “Well,” she begins, “that’s true. There really is no reason, because I should be able to do anything I want. But I do care about my career, and the News of The World would love it. It would benefit them more than it would me.”

Do you only want to do it because you can’t? “Yeah. I like doing things that I can’t or that I’m not meant to do.” That’s a slightly petulant and childish impulse. “I don’t think it’s childish. It’s because sometimes I just feel quite... suppressed. I can’t just walk down the street and forget about everything. It’s like a sixth sense. It’s always there. It’s very rarely that I let go of everything. And then, when I do. I get a fright”.

She likes going to America. There she can “walk really tall, instead of walking with a crick in my neck... I love it so much!” In America those who know about her think she is some weird parochial British oddity, the girl who had just one novelty US hit with “The Locomotion”. Her last LP, “Rhythm of Love” wasn’t even released there. “I guess it wasn’t good enough,” she says flatly. “It’s no skin off my nose. That’s my level of interest in it. You’d think I’d be hurt, and my pride would be squashed.” She says the Americans are excited by her new LP, but she doesn’t really care. She’s intrigued by the challenge of it, but losing the freedom of another nation doesn’t thrill her. “It probably scares me more than anything.”

In her homeland she has different problems. All émigré Australian stars complain about it: The Tall Poppy Syndrome. Grow too high, they cut you down. “You can’t be successful,” explains Kylie. “If you try we’ll love you, and if you fail we’ll love you even more.” With her it was worse than usual. Australians hate dance-pop, and Neighbours was a purely teenage phenomenon. Its success — and that of Kylie and Jason’s — was greeted back home with derision. The message seemed to be one of national superiority: that’s how dumb the poms are, they take our slops and think it’s tasty.

They laid into her. They said she was a bimbo. Incapable of doing anything. Nothing but a puppet. One critic called her the Singing Budgie and the name stuck. “If I was an outsider looking in,” says Kylie, “or if I could have been objective about myself at the time, I probably would have said the same thing.”

It’s better now: she’s no longer on Neighbours, she’s toured twice and her records (also less successful there than here) are selling more. Now she can laugh about it when she played a secret club gig last year, she billed herself as The Singing Budgies. But like most Australian stars who find international success, she lives away. “Most people who make it abroad don’t go back, and of course Australians don’t like it. But that’s the irony. They’re the ones who drive you away. I haven’t abandoned Australia in any way, but Australia makes it difficult for me. I’ve been persevering for a long time.”

KYLIE STRUGGLES WHEN asked about her youth. Usually she trots out the same reheated tales of acting out scenes from Grease and singing Abba songs into a hairbrush. I prod around, and suddenly her eyes light up like a quiz contestant who’s hit on the correct answer just before the buzzer. “I haven’t thought of this for years.” she says. She tells me how the Minogues moved house five or six times. Once, when she was about nine, they were moving to a suburb closer to the city. On the last day of school, some of the other girls started shouting, “Kylie’s going! She thinks that we’ll miss her! But we’re really glad that she’s going!” At first Kylie brushed it off, but later she was quite crushed by it. It scared her.

So, I tease, the whole purpose of your career to date has been to show the nasty kids? “Yeah! Now who’s having the last laugh?”

Did you ever worry when you were a teenager that you would die without having sex? “No, I’m sure I didn’t. I’m sure I worried about dying — I still do. But it’s far too late to worry about dying before having sex.” I ask her if she thought virginity was something to get rid of and she gives three answers.

Firstly, no. Secondly, she doesn’t think it’s anybody’s business how she felt about that. Thirdly, she murmurs rather cryptically that “you know how in movies people have an age when they go on their first date, an age where they’re meant to be experimenting, and an age where they’re meant to have sex. Well, my friends and I didn’t have that”. Kylie is now leaving long pauses between phrases. You can see her mind flicking back and forth: deliberating on her teenage world, then checking each sentence for its tabloid news potential. “I’m trying to talk really carefully.”

I begin again, asking how sex seemed to her when she was 15 or 16. “I probably wouldn’t have thought of it as a pleasurable thing. I don’t think it’s until you’re older that you really get enjoyment and fulfilment and satisfaction. It was more a peer group thing at that age. I think I was very average, quite shy, but I’m a Gemini so I was quite precocious as well, so ...” The pre-tabloid censor kicks in. “Well, let’s just leave it at that. Everyone thought my girlfriend was the really bad one because I looked so sweet and innocent, but in fact it wasn’t like that”.

When Kylie left school she wanted to do what all self-respecting Australian kids do: join the hippie trail. “The kind of stereotypical scenario would be in a Combi van, full of adventure, driving along, disaster happening every step of the way.” But she was in Neighbours, so she stayed in Melbourne, working all day, doing phone interviews with the British press in the evenings, about how she isn’t as boisterous as Charlene, how she lives at home and her bedroom’s “really messy”, and how she’s got a dog called Gabby who she doesn’t take for walks as much as she should.

She says her equivalent of the hippie trail came early this year. She finished her Japanese tour and told Terry he could give her time off or she’d run away anyway. She spent seven weeks in Paris, sleeping on a couch. For the first two weeks she partied all night slept all day. Letting her hair down. The way she tells it, it was a minor epiphany. She realised that doing something so simple was so important to keep her sane. She got to know herself again. “I’m not as bad as I thought I was.” she concludes. “I can be quite friendly.”

EVERYONE NATURALLY ASSUMES there is no child star without a pushy mother. Two child stars in the same brood, Kylie and Dannii, seems conclusive. Dig a little and all the necessary “I didn’t make it but my little darlings will” evidence is there. Carol Minogue (née Jones) was a failed Welsh ballerina (she gave it up at 20 for husband Ron), her trophies rusting in the family garage.

But Kylie insists mum just isn’t like that. She’s laidback, and so selfless Kylie has to force her to buy anything for herself. It all only started because her mother’s sister is an actress, and a friend of hers was a casting agent and suggested Dannii go to an audition. Mrs Minogue took both girls so there’d be no arguments, and Kylie got the part: playing a Dutch girl called Carla in Australian soap The Sullivans. Now Ron, an accountant, supervises her conservative portfolio of investments: property, stocks, the money market. And Carol is working on her forthcoming tour, as she did on the last in wardrobe, dressing the dancers.

So how did Kylie get to be here today? She has no answers, no tales of feeling driven. The way she tells it, it was all just casual momentum. “I somehow landed here. Other people saw the potential moneymaking value of someone like me. I didn’t really know what was going on.” At first she just wanted to be an actress anyway. (When I ask her about her acting career now, post-The Delinquents, she simply says, “Oh... that...” dismissively and mutters the usual complaints about poor scripts. Terry reads most of them.) She did make one, abortive move to become a singer when she was about 17. She took her money from The Henderson Kids (“I can’t believe they’re showing that again. Someone’s trying to torture me...”) and spent it making a three-song demo tape: Donna Summer’s “Dim All The Lights’, Patti Labelle’s “New Attitude” and “Just Once” (“I can’t remember who sang that”). In the studio, just her and this guy doing the music, she was so overwrought she burst into tears.

She phones home every week or so, and her brother Brendan, an assistant cameraman, faxed her an eight-page letter the other day, but it didn’t come through. When Kylie gets old she’d like to be her grandmother. “She’s so active and funny. She’s a flirt — that’s where I get it from.”

You’re a terrible flirt, aren’t you? Her eyes twinkle mischievously. She’s got an answer for this question. “No, I’m a great flirt...”

Do men shamelessly chat you up when you go out? “Either that or the complete opposite. Sometimes they’re so funny, making stupid jokes about one of my songs.”

What? Like: «Kylie! How about it? I should be so lucky, eh?” “Yeah, that sort of thing, or they won’t talk to me at all.”

SIXTH SENSE OR NOT, it’s Kylie who notices the photographer first. “Do you mind?” she shouts at him as he crouches a dozen or so yards away, shutter clicking. He doesn’t mind at all. Kylie turns her back and puts on her sunglasses. He continues. “Fuck you,” she shouts. The fan’s pink roses lie on the table between us. “You might be my new boyfriend, Chris,” she says wryly.

Then she cracks. “Let’s go. I hate this.” We stand up. The photographer backs out of one exit so we take the other. Soon, the time it’s taken him to run around the block, the photographer is running towards us once more.

Even though I’m not the object of pursuit, it’s horrible. I wonder why more people don’t react like Sean Penn. “I wouldn’t be you,” I mutter to Kylie, “for anything.” We jump into a cab, not to go anywhere, just to escape.

As we are followed. Kylie lets out a flurry of “fuck”s and “shit”s. She hates these people. “I’ve hit photographers before. And I did throw my lunch at that photographer recently.”

We drive off. Ten yards down the road, the cab driver hands a piece of paper and a pen through the sliding window. Autograph please.

We drive on, and I suggest we continue the interview. She asks for a break. She’s a bit shaken. We chat anyway. After a couple of minutes she stops what I am saying: “You might want to turn on your tape recorder for this next bit.” Very together. “You said you wouldn’t be me for anything. And I want you to know that on top of all that I have to answer questions. I would like to be at the stage where I don’t have to do any interviews. But to get to that stage I have to do lots of interviews.” Ten days after this meeting I get a call from a woman at Big! magazine. The managing director just happened to be browsing at their new “Kylie and mystery man” photos, and recognised me. She has a question. “You’re not going out with Kylie Minogue, are you?’

THERE HAVE BEEN SOME good stories about Kylie. Her favourite was when a paper posed the question on all our lips: “Is Kylie An Alien?’ It was just an excuse to print a topless photo of her, taken on a beach holiday, justified by the assertion that “if there was an alien life form on earth it would have these features”. There were arrows pointing at the most extraterrestrial areas of Kylie’s anatomy.

The finest rumour, I tell her, is the one that percolates over from Australia every so often: it has her in a Sydney hospital having her stomach pumped after a drug binge... “Yeah,” she says, “overdosing on Ecstasy.”

Sometimes it’s heroin. “Heroin? Oh good. I wasn’t even in Sydney at that time. It just cracked me. My assistant Yvonne, she heard the story and even phoned up Terry. Someone that I knew knew someone that knew the two nurses that actually performed it”

She tells me the latest, only a few days old. It has her “going out with Lord someone-or-other. We were in Portugal together and I was pregnant and it had doctor’s certificates to prove it Unbelievable. I’ve been married and divorced many times. I’ve lived in places I’ve never been to. I say a lot of things I’ve never said. The usual stuff really.” And then she stares, as though she wants to make sure I understand this last bit “I hate it”.

Kylie’s been reading Immortality by Milan Kundera. Milan has some very pertinent things to say about fame, thinks Kylie. “He’s talking about how the people asking the questions are the hunters and the person being asked — who’s in the spotlight while the askers are in the shadows — is like the tiger who ends up being on someone’s floor. You know, as a rug. The tiger is grand and majestic, but ends up on someone’s floor. You are a winner, but you are a loser.”

Sometimes Kylie’s life is tough. Once she flew back from holiday with some friends. At the airport — and she hadn’t thought to expect it — there they all were: the children, the parents, the grandparents, all jabbing their autograph- hungry limbs towards her, shouting their “me first!” mantra. It reminded her of the scene in Barbarella where the kids who look sweet, but are actually really horrible, set loose those dolls, their jaws munching, getting closer and closer... nowhere to go. She cried that day.

Today Kylie’s all dressed in black: Michel Perry shoes, Michiko Koshino hipsters, Hanro singlet. She’s also wearing a metal Jess James pendant that I think is a panda and she thinks might be a New Zealand fertility symbol. This morning Kylie changed her top twice before coming out “It’s nice,” she says, “when I’m feeling confident enough and relaxed enough that I can be happy being myself. Not having to be a particular way for the masses.”

A particular way for the masses? What a spooky, frightening phrase. “I think it’s quite a true way of depicting it”.

You as the nation’s cornflakes. “I think I’ve already been cornflakes. I’m trying to become a more fancy brand.”

SOME QUESTIONS. How famous do you think you are? “Er... quite famous? Pretty famous. Famous enough, put it that way.”

How smart do you think you are? “Smart enough. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”

Which of your old songs do you love? She screws up her face. “Oh.” She thinks a while. “I like ’Better The Devil You Know’ — that’s my favourite. And ’Step Back In Time’.” Which do you hate? “’I Should Be So Lucky’, of course. Which is strange, as it’s my biggest-selling song. And probably ’The Locomotion’.”

Will you be playing them on your forth coming tour? “Yeah.”

It is the waiter this time who interrupts. They are nice here. Before we leave, the manager comes up and tells us that our drinks are on the house. Because she’s Kylie. I suppose. “There are two really sweet girls,” the waiter says, “and they’d so much like an autograph.”

Laia and Tania are shy, starstruck and sweet. They are from Barcelona. Once they have their moment, Laia is hit by doubt. She’d better just check. “You are Charlene...” — she pronounces it ’Char-Len’ — “...In Neighbours, yes?’ “Yeah,” sighs Kylie. Star in a soap and it follows you forever. They’ve only recently started showing Neighbours in Spain. I recently saw an episode on Kenyan TV and she was yet to join the cast. There will be years of this.

We talk haircuts. Kylie is haunted by them. She says the layered look was the worst. I insist Charlene’s dodgy perm was particularly hellish. A tactless suggestion. “Listen, that was not permed. My hair has never been permed. It’s naturally curly. Ten minutes on the dancefloor and my hair is as curly as can be.”

Oh. So I’ve just called your natural hair hellish? “Yeah.”

Sorry. “It was very disgusting,” she concedes.

“CURLS TONIGHT, KYLIE?” shouts a passing acquaintance as she moves through the Saturday night crowd at Subterania, a fortnight later. Her hair was straight before. She changes it all the time. She tells me I wouldn’t understand: it’s a girl thing. It’s I am, and she’s been up since 5am to shoot Motormouth. (“That’s a ridiculous program me,” someone else says to her. “They’re all ridiculous,” she replies.) But this is her night off, and she’s going to use it. She hardly ever stops dancing, even when she’s away from the dancefloor and even when she’s talking. It is the dancing both of a flirt and of someone who knows the escape dancing can provide. Often, when you see celebrities out clubbing, there’s something sad about it It’s like they’re trying to remember how to release themselves, or they can’t bear not to be in the place to be, but don’t really know what to do when they’re there. But Kylie looks like she’s simply having fun. I’m quite surprised.

These days Kylie goes clubbing a lot. She says she knows what Michael Hutchence meant when he said recently club culture is a substitute for sex, though she thinks it’s not just that. Last summer the two of them went out dancing a lot: it was boiling and people were going crazy. She says she was probably looking for an escape. She doesn’t get hassled so much in clubs, because people try to be cool. They stare, though. Sometimes she’s there, jumping around, flirting — and sometimes she likes just to watch. She imagines that she’s standing there behind a one-sided mirror, observing but not being observed. Seeing everything...

... But it doesn’t work. She’s a famous pop star. People come up to her and say she looks sad, she looks bored. She tells them she’s fine, but it’s too late. The spell is broken. She can’t win, but then it’s an impossible game. “I either want all the attention, or none of it. Insatiable...”

THERE’S A SIDE of Kylie Minogue that possesses frightening pragmatism. This is the woman who once described a Pan-European promotional trip as “servicing countries’. The one who says she is now “part of her product”. The one who won’t do the things she says she wants to, because she wants to sell lots of records. The one who believes she must be a certain way for the masses. That afternoon. I asked her about signing autographs. “It annoys me. But...’ and this is the rub: for all Kylie’s now — wild bohemian ways, there’s still a lot of those old showbiz values in her, and a no-nonsense streak that makes her determined to take what she can while she can. And so: “...I can’t forget that these people are my bread and butter.”

“Sorry,” says a woman, maybe 30, in an indecently plum voice, although it is unlikely she is at all sorry as she is quite deliberately interrupting our conversation.

“It’s all right,” says Kylie.

“Promise...? We were just talking about you at lunchtime. My friend thinks you’re such a star, and here you are!” She pushes the piece of paper forward. “It will make his day.”

As Kylie dutifully writes, Ms Plum turns to me. “Is she used to it?” she asks. It’s a horrible habit — people standing next to celebrities refer to them in the third person, as though they don’t hear normal conversation. I don’t answer. Kylie hands back the autograph. “You’re a star,” coos Ms Plum, and backs off. I allow myself a smirk. Kylie spots it “Stop laughing,” she chides.

We walk back to where we started. On our way Kylie picks a sprig of lavender from someone’s garden and strolls along, sniffing it and twizzling it between her fingers. A teenage boy comes up and asks her to sign what purports to be a photo of her flat in a newspaper. “That’s not it” she tells him. People she doesn’t know shout at her from passing cars. “I wonder if they think they’re the first to do it.” she says. At her local, the limes are got out. She lays the pink roses on the bar in front of her. The waitress is impressed. “You must have a very romantic boyfriend.” she says.

Text Chris Heath

октябрь 1991, журнал The Face (фотограф Andrew Mcpherson)

Добавлено: 04.10.2018 00:20
Ух! Hemulith, спасибо!!! :nora: :nora: :yahoo!: