We Spent 5 Days With Victoria’s Secret Angels, and Their Lives Are Exactly as You’d Imagine

The email from the PR company that works with Victoria’s Secret showed up in my in-box at 2:47 P.M. on September 27. In exactly two months, it said, a private plane would depart New York for the 2016 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, carrying all the models who will walk in the yearly spectacular. “Confidentially, it is at an international location,” a publicist wrote, and would I like to take that jet with them and attend the show? Hmmm, let me think about that. Yes! Four weeks later news broke that the show would be in Paris. YES.

So on the morning of the Sunday after Thanksgiving I (Florence) am in the air somewhere over the Atlantic on a Boeing 767 sitting in a very comfortable window seat (it’s all biz class style on this baby) chatting with Alessandra Ambrosio, a 16-year VS show vet. Casual. “I flew in from L.A. yesterday and arrived late at night. Then I woke up at 4:00 A.M. Not that fun, not that glamorous,” she says with a laugh. I honestly can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up that early and be so coherent while talking to all of us editors on a plane.

That morning around 7:30 a.m., my Uber had pulled up to a tiny terminal at JFK. Inside a woman was checking names off a list. I didn’t even need to tell her mine; she knew. (Is this what it’s always like to fly noncommercial?) I hand over my suitcase, which is to be delivered to the hotel. I’m never not flying like this again, I think, and we’re not even on the plane yet.

Fashion press people (i.e., me), casting agents, camera guys, entertainment news program hosts, bloggers, and reps from big social media companies all eat bagels while we await instruction. Finally we’re told to go have our passports scanned, and then asked to line up for security. And by security, I mean one single-file line of people (clarification: VS models and mortals such as I) waiting to go through one single metal detector. It takes maybe ten minutes. Quaint!

On the tarmac is the biggest, pinkest step-and-repeat covering the entire side of the staircase leading up to the aircraft. With perfect hair and makeup in place, VS stars in matching outfits—pink VS tees, jeans, and black boots—are taking selfies, posing on luggage carts (I see you, Kendall), waving little French flags, and then posing for official pics. And, of course, they’re blowing kisses to the cameras. So. Many. Kisses. Big smiles. Happy. Fun. The nonmodels are hanging back and also angling for photos, because if it’s not on our Instagrams, it didn’t happen. Gotta say, the ladies’ enthusiasm and excitement are infectious.

We climb the steps—models first—to board the plane, where the first half of seating is for the models. The rest of us have to walk through 54 VS stars getting settled into their seats. It’s seriously surreal. There’s Adriana, Elsa, Maria, Jasmine. I walk between Kendall and Bella, who are next to each other on opposite sides of the aisle. Attendants are passing out mimosas. (Kendall passes on the drink. Too busy looking at her phone. Also, it’s, like, 9:00 A.M.) On every seat there’s a supersoft travel blanket emblazoned with “Victoria’s Secret” as well as a silver tasseled cross-body VS bag with some goodies inside: an international outlet adapter that comes in its own adorable little case (so practical, so chic!), some VS lip glosses, and a Max Factor Epic Lash mascara, which, I’m told by the beauty editor from Allure I’m seated next to, is kind of a big deal because you can’t get it in the States. Everyone sits for takeoff. Then we eat; there are egg-white omelets, steel-cut Irish oatmeal, whole-wheat blueberry pancakes. Everyone’s pretty quiet. Quietly freaking out inside, maybe? I am. This is going to be good.

But then everyone is up; models come to the front row of the back section to do interviews, and press is called up one by one for their windows of time with them—which is when I talk to Alessandra. Adriana Lima is being filmed by vogue.com telling passengers over the loudspeaker to take their seats now because of turbulence. Hysterical giggles ensue. One model is filmed serving a TV host his breakfast. Hilarious! Soon the lights go down up front and it gets quiet. Shhhhhhhh, the Angels are sleeping.

When we land in Paris, it’s late and everyone is tired. We board buses, and as we enter the city, my seatmate—ya know, just Stella Maxwell—and I realize at the same moment that we’re not stopping for any red lights. “Do we have a police escort?” she asks me. Even the seasoned pros on board are wowed.

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While I’m in Paris, I get inquiring emails from pals back in New York: “How is your body image doing right now?” Just dandy, thank you very much. These women look the way they do because of genetics. OK, fine, and working out a lot. “Are they really so damn happy?” They are. At least from what I’ve seen at our hotel. I see Angels in the lobby, in the bar…everywhere—that is, when they’re not on official duty doing VS photo shoots and rehearsing for the actual show. They can’t even leave the hotel without paparazzi and fans waiting for them. (P.S.: Security is so tight, I’m not even allowed to bring Lindsay up to my room.)

On the big day, Glamour’s photographer Federico and I meet at the venue, the Grand Palais. We have been given a 20-minute window to do it all: photos, gifs, video. We walk into the dressing area with our assigned PR contact, who’s there to make sure we don’t go over our time limit, and it’s mayhem. The craziest backstage you can imagine. Want to talk to Gigi? Go ahead; walk right up to her and say hi—which we do immediately. “Can you come back when my hair is done?” she asks sweetly. Of course, Gigi. Gigi is now my favorite VS model of all time.

Fifteen minutes left, our escort says. This is like speed dating with supermodels: “Hi [insert insanely famous woman here], how are you? May we take your photo for Glamour? Will you also do a selfie for us? Oh, can we make a quick video of you saying hi to our Instagram followers?’ Our PR shadow is a saint and lets us stay long past our 20 minutes. We get it done and are out the door—but I’ll be back for the show in a few hours.

Meanwhile I (Lindsay) am running on fumes, miniature coffees (why didn’t anyone tell me the coffee in Paris was so cute—and so strong!), and croissants after having spent the previous night shooting a hair tutorial with Sarah Potempa, the lead hairstylist for the show. I would complain that we were up until 3:00 in the morning, but then again, my backstage call time is at 1:00 P.M. and Sarah has already Beachwaver-ed the hell out of a handful of models by the time I’ve arrived.

Basically I’m in a model zoo. The room is full of reporters and camera crews wandering around. Everyone is gawking at the beautiful specimens perched in hair and makeup chairs; each of us trying to find a way to approach and get close. I too have an escort, but the great thing about being a 5’3″ nobody in a Palais full of Angels is that I’m able to sneak away fairly undetected.

I make a beeline for Maria Borges, who’s sitting on a couch in the back of the room. She’s getting her toes painted, but that doesn’t stop her from striking a pose and blowing a kiss as soon as a photographer nears. I can’t tell you how wild it is to witness every. single. model go into “on” mode as soon as a camera lens turns her way. I wonder how many times they practiced this in the mirror. Who am I kidding? I did this at least 15 times the night before for my own Snapchat, sooo…

Maria and I talk about her monumental moment at last year’s show and how she paved the way for more models to walk the runway wearing their hair natural. This year there are three models—Maria, Jourdana Phillips, and Hereith Paul—who are wearing their hair in an Afro-textured short style. She’s so excited about it, I want to give her a hug. But that’s weird, so I hand her my phone for a selfie instead.

I move back into a whirl of pretty. There’s Bella (who tells me she can’t get enough of Jen Atkin’s Ouai Hairspray these days) and Alessandra (on whom makeup artist Tom Pecheux is drawing a cat eye), and…spotted!…Irina Shayk in the very back corner.

At this point I have no idea she is pregnant, which is probably for the best because I might’ve gotten unprofessional Rory Gilmore–style and asked her a million questions about the baby. And Bradley. Like, what do you think he smells like? Irina, meanwhile, smells like Victoria’s Secret Paris (they spritzed it on every girl), and she goes on to tell me about her favorite things she’s eaten this week: borscht (a Russian soup), blini with salmon, and potatoes with caviar. “I’m Russian, I love caviar!”

Shit. My escort found me.

I have just enough time to make it back and change into my Rent the Runway dress before I’m whisked back off to the Beachwaver Suite to get extensions put in. When in Rome (er, Paris), ya know?

We arrive back at the Palais, and even the venue has dressed up for the occasion. It’s engulfed in a wash of bright pink lights with heavily armed policemen and women stationed around the perimeter. You need a ticket to pick up your actual ticket to pick up your after-party wristband in order to get through the doors. Pay close attention, and you’ll see Kendall Jenner’s bodyguard floating among the crowd. There’s a reason this place is so heavily guarded (see: Kim Kardashian’s robbery), and I’m not mad about it.

After a cocktail hour and photos in the foyer, we’re ushered to our seats. Immediately I lose my chill. Sarah Potempa has reserved a few beauty editors’ seats next to her in the second row right next to the stage. I’m sorry there’s no way to humblebrag about this. This was fucking cool.

From there, the show was a blur. The one thing I unfortunately remember: Sarah was waving to all the models as they walked by, so when Kendall took the stage, Sarah shouted at her and Kendall waved back. Then I waved at Kendall like a maniac. It’s like when you’re walking down the street and someone says hi and you respond, only to realize they weren’t actually talking to you. I did that to Kendall freaking Jenner. In the second row. In front of cameras. I think I may have just become a meme.

After the show we’re sent up a flight of stairs into a room where cuts of the show are already playing. NBD. There’s a DJ playing remixed versions of classic hits, two bars that are serving Ciroc cocktails (I grab one), and in the back, there’s a VIP section where The Weeknd is hanging out. I casually walk that way.

Not even 20 minutes into the party, Yolanda Hadid appears and gives The Weeknd a hug. Before I know it, Bella is walking over to him. They talk, pose for a picture with Gigi, he hugs her, and then the two models leave. Oh my God. That just happened. I text my work wife immediately. I feel a little like a paparazzo, and that makes me feel gross, but I also feel like I just found out my best friend and her ex—both of whom I love—are on good terms. It’s weird how attached we get to celebrities.

Eventually I grow hungry, and it’s time to leave this night of glamour for French fries and a steak tartare. Irina may be able to subsist on salmon, but not me.

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Our flight leaves the day after the show at the very civilized time of 2:30 P.M. Nevertheless, the lobby of the hotel is a bit like a scene from The Walking Dead. Some of us never adjusted to Paris time and were up every night until 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. (with or without a room-service cheeseburger). Some of us were out celebrating out all night. Everyone gets on the chartered buses for the airport. Again, there’s a police escort to get us through traffic. We’re weaving into opposite lanes, running lights again. We’re on our way to that big private plane that will take us back to reality.

Photos: tarmac, Getty Images; backstage, Federico de Angelis.