the times | Monday November 9 2020 1GT 5

times

a high-class hobby. Problem drinkers

don’t go for bottles where the label

has a lovely brown sketch of a très

vieux château, right? I don’t know

who I thought I was — I’d never been

more broke, yet was buying boutique

mezcal from an organic agave farm

in Mexico and vintage red wine with

not a clue whether it was any good.

In May I had to go to hospital

(for a non-drink-related issue, I

should say), where they asked about

my weekly units. I laughed. Then

lied. I was easily having double the

recommended amount. I knew I was

drinking too much and knew it was

bad for my mental health, but in a

small flat living through Groundhog

Day, I couldn’t easily break patterns.

It had begun as something I started

to look forward to every day at

4pm, then became a temporary

daily bandage, but now was making

me feel unmotivated and low. On

top of general dread about the

world, I was now beating myself up

about not being able to cut down. I’d

cringe when it was my turn to take

out the recycling.

This time around, I want things to

be different. I don’t plan on going

completely sober, but am limiting my

drinking to weekends. The nights are

long, the end point is uncertain and

whereas last time I was energised by

the challenge and the great

unknown, I am entering this period

depleted. Friends feel the same way

and those who know they have the

potential to use drink as a crutch are

stocking up on the Seedlip and

Nosecco to ease the transition.

I’m switching up some routines,

and doing exercise classes in the

evening rather than the morning

so I don’t automatically flop down

on the sofa with a drink. These are

unprecedented times, and as part of

that I do think we need to be kind to

ourselves, do what we can and not

feel shame about talking about

coping habits. What I wanted from

drink was comfort. The feeling you

get when you tell a friend you love

that you’re miserable, yet somehow

both end up laughing and for a

moment feel totally, utterly safe. But

it didn’t console, it numbed. So I

know I need to make a change if I’m

going to ride out this winter and

keep my sanity.

I was a Lockdown 1 drinker.

Not this time By Emily Sargent

I

had always enjoyed a drink

pre-Covid — one or two nights

a week at the pub, maybe a

boozy dinner party, a glass of

red on a Sunday, you know, just

to take the edge off. Generally

though, I always maintained

decorum during the working

week. How that has changed. Last

week a study from the charity

Drinkaware confirmed that women

increased their alcohol intake more

than men during the first lockdown

and may be at risk of doing so again.

I know I am one of those people who

needs to approach this second

lockdown differently.

When the first lockdown began

I thought I was being brilliantly

positive about the whole thing —

hosting nightly Zooms, feeling

grateful every morning just to see a

new dawn, journalling furiously

about all the unprecedented things

that were happening and generally

riding very high on adrenaline. It was

all fun and games to begin with (not

to mention the fantastic new sense of

community in our block of flats).

In the panic not to panic I tried

to create a constant atmosphere of

celebration for my girlfriend and me,

which for us meant a nightly ritual

of obscenely elaborate food and

cocktails. Zooming at 6pm? Have

a martini. Clocking off to paint a

shed? Margarita. Popping on a jazz

record and some new loungewear?

I’ll take an old-fashioned. For the

first few weeks of no rules it was as

if I were ten again, finally allowed to

have that midnight feast. But we all

know how that ends: insomnia, tears

and a crushing sense of loneliness in

the world.

Fairly quickly I slipped into a

pattern of having at least one drink

— more often a few — every night.

There was always a reason: a

celebration, commiseration or,

most commonly, just the need for

something to punctuate the end of

another dreary, worrying day. My

girlfriend and I often drink neat

spirits, but what had once felt like a

very sophisticated power order when

served in an expensive crystal-cut

tumbler started to feel less Kate

Moss, more “cry for help”.

I was hungover too often. I

dismissed it. There was no office or

commute to provide the classic

touchstones: a hot flush on the Tube

or obsessing all afternoon over

something weird you said to a

colleague in the canteen. All the

regular yardsticks went out of the

window. However, the key difference

then, compared with now, was that

we woke up to sunshine. I would get

up, cycle, walk and shake it off. The

spring weather felt cleansing.

About a month in, really doubling

down on denial, I figured I’d make it

What I wanted

from drink was

comfort. But it

just numbed me

COVER: ANDRE WOFFINDEN FOR THE TIMES MAGAZINE. BELOW: GETTY IMAGES

of confidence in me. So that was

a way for me to stay grounded,

and also firm in my beliefs.”

Was there a lot of competition with

her fellow supers, Christy, Cindy et al,

that handful of other models that

went by their first name alone? “We

were not competitive at all. We were

always there for each other. They

were beautiful girls inside and out.

For me that’s the real reason why they

deserved to be called super. It was a

lonely job. We spent a lot of time on

our own travelling, so the times when

we came together were important.

I am still in touch with them. I was

texting with Christy this morning.”

A quintet of supers was reunited three

years ago — in bodycon gold chain

mail, natch — for a Versace show

that marked the

20th anniversary of

the designer’s death.

“It was very special. I

was next to my girls.”

Evangelista once said

she wouldn’t “wake up

for less than $10,000”.

Christensen does

a convincing job of

claiming never to have

been ambitious. “It’s not

that I have ever set goals

and worked towards

them. I knew there

were very few things

I needed to be happy,

maybe because I grew

up that way. I didn’t

need a grand life.”

Modelling was only

ever supposed to be “at most a half-a-

year experience,” she says, laughing.

“When I was first approached, when

I was 20, I couldn’t think of anything

worse. I found it a bit of an odd career

move to have a job that basically had

you in front of a camera with a team

of people making you up, changing

the way you look. It seemed a strange

idea.” Her teenage dream had been

“this vague idea of travelling the world

as a photographer slash archaeologist”,

so she went along with it for the air

miles. “But, yeah, a year later.. .”

Now she works behind the camera

too 50 per cent of the time. Yet she is

articulate about the pleasure she has

come to find in front of the camera.

“I never look at myself as if it is me

in front of their lens. I see myself as

a sort of object for the photographer

to make their story with.”

Christensen may describe herself as

an “object”, yet for her the word doesn’t

come with more syllables attached.

Nor is objectification a concern when

it comes to flesh baring. “In Denmark

we are brought up with a natural

approach to our bodies. We are not

taught that it’s anything to hide. In

modelling it was never an issue for

me. I look at it as an artistic approach,

showing the beauty of the female

body, the life-giving body, which is

a miracle in so many ways. I also

worked with photographers I trusted.”

What about that school of feminism

that considers dressing sexily —

Ann Summers-ly — to be an act

of disempowerment, a subjugating

focus on the male gaze? “It’s a very

personal thing. Is it going against the

empowerment of women to wear

a sexy dress, or is it absolutely

empowering to wear a sexy dress? I

don’t really think about it either way.

For me it’s about what do I want to

wear to make me happy? And it’s

about not really — excuse the

expression — giving a flying f***

what anyone else thinks.”

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