NOVEMBER 1992 #2
“Greta didn’t want me coming here—said it was a waste.
She always thought if I wanted to be on TV, my pretty face should be enough of a ticket.
I’m not sure my father even read what the check he signed was for.
But I dealt with the daddy issues long ago, back when I still thought my mother was perfect.
The disappointment of fathers you’re prepared for.
It’s the mummy issues that fuck you up.”
I arched a brow. “Ahh, the old serial killer defense? My mother made me this way?”
Her smile slanted—a sudden smirk. “Precisely—now, in that vein, let’s talk Lady Macbeth, shall we?”
———
I could still feel Harper on my skin as I pulled a slip dress over my head in the bathrooms, the linoleum sticking through the holes in my tights.
There’d been so much touching during those movements we’d rehearsed—which was commonplace for the most part; acting desensitized you to the mere concept of personal space.
But toward the end Harper had grabbed my hand, her thumb pressing into my palm, running a circle into it as her eyes burned into mine.
And off the back of all that trauma bonding, I felt that blaze somewhere deep.
“Out damned spot,” she’d said.
“What?”
That’s not what we were doing. We were exploring the character, not running lines.
She cracked a smile. “Us. Time to head out.”
Harper dropped my hand and spun me toward the bathroom. I half feared she’d want us to do each other’s makeup. The popular girl taking the nerd under her wing, the makeover scene, the ugly duckling becoming the beautiful swan.
Only that wasn’t what this was. I was passionate, not ignorant.
I would skip dinner to afford Teen, Seventeen, and Cosmopolitan, which had the added benefit of following whatever new diet they were trying to force on us.
“Nothing” was always an option. I learned how to look like an actress, how to dress and style and present myself to the world.
I didn’t bother getting dressed up for classes because it was so physically demanding. But I knew how to look the part.
And from Harper’s appraising smirk as I emerged, I knew I’d nailed it—the slick of kohl around my eyes, brows plucked fine the night before, liner drawing shadow and depth to my lips.
Like I said, CADS paid attention to the attractive.
It was not news to me that I was beautiful.
But Harper kept looking over at me as though it might have been news to her.
“Leave your hair down,” she advised. “The red tones bring out the green in your eyes.”
I’d always found myself somewhat irked by the strawberry aspect of my blond hair, but now I pulled the band free.
Harper wore a long cap-sleeved umber dress, mesh that stretched across the narrow planes of her hips and breasts, exaggerating the nothingness, the lean angular frame that made me think of Greta’s article and all the modeling opportunities Harper supposedly turned down.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked as the CADS doors shut behind us, feeling every part of the vulnerability I tended to pretend didn’t exist. “Bringing me? Helping me?”
Harper’s gaze softened, and she pressed her lips together for a moment, as though weighing how to respond.
Caught in the gentle lights of the school awning, she glowed so beautifully I might have believed any answer she cared to give.
“We all want the same things. We’re competition, yes.
But we’re also the only ones who might understand how overwhelming this all is, so …
you don’t have to do this alone, Nadine. ”
Everything in me tightened and then, infinitesimally, relaxed.
I turned before I could question it. We walked to Langstone House, a short trip along the waterfront before crossing over the river toward the city.
The buildings lining South Bank had sheltered us from the sharp gales howling through the skyscrapers, but across Southwark Bridge they snarled fiercely, and we picked up speed, flying past the beauty of it all—the lights towering into the sky, the mist churning on the surface of the Thames, or the moon hanging low, so that it felt a part of the city as it peeked between buildings.
“Fuck me, I’m freezing,” Harper groaned as we reached the other side, pressing the back of her hand to my face as though to prove a point—which it did not, given my face was just as exposed to the cold as Harper’s knuckles.
I pushed her hand away. “Try that on the agents you’re trying to seduce, not me.”
“Maybe this is why you avoid this sort of thing. Do you worry your aversion to other people will work against you?”
“The only thing I’m worrying about is hypothermia.”
When we reached Langstone House and saw a queue snaking out the door, I nearly turned for the nearest tube. But Harper strutted right to the men at the doors, and they ushered us through.
Past the sprawling marble maze of gilded bars and crystal chandeliers, in a private room at the back, the party was in full swing.
Harper brought me to a tray of drinks (actual champagne, and better, all of it paid for).
She ensured I had one in hand and then vanished, leaving me to find my own way.
It was only when I felt disappointment that I realized I’d quite been enjoying myself.
I had even started to consider that maybe I was wrong—and maybe friendship with Harper was possible after all.
I watched Harper making her rounds—batting her thick fan of lashes, tossing her silky hair, leaning toward whoever she was speaking to.
I wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to be on the other side of all that flirtation.
Harper ensnared anyone with her very existence.
But with this full force of it, the dials turned up, her eyes lingering only on you? Who would even want to resist?
I wished I was her, wished I could walk around with such overwhelming confidence the whole world was seduced by it. By her side, I’d at least had the glow of it. Without her the room felt cold, the partiers a jury readying a verdict.
I was certain I could put on a decent enough show of it, if that was my intention. Perhaps not to her level, but enough to secure some contacts of my own. I could flirt and conquer—I’d definitely played enough of such scenes.
But god, I didn’t want to. Just the thought turned my stomach, and I had to put my drink down. Surely this wasn’t what was required? Surely this was only what girls like Harper succumbed to, convinced their greatest selling points were their pretty faces and not what they could do with them?
There were other ways. There had to be. I did not have to sell some empty promise of myself to make it.
I was not wholly naive. I knew the industry was a cesspool of corruption and scandal.
But I still thought my talent might be enough to propel me through it without that filth tainting me.
I hoped being charming, impressive, and witty might be enough, and with something to prove, I picked my glass back up and set off.
I worked that room harder than any since, always catching Harper in the background. I realized she was better than I’d suspected: enticing yet withholding. Flirting while keeping it vague enough to deny.
I was also conscious of the fact she’d brought me here, and each business card tucked into my bag was a reminder that I owed her something. (I met Victor Dale, my eventual agent, that night. So who’s to say I wouldn’t be where I am without her?)
Drinks circled on trays, and I kept finding one in my grasp. I was reaching for the last on a tray as another hand shot out.
“Oh, dear god, you found a stick removal service.”
“Amos? What are you doing here?”
He was dressed in a manner almost calm for him—zebra-print silk shirt, crisp black trousers, and pointed brogues polished to a shine.
He’d added some gold eyeliner around his waterline, which brought out the warm honey tones in his light brown skin and the amber flecks in his eyes—eyes which were scanning me, seemingly taking a similar assessment.
“Impressive work, Clipboard. Needs a necklace though—maybe a choker. You’ll have to let me style you sometime.”
“Clipboard?”
“You know, wouldn’t know fun unless it was neatly penciled in. And as for why I’m here, I went to Marigold’s Prep with Stampy. Speaking of, I haven’t seen him in a while, and if I know him like I once did—carnally, intimately, sinfully—”
“I get the point.”
“Then he’ll be doing lines in the bathroom, and that’s just not the sort of thing you let a chap do alone. So if you’ll excuse me.”
With no desire to carry Amos home, I decided that it might be a reasonable time to make my farewells, which took far too long and involved many people begging me to stay.
I know. Now it’s ridiculous to imagine me leaving a party early, but I was exhausted, and that evening felt like a reckoning: all that I was and all I had to become to succeed.
I thought I could go home, take off the makeup and the dress, maybe phone Ivan who I imagined would insist on hearing every detail. “You crossed to the other side. Tell me—were there ice sculptures? Oysters? Nadine, please tell me they were giving out laxatives on trays.”
I ducked into the bathroom before I left and was in the stall rolling on a pair of tights for the journey home when I heard the footsteps—and then the voices.
“I can’t believe you brought Heywood here.”
It was a small class, and that voice had dug at me on numerous occasions.
Zoe Holland, one of Harper’s closest friends who, despite her thoroughly delightful personality, appeared innocence incarnate and was always cast in roles that made the most of her big wide eyes and cherubic grin.
I paused, not particularly surprised or wounded that she did not like me.
But somewhat curious as to what Harper would say in return.
“Oh please, she’s harmless.”
“No, she’s not. She’s spent the entire time networking. It’s embarrassing watching her.”