LIVE-IN DAHL

The trials of sharing your flat with a supermodel, as endured by Toby Young

New York I DON'T know how to put this so that it won't sound like bragging, so I'm just going to come right out and say it: I'm liv- ing with a supermodel. Not some emaciat- ed stick insect like Kate Moss, either, but the beautiful, full-figured Sophie Dahl. For a red-blooded, heterosexual male, it's like winning the lottery. Unfortunately, I'm not sleeping with her; we're just good friends. But I still get to see her naked. I have to say, though, it isn't working out as I had hoped. In fact, it's not working out at all. What should have been every man's dream has turned into every man's night- mare.

I think the worst thing about living with a supermodel are the phone calls. From the moment she moved into my little flat in Greenwich Village, the phone hasn't stopped ringing. Ninety-nine per cent of the callers are men — and none of them wants to speak to me. On those rare occa- sions when it's someone I know, we have one of those awkward, embarrassing con- versations in which they feel obliged to talk to me for a suitable period before they can politely ask to speak to Sophie. A typi- cal conversation goes something like this: Me: 'Hello?'

Gentleman Caller (surprised): 'Oh. Hello, Toby. How are you?'

Me: 'Fine. How the hell are you? I haven't heard from you in ages.'

GC: 'Yeah, you know how it is. So, er, how are things?'

Me: 'Oh, God, where to begin? You'll never guess what happened to me the other day.... '

GC (interrupting): 'Sorry, I'm in a bit of a rush. Is Sophie there, by any chance?'

Me: 'Oh. Yeah. Hold on. I'll pass you to her. [To Sophie] It's my father.'

I first met Sophie in November 1996 when I was working on a 'Cool Britannia' story for Vanity Fair. She was only 19 at the time but, with her sunny, up-for- anything personality and voluptuous Coca- Cola-bottle figure, she seemed to embody the spirit of Swinging London Mark II. I developed a massive, dirty-old-man crush on her — she's 14 years my junior — but I was no match for London's boy-band heart-throbs. By the time the Vanity Fair story came out, Sophie was Britain's No. 1 It Girl. I started calling her whenever I was in London and she would take me to trendy parties, fighting off the paparazzi with one hand and dragging me along behind her with the other.

When she announced that she was com- ing to New York to pursue an acting career, I invited her to move into my spare room and, to my astonishment, she accept- ed. Needless to say, this wasn't an act of charity on my part. In my mind's eye I pic- tured my flat becoming a giant changing room for the world's most sought-after models as they darted around New York between fashion shoots. It has, too. The trouble is, they're all men.

Living with a supermodel is enough to convince even the most popular young man that his life is drab and uninteresting in comparison. Since I'm neither popular nor young I didn't take much convincing, but I could have done without the constant 'If God exists, why does he let Cliff Richard happen?' reminders. In New York there isn't a party worth going to that Sophie isn't invited to.

Before she moved in, whenever the door- bell rang in the middle of the day it was nothing more glamorous than a delivery from Amazon.com. Now it's an endless stream of invitations. If I want to find out what she was up to the night before, I have only to read the gossip columns.

There are compensations, though. Every day I'm treated to my o*n private fashion show as Sophie models the various outfits she's thinking of wearing that evening. As. far as I can tell she gets all her clothes for free. She returns from fashion shoots with carrier bags full of cashmere sweaters, designer dresses and pony-skin jackets, all given to her by ambitious young stylists eager to win her favour. I'm trying to per- suade her to have a sample sale in my flat. At least that way I might get to meet some of her female friends.

I suppose it was naive of me to think that Sophie would invite me to accompany her on her nightly rounds of the New York party circuit. From her point of view it would be like taking her dad along. Indeed, now that she's living with me, I'm begin- ning to think of Sophie less as a friend and more as a daughter. In all sorts of ways I'm getting a real taste of what it's like to be a parent.

For instance, should I warn her against the various sleazy, fortysomething men that have already begun to circle her like crows hunting for fresh meat? Or will that only serve to make them more intriguing? As an adolescent, I always did precisely the oppo- site of what my parents told me, and I sus- pect Sophie may be the same. Perhaps I should try some reverse psychology and urge her to go out with these lecherous old goats.

On the other hand, before I get too cen- sorious, I ought to make sure I'm not just becoming an envious, embittered old man. Is there some part of me that can't bear to see a beautiful young girl enjoying herself? When I warn her to be more wary and sus- picious of people, I tell myself it's just because I want to protect her; it's for her own good, damn it! But if she were any less reckless, she wouldn't have so much fun. I want her to grow up and yet I can't be sure it's not because I'm jealous of her youth. I imagine this perpetual scrutiny of one's motives is typical of what a parent goes through.

In truth, I love living with Sophie. You'd think that with all the attention she receives she'd be a celebrity monster by now, but she's extremely good-hearted and kind. She's also much more intelligent than most of the people I went to Oxford with. The reason she's so vulnerable is that she hasn't developed that jaded crust so many of her peers have; she's like a child carrying a honeycomb wandering around a wood full of bears. I hope she wises up, but I hope she doesn't lose her sweetness in the process.