You've probably seen me around - on billboards, in perfume ads, and sometimes, behind you in the shopping queue. I'm very much in demand, and have been for as long as I can remember. With attributes like mine, it's to be expected. My brand of style is always, well, in style. I have the mystique of Greta Garbo. She of the distant gaze and perfectly painted lips curved in a Mona Lisa smile. My eyes are the eyes of La Bardot, playing on a beach in a polka dot bikini. Kohled eyes that speak reams of ancient knowledge, regal as Nefertiti, yet with a kittenish air. And my voice, my voice is pure Marilyn, the breathy slide of fur over silk.
"Happy Birthday, Mr President..."
All star-spangled and sparkly, and oh, so sad.
You might be forgiven for thinking me a fragile waif in need of a bodyguard, but there's starch in my Peter Pan collar. I don't need a whalebone corset to give me backbone! My attitude is all Hepburn. No, not Audrey, the other one, the one with the Oxford bags and button-down shirt. The sassy girl-next-door with feet in sensible brogues crossed at the ankle, that's me. Pure. iconic. Accomplished. Although I can also be Audrey on occasion, in my LBD, toying with my onyx cigarette holder and looking naive and worldly by turns. The cigarette is unlit, of course - Eau de Smoke is sooo unbecoming.
I'm a thoroughly modern woman, so don't be misled by my dress sense. The only other retro thing about me is my mole. It's truly historic. Very 17th century, very Marie Antoinette-in-the-making. And quite a talking point! People tell me, with this mole, I look like Cindy Crawford. Forgive me if I sound vain and arrogant, but it's hard not to be with a face to die for, and body that won't quit.
I don't think I'm vain, just realistic. I have an image to uphold. Tonight you will see me on the red carpet at the Oscars. My gown is by Galliano, and it fits like a glove. Indescribably stunning! I've pasted a picture on the right so you can see exactly what I mean. Kind of a tip-off from me to you, so you don't have to wait for the roundup in next month's In Style. In a matter of hours, all the world will notice me as I strike a pose (there's nothing to it), the light falling across my airbrushed brow, just so! And later, after the champagne and canapes, my Prince will come, bending on one knee to fit the glass slipper my dainty foot, thus sparing me from a life as a pumpkin after the stroke of twelve. Then he will give me a big rock, and we will live happily ever after!
In my dreams...
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