I was only 23 when I encountered my own version of what many now refer to as being “Harvey-ed.” It was 1997, and despite my street-smart demeanor, I found myself in a harrowing situation that left me shaken to my core. Although I walked away physically unharmed, the emotional scars lingered.
As a model, I had navigated a world filled with predatory men and had learned to deflect unwanted advances. I had even defended younger models from inappropriate behavior and once scared off a knife-wielding assailant in the Paris Metro with nothing but laughter. Yet, despite my bravado, I was still a naive girl from New Zealand, trusting and unprepared for what was to come.
I met a man named Victor at Cannes during the film festival. We were seated next to each other at a lavish dinner, and I assumed he was just another hopeful producer eager to pitch his project. Out of pity, I engaged him in conversation. It wasn’t until later that I learned he was the head of a major production company.
I mentioned a mutual acquaintance, a renowned filmmaker, and shared a story about how this filmmaker had once supported me during a tough time. Feeling a connection, I relaxed and let my guard down. The evening progressed, and we moved on to various parties, with Victor and his assistant never leaving my side.
The atmosphere was electric; I felt like I was part of something glamorous and exciting. However, as the night wore on, the group began to dwindle, and I found myself separated from my friends. Victor and his entourage convinced me to join them for one last drink at the Hotel Du Cap, and against my better judgment, I complied.
Once we arrived, I was guided to Victor’s hotel suite, where we opened another bottle of champagne, but soon realized that the others were not coming. My discomfort grew as I watched the dynamics shift. When Victor’s assistant left the room, I was left alone with him. Panic set in as I realized my precarious situation.
Before I knew it, Victor returned to the room, this time in a state of undress, and asked me for a massage. Shocked and terrified, I felt my instincts kick in. I managed to articulate my discomfort, hoping to navigate the situation without escalating it further. As he attempted to touch me, I realized I had to act decisively.
I bolted into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I could hear him banging on the door, pleading for me to come out. With no phone and no way to call for help, I took a deep breath and confronted the situation. I reprimanded him, demanding he put on his clothes and leave me alone.
Eventually, I emerged to find him sobbing on the bed, expressing regret. I firmly insisted he get me out of there, and after a series of uncomfortable exchanges, he arranged for his assistant to drive me back to safety.
The next morning, I was greeted with roses delivered by water taxi, a gesture that only deepened my humiliation. My agent and fellow models seemed to brush off my experience, leaving me feeling invalidated and cheap.
Later, when I found myself at a private screening of a film, I was shocked when Victor sat directly behind me. The realization that he still wielded power in the industry infuriated me.
Reflecting on these events over the years, I remain outraged at the culture that allows powerful men to exploit their positions. It’s a reminder of the insidious “bro-codes” that persist in every industry, enabling such predators to operate unchecked.
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In summary, my encounter at the Hotel Du Cap serves as a stark reminder of the dangers that lurk in glamorous settings and the importance of vigilance and assertiveness in the face of predatory behavior.