A model of decorum
Once an A-list supermodel, now a successful businesswoman, CAPRICE Bourret is no wallflower. Here she talks openly to Hot Press about why she wouldn't touch heroin with a bargepole, why Courtney Love is a mess, why South Africa is the most exciting – and terrifying – place in the world, and the sneaky lengths the paps will go to for a scoop. She also betrays a traditionalist streak that borders on the Victorian while lecturing Clarky on his private life!
Stuart Clark, 29 Jul 2010
I know I have the air of a man who spends most of his time in the company of Page 3 stunners and men's mag cover girls, but this is actually the first time I've met one of the pre-eminent glamour models of her generation.
In Dublin to plug her involvement in TV3's new Style Wars reality show – catch it on Tuesdays at 8 o'clock – Caprice has just spent the last two hours giving good pose to HP snapper Mark Nixon in her suite at The Dylan Hotel. The black eye the 38-year-old got the other day playing tennis has been expertly covered over with make-up, and her long blonde tresses coiffed to perfection.
"This is me done up to go to work," Ms. Bourret laughs. "I look at modelling and the whole fame game as business. And by the way, what I did was commercial modelling. It's very difficult when you guys say glamour because when you say glamour you mean Page 3, which is cheap and disgusting."
Well, that's me told! However you argue the semantics, Caprice has had a hugely successfully modelling career with Wonderbra, GQ, Cosmo, Esquire, Maxim, FHM, Sports Illustrated and Playboy for whom she posed nude in March 2000 all on her C.V.
Add in either real or rumoured affairs with former Arsenal footballer Tony Adams, England cricketer Kevin Pietersen and oil heir Alexander Davis, to name but three, and you can understand why she's been prime tabloid fodder for the past 15 years.
"New York has this reputation for being overrun by paparazzi, but London is a thousand times worse," Caprice says of the city she's called home since 1996. "Coming out of a club at three in the morning with a guy on your arm you're kinda fair game, but they totally invade your privacy. I used to use this car service whose drivers I knew and happily chatted away to. One day I noticed they had a tape recorder in the front seat recording my conversation. I thought, ‘Okay, that's why every time I go out there are four or five paps trying to get a picture of me without make-up or with a boob hanging out or my cellulite showing!' They'd know it was me because I'd say ‘account number 1234' and tip off whoever it was who was paying them. I felt really violated by that.
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