Naomi Campbell at the start of her career.
NAOMI is always late. It’s fascinating. She might occasionally think it would be entertaining to arrive early and surprise everyone. But no, her team tells me she will be running at least three hours behind schedule, and she is.
At the Dorchester hotel in London, Vogue is in one suite and I’m in another. The pianist in the foyer has given up; even the fruit and pastry baskets are wilting. Then suddenly the door opens and the most fabulous cheekbones in the world enter the room followed by a man with a box of tissues. Naomi throws herself down into the armchair and starts to sneeze.
“I’m so sorry. Thank you so much, thank you,” she says as I hand her some tissues and a glass of water. “I don’t know what’s happened. I never had hay fever before in my life but I feel like I’ve developed it now. Is that possible? My whole nose is itching. Is it very high pollen? Could you recommend something? Help!”
She sounds so contrite, I find myself offering advice. Perhaps it’s the plane trees on Park Lane.
Would she like some antihistamine or steroid drops? I can’t believe I’m handing you drugs, I say.
She laughs, dispelling any last remnants of grandeur.
“I’m desperate,” she says.
“I don’t have time to be ill.”
The catwalk queen goes to inordinate lengths to stay well, including sterilising every corner of her first-class plane seat and wearing a hazmat suit through airports during the pandemic. But perhaps it says more about her professionalism than her paranoia. She can’t be ill because the camera doesn’t
