Kimberly Stewart is miserable. Worse than miserable. Standing in front of a
camera in a studio somewhere in London, she is shivering with tiredness.
Someone arrives with a coffee. “Thank God,” she exclaims. She
drinks it like it’s her first sustenance in weeks. She rubs her shoulder.
“I’ve pulled a muscle,” she says. “Of course, dancing in heels all night
doesn’t help.”
Hang on a minute. What are we doing here, anyway? Isn’t the celebrity that is
Kimberly Stewart sort of pointless? This was the general reaction when I
mentioned I would be interviewing Rod’s eldest. After all, there are a lot
of Californian It girls out there, and they are all playing the same game.
It’s a bit hard to care.
But now, here I am on a shoot with the girl, and the poor wee lass looks so
sad, so lost, so dreadfully, desperately spent, it’s difficult to resist
giving her a big cuddle, an encouraging pat on the head and some reassurance
that all her doziness is forgiven. Anyone who thinks that those blonde LA
play-girls have nothing to do all day except plan what outfit to wear next
should knowthis: that over the past week, since arriving from her native LA,
Stewart has been toiling hard at the coalface of It-girl slog. As an
ambassador for Pinko, the rapidly expanding Italian fashion brand, and as a
face of the lingerie line Ultimo (a spot previously occupied by both her
stepmothers, Rachel Hunter and Penny Lancaster), she has done shoots and
launch events. There was an appearance on Dame Edna, some show on ITV2, and
countless meetings with television-production companies. There was also a
slightly strange set of pictures in circulation – of which the less said the
better – of her in a bra, panties and a pair of Specsavers glasses. The girl
is a walking, talking sandwich board.
And that isn’t the half of it. As tabloid fodder in its purest form, it is
Stewart’s responsibility to keep sated the sharks who track her nighttime
exploits. It’s a role that, this week, she has performed with aplomb. The
night before last, she was on the town with David Walliams and Natalie
Imbruglia (an unlikely pop-cultural pairing if ever there was), and was said
to have snogged Caleb Followill, lead singer of the chart-topping American
indie band Kings of Leon. A couple of nights before, there was a fabulous
moment outside the nightclub Chinawhite when she and the Geldof sisters were
turned away because Pixie is underage. She has also been spotted burning up
the dancefloor with serial philanderer Calum Best and out on the razzle with
reliable D-lister Lisa Moorish. No wonder FHM’s most eligible woman in the
world – for that is what she is – is knackered.
So, has she been having a good time? “Yes it’s been great,” she says. “So
fun. Great.” She is a little hazy on the details – “Have you been to
Camden?” I ask. “I’m not sure,” she replies. “I know Pixie tries to take me
there. Isn’t it, like, near the countryside?” – but, as with a lot of young
American scenesters, Stewart is currently quite a lot in love with London.
“There’s so much more individuality here, more risk-taking.
It isn’t confirmed, but it looks like I’m moving here. I’m going to have my
kids and maybe one day get married here.”
At 27, you could say Stewart is a little late to the capricious It-girl game –
a break-up with her long-term boyfriend Cisco Adler three years ago was the
impetus to shed her pathological shyness and pursue her dreams. “My body
can’t keep up with my head right now,” she says. “I so want an awesome
career.”
The week’s appearances have been judged a success, and Stewart’s manager,
sitting quietly in the corner, has been fielding dozens of calls a day from
brands wanting to hire her as their “face”. There is some sort of deal on
the table involving her designing an eponymous fashion label. “I’m dreaming
of my fashion line, my own clothing store, my own brand,” she says. “That
would be the raddest thing ever.”
Tomorrow, it’s back to LA, and the following day, a plane ride to New York to
film a slot for MTV. Then, a wily publicist has organised to fly her and her
friends – and, presumably, the accompanying press corps – to Vegas
for a Gwen Stefani gig.
Perhaps Papa Stewart has had something to do with his daughter’s new-found
drive. The Scot – in whose house she lives when she is not travelling –
sometimes disses his offspring in print for their Hollywood sense of
entitlement (he is said to despair of her 26-year-old brother Sean, who is
being investigated after a club brawl). Okay, so with seven kids, you wonder
how much hands-on help her father has been able to offer over the years, but
Stewart – whose hair is naturally blonde, who had her breast implants
removed because they felt “wrong”, and who has made vocal denouncements of
the size-zero cult – has clearly inherited some of her dad’s cojones.
Will it be enough? She is probably too sweet to ever usurp her steely
running mate, Paris Hilton, in the big time.
Later on, in her room at the Dorchester, among all the paraphernalia that
comes with being an It girl – a dozen pairs of YSL heels by the door,
flowers, a hair stylist in the bathroom – Stewart is in professional
party mode. Tonight, she is hosting an event at Peter Stringfellow’s new
place, The Wardour, on behalf of Pinko. What does “hosting” mean? “I show
up, have a drink and a laugh, and that’s it.”
Nice work if you can get it. It’s slightly sad that she doesn’t see herself
being anything more than a model/fashion designer/whatever. Like Hilton,
though, she is canny enough to know that the lifestyle and career can’t
exist without each other.
She gets fazed by the more aggressive elements of the paparazzi (“Last week,
one photographed me on the running machine at the gym. Can you believe
that?”), but not outraged: “I know they’re just doing their job.” You could
say the same about her.
“I’m incredibly grateful for the life I have. And as long as my private life
remains private, I’m happy for people to perceive me the way they want,
because it’s more exciting for them that way. Sometimes I read those
magazines and think, ‘Oh my god, it’s like a Jackie Collins novel.’ ”
When she slips on the tiny spangly dress her friend Julien Macdonald has sent
over, she does look like she has stepped out of a Jackie Collins novel.
It’s 2.30am the following morning when I see her at The Wardour. Stewart, who
arrived at 9pm, is heading for the exit. “Hi darling, how are you?” she asks
warmly. “Have you had a good night?” I tell her that yes, I’ve had a lovely
evening – and that she looks great. “Thank you. I just wish I wasn’t so
tired,” she says, disappearing into the night, trailed by her rock-star
boyfriend, Followill, and some other boys.
Pinko, 161 Brompton Road, SW3; www.pinko.it
