Winona, Inc.

 

DESI, BELLE, LOURDIS and I are holding court at our Thursday night watering hole, the Salon De Ning rooftop bar at the Peninsula Hotel. André’s here. Word on the street is he’s shooting a pilot for tv called American Icon. A mix of America’s Top Model and American Idol, it’s going to showcase people with talent who also look like models. Or people who look like models, but have no talent. He keeps glancing over at us. At me. I wonder what’s on his mind?

André thinks I’d be great as one of the judges for his show! Say whaaat?  I hate those shows! But he starts shouting at me— “YOU MUST DO IT, DARLING!”— while Belle, Desi and Lourdis nod in agreement like dashboard doggies. So I give in. André kisses me on both cheeks. Dammit. They got me.

Winona is wearing Roberto Cavalli

In my dressing room at home, Desi and I look at possible wardrobe choices. Something in my gut just won’t let me get excited about the new show and Desi is working hard to improve my frame of mind. “It’s going to be so much fun!” he says. “Play your cards right and like Tyra or Heidi, you might get a show of your own!”

Winona is wearing (clockwise) Versace, Paco Rabanne and Charles Youssef. Dressing area by Suzanne Kasler.

The moment I enter the tv studio one of my fellow judges starts giving me her coffee order. She doesn’t have a clue who I am. But come on, babygirl. Do I even LOOK like the coffee lady? In Victoria Beckham?? I certainly know who she is. Trusilla is the latest flavor-of-the-month pop sensation and her face and curvy body is plastered everywhere. André has to hold me back from introducing myself. He finds her faux pas amusing. I do not.

Winona is wearing Victoria Beckham. “Fortune Cookie’ handbag by Celine .

And then JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE strolls in. Of all people! We side-eye each other. The contempt is mutual. I’ll never get over the heat my girl Janet took after their Superbowl appearance. And how he left her to take it all alone.  It’s been twelve years but I don’t care. And André! Couldn’t he warn a sister? He was at Elton John’s Oscar party when JT and I went at it. It was all over the gossip rags the next day. He called me a troublemaker. A has-been. And I called him a punk-ass bitch.

We’ve got bad energy, JT and me. This doesn’t feel good. But why is André lurking in the background with a smile on his face?

André is full of surprises. I didn’t realize we were actually filming today! Trusilla is my new best friend and we’re propped behind a big illuminated desk, along with JT, in front of a green screen. Pre-selected contestants come out and perform for us. They are either very attractive or very talented, but definitely not both. Where did André find these people? I hear better musicians on street corners every day!

After a costume change, we’re back behind the desk and another pretty girl steps up to the mic. She gives us her backstory, a troubled past, busted for shoplifting, dealing drugs, she reminds me of…me! But when she opens her mouth, she sounds like a cross between Adele and Eryka Badu. I’m impressed! Finally! Long-legged gorgeousness and real talent wrapped up in one milky chocolate package. But JT brings his hand to his mouth. He yawns.

For the next group of contestants Trusilla is gone and we have a new judge. SMOKEY ROBINSON. He and I haven’t seen each other since our little fling in Monaco during the Grand Prix some years ago. André was there. It was a fun week. And speaking of André, just look at him skulking around in the shadows. He’s up to something. I can feel it.

Okay. Justin Timberlake annoys me. We’ve been bickering back and forth and André knew that would happen. And Smokey’s been acting pissy and going against my every vote. Things didn’t end well between us and André knows that, too. But this?? Putting me in the same room with, of all people, JANICE DICKINSON?? We loath one another and this too is a fact that André’s sneaky ass knows ALL TOO WELL. Turns out Rory Dickerson, the red-head performer, is her nephew? Well. That’s too bad for him.

But I think I get it now. Finally. André has raided our friendship and he’s using me—ME—as the bait to create drama and conflict on his set.

After another wardrobe change, I overhear André in a meeting with his staff. He tells them that Rory Dickinson has won the contest. It’s already been decided. Even before the judges vote? Well that’s it for me. There are no more lines left for him to cross in my book. I interrupt everything and QUIT his bullshit show on the spot! And André has the balls—the balls!— to be outraged. He threatens to sue. I threaten to counter. We’ve never had a fight like this. Not in twenty-five years!

Winona is wearing a CHANEL jacket.

Several weeks later Desi calls, interrupting an early evening playdate. He invites me to his home for an impromptu dinner. But Desi doesn’t do impromptu so right away I’m suspicious. I get dressed and taxi downtown, wondering what he’s got up that kimono sleeve of his. Surprise! Guess who’s also been invited? André. He’s bearing gifts from CARTIER and issuing grand apologies for using me as bait for his stupid show. American Icon wasn’t picked up by any network and relieved, I accept his mea culpa without a second thought. André is André. Whatcha gonna do?? But he’s been bitten by the producer bug. He wants to do a series now more than ever!

Winona’s lingerie is by NUBIAN SKIN

After dinner and dessert, André licks his spoon clean and praises Desi’s skill in the kitchen. I make a suggestion. He should pitch a cooking show featuring Desi and himself. Have Anna as a guest. Jay Z and Bey. RiRi. Karl Lagerfeld. Desi will cook and his high society ladies can round out the guest list. André squeals. “We’ll have dinner parties! And sparkling conversation!” They begin making plans. Sigh…I give it three episodes at the most before these two queens try and stab each other. But it’s ALL GOOD for me. After all, I’m BFF with the chef!