One Sunday last spring, Brad Kroenig and his 5-year-old son, Hudson, showed up at a private airport near Paris to meet Karl Lagerfeld, the fashion designer. “Karl will be here 1, 1:30 for takeoff,” announced a Frenchman in a black suit and tie. “O.K., cool,” Brad said. The man in the suit performed something like a bow and retreated. It was 12:45. Brad sank into an armchair by the window and surveyed the tarmac. He pointed out a large gray hawk of a plane that stood off to the side of the slighter, dovelike jets. “It’s the same one that Oprah has,” Brad said. “It’s the biggest one. It flies, like, the longest journey. A lot of private planes have to stop for gas.” Brad knows what kind of plane Lagerfeld travels on because he has flown on it often. As the most senior and prominent member of a group of male models often referred to as Karl’s Boys, Brad not only works for Chanel and Fendi, the fashion houses where Lagerfeld is the head designer, but also accompanies him on yearly vacations to St. Tropez and work trips and to parties worldwide. He has been photographed with Lagerfeld so often that gossip blogs have mistakenly identified him as the designer’s boyfriend, but their relationship is not romantic. Lagerfeld refers to Brad and the other models that travel with him as his family, albeit a self-selected, genetically ideal one. “I hate ugly people,” Lagerfeld told me. “Very depressing.”
If models were show dogs, Brad would be a golden retriever. He has a strong jaw, hazel eyes and thick blond hair that seems perpetually windswept. The scruff on his face is shaped carefully, deliberately, to draw attention to his cheekbones. Unlike other beautiful people whose appeal lies in a distinctive facial quirk, Brad’s features are perfectly proportioned, with no apparent flaws or peculiarities. When he models, he looks like a Roman statue. “His best bit is the curve of his thigh,” Lagerfeld once said. At the airport, Hudson snapped photos on an iPhone while his father modeled for him. An hour went by. The man in the suit reappeared and said there would be “a special cake” for “Mr. Hudson” on the plane. Brad asked if there might be special wine for him. “Might as well, right?” he said, and grinned. Around 2:30, Lagerfeld appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the airport lounge. He was dressed in the manner that has made him the most recognizable designer in the world: a white shirt with a high Edwardian collar, fingerless leather gloves, a strict black blazer and sunglasses. A diamond cat brooch was pinned to his tie, and his tight black pants were covered in a microprint of his own likeness, which ran up and down the leg and, from far away, looked like a thick pinstripe. “Hello!” Lagerfeld said. He glanced at the field of small planes and frowned. “And where is ours? Is it that one?” Brad pointed to the larger jet parked just out of view. “Ah, the big one,” Lagerfeld said. “Good.”
Lagerfeld was expected that evening in Dubai, where he would show Chanel’s 2015 resort collection in two days. Typically Brad would model in the show, but in Dubai, only Hudson, who is Lagerfeld’s godson, would walk the runway. (He has been appearing in Chanel shows since he was 2.) Lagerfeld was accompanied on the trip, as he is most places, by his 39-year-old bodyguard, Sébastien Jondeau, a part-time boxer with a sinewy build and an intense stare. (A few days later, he nearly body-checked Brad when he held a cup of coffee a little too close to Lagerfeld’s white blazer). Lagerfeld led the way to the plane. Inside, a wineglass of Diet Coke awaited him at his seat. At the back of the aircraft was a single bed made up with crisp white linens. “But where am I going to sleep?” Hudson asked. “You sleep on your seat, darling,” Lagerfeld replied in his heavy German accent. “I have to arrive fresh, you don’t have to. Don’t be selfish.”
Lagerfeld rummaged in one of his many shopping replica bags and fished out a matching light blue Givenchy tank top and shirt with their tags still attached. “For Dubai,” he said, handing them to Brad. For the plane ride, Brad wore jeans and a blazer by Dior and white Nike high-top sneakers. A rose-gold Rolex glimmered on one wrist, and on the other he wore a diamond bracelet by Chrome Hearts, Lagerfeld’s favorite jewelry brand. “Karl is really generous,” Brad told me. “He likes his friends to look chic.” After lunch — caviar and salmon tartare for Lagerfeld; caviar, foie gras and scallops for Brad; couscous and vegetables for Hudson — Lagerfeld fell asleep not in his bed, but upright in his seat, Dracula-like. He was still wearing his sunglasses, and the stiff collar of his shirt seemed to dig in uncomfortably at his neck. Brad took out a notebook and jotted down the trip’s mileage. He keeps a log of the cumulative distance he has traveled as a model, currently at 2.4 million miles. Back in St. Louis, where Brad is from, his mother, Barb, keeps track by pinning red flags on a large world map in her basement. The plane climbed into the sky and reached a quiet lull. “See, I told you,” Brad said. “Up here, there’s almost no turbulence.”
Brad likes to say that male modeling is to the women’s business as the W.N.B.A. is to the N.B.A. While Gisele Bündchen’s yearly income is estimated at around $47 million, men of Brad’s standing earn $200,000 to $500,000. A male model, however, can gain an advantage, and ensure career longevity, by forging relationships with influential designers and photographers. Most of today’s top men have longstanding associations with certain labels. But in a way, Brad is unlike other models, because Lagerfeld isn’t like other designers. Lagerfeld has been at Chanel’s helm since 1983 and still designs 17 collections a year for Chanel, Fendi and his namesake line, an unprecedented feat of creative stamina. He is also a photographer who shoots campaigns for his labels as well as for other brands, like Audi. Brad has become the beneficiary of Lagerfeld’s productivity, appearing on his runways and in his ads. That Brad continues to work well into his 30s is due in no small part to having Lagerfeld as his champion. “If I never met Karl, there’s no way I’d still be modeling,” he said.
Brad was raised in Oakville, Mo., a middle-class suburb south of St. Louis. His father, Mark, is an environmental engineer; his mother works as a part-time legal assistant. The middle of three children, Brad grew up playing sports and attended Florida International University on a soccer scholarship. He planned to go pro, or at least semipro, but during his junior year he became bored with school. He wanted to major in hotel management, but classes were at another campus 20 minutes away. A girl he knew on the volleyball team made money modeling, and she suggested Brad try it. After the first few agencies said no, an agent at Next took him on, but warned, “Whatever you do, do not quit school.” Brad dropped out that same afternoon.
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Brad borrowed money from his parents and began studying fashion magazines. “That’s when I learned about Karl,” he said. “I thought, Wow, this guy is, like, walking around in sunglasses and all these ridiculous outfits. This guy is living big.” Soon, Brad caught the attention of Bruce Weber, who cast him in one of his notoriously racy Abercrombie & Fitch campaigns. “I was on the fake bag, which is kind of a big deal,” Brad said, meaning the store’s shopping bag. He was also in its catalog. “I was fully nude, like a butt shot.”
In 2001, Brad moved to New York and showed up at the Ford agency, where the founder, Eileen Ford, saw him from across the room and said, “Oh, my gosh, he looks like Errol Flynn,” according to Sam Doerfler, who became Brad’s agent. He walked out with a three-year contract. Doerfler said he thought that Brad had the kind of clean-cut athleticism that would appeal to more commercial clients (brands like Target or Macy’s), but Brad wanted to do high fashion; he wanted to work with Lagerfeld. “My thing was, how do you take a commercial-looking guy and make him look edgy,” Doerfler told me. To give Brad a more distinct look that might attract European designers, Doerfler had Brad spend a year growing his hair long and transforming his muscular physique into a more lanky one.
By 2003, Brad debuted on the Jil Sander and Dolce & Gabbana runways in Milan and quickly landed the covers of L’Uomo Vogue and Interview, a coup for a male model. That same year, VMAN flew Brad, 23, along with two other male models to Biarritz for a shoot for which Lagerfeld would be the photographer. The designer owned a hillside estate there at the time, and he suggested they shoot in the outdoor shower. The resulting image shows Brad fully nude, his right hand covered in tangles of Chrome Hearts chunky jewelry and grabbing his genitals. “He probably took one picture of each of the other guys and, like, 20 of me,” Brad said.
After Biarritz, Lagerfeld photographed Brad constantly, almost as if he were studying an exotic new species: Brad walking, sleeping, eating, shaving, swimming and working out; Brad nude or seminude in showers and bathtubs, on beds and on balconies. He dressed him up like his own Ken doll, shooting him as the Greek god Zeus, James Dean and Jay Gatsby. Lagerfeld compiled the photos in “Metamorphoses of an American,” a four-volume book devoted entirely to Brad. In the introduction, he wrote, “It’s all about the clarity of the transmitted individuality of a face and a body unencumbered by too much experience.” Brad soon became known as Lagerfeld’s “muse.” Amanda Harlech, a socialite who has been a muse of Lagerfeld’s for almost 20 years, said, “At a very simple level, it’s something that the eye is pleased to look at.” Brad has always been comfortable in the role. “The photographer has to be into the subject he’s shooting,” he said. “It’s like if you’re a basketball coach, you have to be into LeBron James and think he’s great, or you wouldn’t put him in the game.” He added: “The models that are uncomfortable just don’t make it. Why not get naked in the shower and have million-dollar jewelry on me?”
Brad began to appear in Fendi and Chanel ads almost every season. In the past decade, he has been shot by Mario Testino, Patrick Demarchelier, Craig McDean and, months before his death, Richard Avedon. In 2004 Brad was named the top male model by Models.com, a site that releases rankings for the industry, and held the title for three years. Recently, Vogue listed him among the “Top 10 Male Models of All Time.”
Since Brad’s arrival, Lagerfeld’s entourage has grown to include the British model Jake Davies, 34, and Baptiste Giabiconi, a 25-year-old from the south of France with a striking resemblance to a younger Lagerfeld. Together, they’ve become a part of the designer’s provocative image, trailing him as he exits cars and boats and planes. When I asked Lagerfeld about his “boys,” he said: “I don’t give labels for it. Labels is something I design for, they’re not what I give to persons.” Then he relented. “I see them like family,” he said. “I have no family at all, so it’s good to have, like, sons but without the unpleasant problems sons can create.” He added: “It’s a choice, it’s not an obligation. There’s a big difference. I have a sister in America who I haven’t seen for 40 years. Her children never even send me a Christmas card.”
“Everybody survived?” Lagerfeld asked as the plane touched down in Dubai around midnight. When the group arrived at the One and Only Royal Mirage Palace, a hotel along the marina, a kind of welcoming committee was gathered outside, including Chanel employees, the hotel’s staff and Lagerfeld’s butler, Frédéric, who stood in a white coat and tie holding a tray with a chilled glass of Diet Coke. (Once, Brad and Lagerfeld traveled to the Great Wall of China and found Frédéric, who always arrives at destinations ahead of his employer, waiting at the top of the stairs.) An assistant handed Brad his room key, and by the time he turned around, the swarm of people that had consumed Lagerfeld had moved across the lobby and disappeared inside the hotel.
The next day, Brad and Hudson spent the morning by the pool and met Lagerfeld for lunch. Brad wore the shirts that Lagerfeld gave him on the plane, one on top of the other, a look that Lagerfeld declared “very cute.” As the designer took the head of the table, Bruno Pavlovsky, Chanel’s president of fashion, sat on his right; his other associates moved down so that Brad and Hudson could sit on his left.
While everyone prattled on in French, Brad, who doesn’t speak the language, chimed in enthusiastically about the food (“This chicken is unbelievable”) or the pool (“It’s perfect”). Among Lagerfeld’s colleagues, Brad’s Midwestern earnestness seemed almost out of place. (Brad once told me, without a hint of sarcasm: “I always say, in the fashion world, everyone is so great. It’s like one big family, you know? Everyone is just so nice to each other.”)
Lagerfeld had been toting around a small Polaroid printer and gave an identical one to Hudson. During the lunch, he occasionally shifted away from Pavlovsky to exchange Polaroids with Hudson. Lagerfeld printed a photo of his pet siamese cat, Choupette. Hudson printed a selfie.
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“I hate selfies,” Lagerfeld said. “Don’t use your film for ugly purpose.”
For Lagerfeld, Brad and Hudson’s presence seemed to provide a kind of relief. When he and Brad spoke, their conversation consisted of uncomplicated small talk:
Brad: “The hotel is beautiful, huh?”
Lagerfeld: “Yes, it’s flawlessly kept.”
Brad: “It’s hot out, but not too humid.”
Lagerfeld: “Yes, but it’s hot.”
Lagerfeld told me: “Brad has a lot of energy, and he is fun. He gives good vibes.” He later added: “In a way Brad, he’s, how could I say? He has the manner of a boy or a child.”
When Brad is not traveling with Lagerfeld, he can be found in Wyckoff, N.J., a wealthy enclave in Bergen County, which is perhaps best known as the home of “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.” A week before he left for Dubai, I visited Brad at his house, which sits along a quiet, leafy cul-de-sac. Brad and Nicole Kroenig were in the kitchen with the couple’s younger son, Jameson. A pretty brunette, Nicole, 32, is the daughter of the famous tennis coach Nick Bollettieri. (Hudson’s middle name is Nicholas; Jameson’s is Karl.)
The couple’s home is so neat and sparsely decorated that it could pass for a model home used to attract prospective buyers. And yet there are conspicuous signs of Lagerfeld’s looming presence in the family’s life. In the living room hangs a framed contact sheet of father and son, shot by Lagerfeld and signed, “It’s a funny page, love Karl.” In the basement, a storage room contains racks of clothing that Brad has acquired over the years, including a series of navy and white suits he described as “my St. Tropez looks.” A fax machine sits in the corner — until a few years ago, Lagerfeld communicated with friends only by fax — and on the shelves nearby, several Goyard trunks are filled with years’ worth of Brad’s correspondence with Lagerfeld. (Brad also had his parents install a fax machine at their home in Oakville in case he needed to be accessible while visiting.) Now that Lagerfeld has embraced the iPhone, he and Brad speak on Sundays and exchange texts. “We’ll text him photos of the kids, he’ll text us photos of Choupette,” Nicole told me. Upstairs in Hudson’s bedroom, Japanese Karl Lagerfeld figurines are displayed alongside action figures. When I asked if Hudson understands who Karl is, Nicole said, “He knows that Karl is a special person.” Brad clarified, adding, “He knows that you can Google him and that you can’t just Google anybody.”
When Brad is home, he leads the life of a stay-at-home dad. He shuttles the boys to school, hosts barbecues and cleans the pool incessantly. Every morning, he performs a grueling workout routine — sprints or seven-mile runs, push-ups, squats, lunges and crunches — designed to keep him thin, but not too bulky, so that he can continue to fit into designers’ unforgiving sample sizes. “You’re 35, but you got to make your body look like you’re 19,” Brad said, quoting his agent. He generally avoids activities that could damage his appearance. When he runs at the nearby high-school track, he keeps his distance from the lacrosse team, anxious that they might hurl balls in the direction of his face. He played in the town’s softball league, but quit after he hurt his leg, deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. (Some of the other fathers on the team nicknamed him Zoolander.)
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Several times a day I caught Brad fussing with his hair, which turned out to be a head massage that Nicole explained stimulates hair growth. Nicole approaches her role as Brad’s partner with the diligence of an athlete’s wife, helping to manage Brad’s low-carb, high-protein diet and replenishing his various supplements, like Viviscal and Biotin (which also promote hair growth). “I get so frustrated because people always see the glamorous side,” she said, “but they have no idea what he has to do to stay at this level.”
In the afternoons, Brad oversees his son’s after-school activities. For a while, he helped coach Hudson’s Little League team, but later decided that was too hazardous, too. On Lagerfeld’s suggestion, Hudson has been taking French, and Brad hoped he would try out what he learned on Lagerfeld. “That was the whole point of why we did it,” he said.
“Well, and because he’s interested in it,” Nicole added.
Brad and Nicole took Hudson to a sports class, where coaches ran 5-year-olds around an indoor gym. Nearby, other mothers sat juggling Starbucks coffees, replica diaper bags and Louis Vuitton and Chanel replica handbags. As we walked in, a woman in a pink hoodie and leggings scanned Brad from head to toe. “Obviously, being in this town, you notice women pay attention,” Nicole said later.
Occasionally women will approach Nicole on the playground and tell her that they Googled Brad. Then their voices trail off, and she knows that they came across a nude photo. “I can’t Google these women’s husbands and see them on the beach or something,” she said. “One question I always get asked, and it tends to be by women, is ‘Doesn’t it make you nervous, you know, him, like, modeling with all these beautiful girls?’ And I’m like: ‘No. If it did, we wouldn’t be together.’ ”
Brad joined a gaggle of women and began comparing workout routines with a muscular blonde in skinny jeans and a striped tank top.
“How many pull-ups can you do?” he asked.
“In a row?” the blonde said. “Twenty-five.”
“I can only do like 10,” Brad said. “Can you do a handstand?”
“Of course,” she said.
As talk turned to summer vacations, Brad said they would be spending part of August in St. Tropez. “For a show?” one of the moms asked. Brad hesitated before saying, “Nah, just to hang out with a friend.”
The fitting for the Dubai collection took place in two large rooms off the hotel lobby. When Brad and Hudson arrived in the early evening, Hudson was cooed over by models waiting to be dressed and the Chanel assistants who worked to dress them. “When did you get so tall?” asked the American model Jamie Bochert. “You look just like your dad!” Hudson told her to smell his shoe.
Lagerfeld presided at a table at the far end of the room. When Hudson was sent out in a long white tunic and pointed Aladdin-like shoes, Lagerfeld leapt out of his seat. “Ah, our little prince!” Lagerfeld said. “But I think he needs much more diamonds.” The designer arranged layers of jewels around his neck, then took a step back to evaluate.
Hudson was born in 2008, the same year that Baptiste entered Lagerfeld’s circle and, for a moment, seemed to displace Brad in it. Lagerfeld made Baptiste the new star of his Fendi and Chanel campaigns and the subject of his latest photography book, “The Beauty of Violence,” which showed the model, then 19, in an array of erotic poses. Lagerfeld once had a plaster mold made of Brad; he had Baptiste carved out of Belgian chocolate. By 2009, New York magazine’s style blog, The Cut, announced, “Brad’s Out, Baptiste Is In!”
Lagerfeld has long been known for his fleeting attention span. In “The Beautiful Fall,” a piquant account of the 1970s Paris fashion scene, the British journalist Alicia Drake narrates countless episodes of Lagerfeld’s former friends being ejected from his world. “The members of his shifting entourage were there to provide information, energy, laughter, ideas and, significantly, youth,” Drake writes. “And they were replaced when they no longer fulfilled these criteria.”
In 2009, Lagerfeld became Hudson’s godfather and, soon, father and son appeared on the Chanel Spring 2011 runway, walking hand in hand in matching tweed blazers. “I had zero jealousy when Baptiste came along,” Brad told me. “Baptiste was probably, like, 20 at the time, and I was, like, 30, so I guess Karl was more inspired by Baptiste, which is fine. But look, me and Karl were getting even closer then with everything going on with Hudson. The whole thing with him becoming his godfather just happened naturally. It wasn’t some setup thing, like ‘Let’s have Karl be the godfather.’ ”
Lagerfeld has become enamored with Hudson, giving him gifts (books, clothes, pint-size Fendi purses) and shooting him almost as much as he does his adult muses. “Karl is fascinated by being so close to a young mind,” Harlech told me. “It’s very new for Karl.”
Brad has walked in every resort show for the past 10 years. This time he came as Hudson’s chaperone. Lagerfeld told me: “I work with him but a little less, because I’ve worked so much with him before. You cannot photograph the same person for 200 years.”
As models age, they often develop lucrative careers working for more commercial clients. Brad still gets booked for editorial jobs, but in recent years he has also appeared in ads for Macy’s, Lands’ End and Nordstrom. (“I’ve noticed a couple more dad scenes,” he told me.) Brad will be able to work for years to come, but Sam Doerfler, Brad’s agent, said: “There’s a point it’s over. It’s not like you’re fired, but it’s just that no one wants to shoot you anymore. That point, it happens to everybody.”
At 35, Brad remains vigorously handsome. But an inevitable masculine sturdiness has set in, which becomes apparent when he wears his Dior skinny jeans designed for the teenage boys who stalk the runway. Brad’s determination to compete with them can sometimes feel as demoralizing as that of a housewife trying to maintain the attention of a husband who has a perpetual wandering eye. At a restaurant in Wyckoff, he wistfully scanned the carb-piled plates of the other diners — “Oh, wow, is that pizza?” — and then ordered chicken-noodle soup with no noodles. When he runs in the morning, he told me that he likes to think of Sean O’Pry, the pouty-lipped 25-year-old American currently ranked among the world’s top models.
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I asked Brad if he worried that as he grew older, Lagerfeld would no longer be interested in keeping him around. “I should look fine for at least another . . . ,” his voice trailed off. “A long time, hopefully. Even if my hair falls out, I’ll just shave it. But he always says he remembers me the way I was when he first met me, as this 23-year-old guy who’s good-looking and full of life.” When I posed the same question to Lagerfeld, the designer instead alluded to the inevitability of his own decline: “I would think if he is much older, I may not see that?”
The day of the show was hot and arid, with an unrelenting desert sun blazing in a cloudless sky. Brad was in his hotel room worried because Hudson hadn’t napped.
“I don’t want to put on shoes,” Hudson said.
Brad helped him into his sneakers. Once Hudson was ready, Brad put on a new Dior suit, but the pants were too long, so he hemmed them with Scotch tape. He wore his Rolex and added a gold Chrome Hearts medallion around his neck, which he displayed with the shirt open, Scarface-style. “If I button up, it just looks too business,” he said. When Brad and Hudson went to get Lagerfeld from his room, the designer took in Brad’s outfit and nodded approvingly. “It’s chic, huh?” Brad said.
“Yes, perfect for Dubai,” Lagerfeld said.
The show was set to begin at dusk on a man-made island owned by the country’s dynastic prince, Sheikh Hamdan. The other guests would be transported to the site on rickety wooden boats, but Lagerfeld and his entourage would arrive in an immaculate white speedboat. As we approached the island, an imposing gold-and-glass structure came into view, its walls a grid of interlocked double Cs, representing Chanel’s logo. The company had spent two months and $2.5 million erecting the structure on what was previously an empty strip of sand. After the show, it would evaporate as quickly as it went up.
Lagerfeld stepped off the boat and walked slowly but deliberately, with one gloved hand resting on Hudson’s blond head. Brad and Jondeau followed directly behind, while photographers circled them like a cloud of gnats.
The show lasted about 20 minutes. Brad watched backstage with Lagerfeld, while out front Dakota Fanning, Tilda Swinton and assorted Arabian royalty arranged themselves along sunken banquettes. Lagerfeld’s collection was a modern take on Orientalism: harem pants, gold lamé and intricate embroidery. Hudson led the grand finale. He walked so quickly that the models that trailed him struggled to catch up. Carine Roitfeld, the French fashion editor, inquired about the cost of the jewels around Hudson’s neck and, after investigating, returned with the answer: “$1.5 million.”
Trouble began at the after-party. Brad had just ordered a couple of pink margaritas when a flustered Chanel assistant named Orly rushed over, speaking rapidly into her headset, and hustled Brad and Hudson backstage. Dubai’s laws forbid children to be around alcohol, and someone had alerted the authorities, or “inspectors,” as Orly put it. Despite the commotion, Brad was in good spirits, and the additional margaritas Orly procured began to take effect. “Hey, where’s your drink?” he asked a couple of Russian models who glided by. “Oh, what? You’re leaving? Where are you going?” After it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to rejoin the party, he and Hudson were smuggled out via a dark stretch of sand at the rear of the site, the night skyline of Dubai in the distance behind them.
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At the docks, Brad boarded a boat with twin Palestinian socialites, who recognized Hudson from the show. “Oh, my God, we’re so lucky to be sitting next to you!” one said.
“I’m Brad, Hudson’s father.”
The twins said they were born in Saudi Arabia but now lived in Los Angeles. “So, are you guys identical twins?” Brad asked.
Their expressions soured. “What do you mean?”
At the marina, Brad and Hudson got into Lagerfeld’s chauffeured Mercedes van. As Hudson began playing video games, Brad sank back into the seat. “So that’s my life,” he said. “In New Jersey, taking kids to practice and talking to these moms trying to flirt with me to, like, this extreme life and some twins. I’m not saying this is my normal life, but it kind of is now. It’s like living in a dream, and then in two days, I’ll wake up in New Jersey, in my bed, like it never happened.”
He let the thought linger. “There’s no other male model in the history of the world doing these kinds of things,” he said. “I’m not bragging or anything, it just is what it is.” The car pulled up to the One and Only Royal Palace, and Brad proceeded to the lobby bar, which was empty except for a few hotel guests. The makeshift hem of his pants had come undone, and he bent down to tuck it back under. He sat down at a low table and ordered a vodka soda. “I always said, ‘If it’s over, it’s over,’ ” he said. “If modeling is over, it’s still the best experience of my life. If it stops tomorrow, I’ll be friends with Karl forever.”