When we meet, Cindy Crawford is walking off the set – actually, a function
room in the Berkeley Hotel in Knightsbridge – and along a narrow corridor,
trailing publicists and various members of the photographic team. She has
finished the shoot, dead on time, and is going upstairs to change before our
interview. Hoping subtly to mirror her all-American style I had opted to
wear jeans, wedges and a grey leather jacket for my meeting with an icon.
But she has been styled as the full-blown Nietzschean mannequin, from
pouffed hair to towering heels. In this confined space she appears to loom
nearly a foot above me and, what with the Balmain shoulder pads, I feel
physically overwhelmed. “Wow!” I think as we shake hands with only inches
between us. “She really is something.”
» full story
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