JANUARY 1994
IF I’D KNOWN WHAT WOULD COME OF DREADBASE, I wasn’t sure I would make the same call to drop out of school and intently pursue it. Though I hate to admit it, two more years without the world knowing my name might have been a comfort I’d have clung to.
But I didn’t know, and at the time its success was a carefully strategized campaign.
Dreadbase was edited as quickly as it had been filmed.
In mid-October, once we’d wrapped filming, I went back to London, moving in with Oisín to a room in a King’s Cross houseshare.
It was small and damp, with a view of the red-light district and housemates who mostly kept to themselves except for when they were eating our food, stealing our spare change, and locking themselves in the only bathroom for hours at a time.
Did she think about me too? If she had returned on that first day, would she have noticed my absence? Would she have known that with the Wilfred Allen I was guaranteed a spot and wondered what had happened instead? If she knew what I’d been doing, would she have burned with envy?
It took all my resolve not to sneak back onto campus.
The only thing tempering the urge was the excitement for this project I had chosen instead.
Oisín felt it too, I think. He’d mostly been on the television circuit before Dreadbase.
While we were in London, he worked as an emcee at a cabaret show—not even trying for those TV bit parts like he was simply biding time for the break to come.
Our hours kept us apart often, so he hid notes around our room—on the back of my wardrobe door, slipped beneath my pillow, and one time rolled up in my hairbrush handle.
You’re a vision.
Remember me in your Oscar speech.
I love you. I love you. A thousand times, I love you.
He knew the way to my heart: assuaging my fears, promising me my dreams, and treating affection like a feast to be doled out. It was there, and I had finally begun to feel worthy of it.
He brought me to Dublin to meet his parents, who were delightful company, all home-cooked meals and long coastal walks.
When I told my parents about the trip, my mother said, “Well, I suppose we should probably meet him too then” without much enthusiasm, like it was a task added to her list. But for the first time, I didn’t particularly care. And I certainly made no plans to visit Yorkshire.
Ivan would ring every week or so and give us updates about Dreadbase’s development, and it felt like our whole lives were on hold until the release—not merely hinging our own success on its reception but needing it for proof of our own judgment.
If it flopped, how could we ever trust ourselves again?
I’d dropped out of Central Art and Drama School for this; if it wasn’t worth it how would I ever take another risk?
And then in mid-November we had it confirmed: Sundance. Late January. Utah.
The whole cast flew out, and it was our first reunion since filming.
There was so much hugging and squealing it was difficult to believe that we were not back in those Austrian woods—except for the sweltering, humid summer replaced with the biting cold and icy streets of Park City, snow-capped mountains rising beyond the boldly lit streets.
Sasha dragged me into the corner of the small dingy bar attached to the hotel.
“Can you believe we’re here?” she squealed, gesturing at the faded seats and chipped wooden tables.
Her joy always felt a step short of rapture, her smile so freely drawn that I often found my own swelling in its presence.
“The films that have debuted here, the stars that have graced this very spot!”
“Well,” I said, wiping the condensation off the counter with a sodden beer mat. “Hopefully not this spot.”
She swung an arm around my neck. “We’re in their footsteps, Nadine! We’re doing this!”
She seemed so delighted I pondered for a moment if just being here was an achievement in and of itself.
Probably.
But not enough to satisfy me.
———
In the morning, Oisín buried his face in the crook of my shoulder, his thumb brushing small circles across my hip.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Hungover,” I lied.
“That’s not what I—”
“I know.” I took his hand and pulled it closer, curving him tighter around me as we lay in bed. “It just feels so amateur. This is a film I made with my friend from school—and now we’re at Sundance, hinging our whole future on this one moment.”
This was not quite true. I thought the film could do well, I thought it might be an opportunity. I did not think it would make me; I just thought it might give me some leverage that I could work with.
But that felt callous to admit, that I was using this, them, the art we worked so hard to create.
“You’ve never been amateur, Nadine,” Oisín whispered, pressing his lips to the back of my neck. “When a camera lands on you it exhales, like it’s been waiting to know how. Now the whole world is going to learn what it means to breathe.”
———
When I emerged into the foyer of the hotel, I was accosted by Ruchi Sharma.
“Nadine! Nadine Heywood, right?” A tall South Asian woman strode toward me in alarmingly quick steps for the height of her heels.
She had a distinctly American sensibility about her, a sort of no-nonsense, all-business approach apparent from her walk to her firm handshake as she said: “I’m your publicist. I’ve been asking Ivan for your contact details, but, well, you know what he’s like. ”
It occurred to me that no, in this regard I did not know what he was like.
But she continued: “The authenticity thing. I’m down.
I think it’s a great hook to have you all watch the film for the first time at the screening.
But not letting us strategize is stupid, and I’m overruling him.
It’s all very well for him to present himself as the genius behind it, but he’s not a woman in the spotlight. ”
No, he wasn’t.
“Let’s talk,” I agreed.
We grabbed coffee, Ruchi pushing platters of cakes at me insisting it was on her while I refused, wondering if it was some sort of test. I wasn’t going to eat carbs at Sundance of all places—not if I wanted a career out of this.
She just shrugged and bought herself a flapjack, and then she demanded a list of everything controversial I had ever done that might potentially be used against me.
(I was too embarrassed to tell her about CADS, but somehow pocketing the coins from the leisure center lockers made the cut.) She probed about background information I was concerned about leaking and finished up by asking whether there was anything potentially damaging that I was currently doing that she should know about.
“I’ll be honest, Nadine. Your relationship with Oisín is excellent publicity. If you’re having an affair, I need to shield that from view.”
I assured her I was not.
Briefly, I wondered if she’d had the same talk with him.
But no, I knew Oisín couldn’t be—he wouldn’t, and that was the truly essential part, but he also didn’t have time—he was at work or he was with me, together always, enough that I could call this sudden doubt exactly what it was: irrational. And that was a problem.
“I think I might be susceptible to gossip and rumor,” I admitted. “It’s a weakness I need to fix. I don’t want to doubt my friends or my boyfriend because the press asks a leading question.”
“We’ll work on it,” Ruchi said, making a note. “And how willing are you to be hated?”
I did not ask what she meant—I knew. I’d considered this for a long time, watching other actresses like I could learn the part. A woman in a spotlight was a hateable thing for many.
“I’d prefer to avoid it for as long as we can,” I said. “But someone is going to hate me for something eventually. Just let it be fueled by jealousy. Let them hate me because I’m everything they’re not.”
Ruchi smiled. “We can make that work. And what is your goal here? What are you hoping for?”
“The film’s success.”
Ruchi looked up from her flapjack to give me a hard look. “I know you’re hungry for something, Nadine. And you’re allowed to be.”
I almost denied it again. That’s what I was supposed to do—show how much I wanted all this but never give it voice. Nothing was as detestable as a girl who wanted more than she had.
Want it because you want it.
Harper’s voice, her echo. Everywhere.
“I want it all,” I admitted. “Awards, accolades, recognition. I want my name on the credits. My face on the posters. More immediately, I want to move to LA. I don’t think London is the right place for me. It loves theater too much. And the film studios might be there, but the opportunities aren’t.”
“Better.” Ruchi smiled. “So you’ll need money, contacts, a studio to sponsor a visa.” She listed all this like they were not enormous hurdles. Maybe with her they weren’t. “I’m not an agent, but I’ll see what I can do to get you in front of the right people.”
“Thank you.”
Ruchi put her notebook down, neatly tying the brown leather cord around it before she did.
“I’ll be honest with you, Nadine. This is an opportunity for me too.
I’ve seen the film. You’re good. You’re going to be the breakout star of this thing if I do my job right.
And I’d like you to bear in mind, with all that’s going to come of this, that I’d love not to be working PR for independent movies for the rest of my life. ”
I was a little shocked—but relieved too. This was someone I could trust.
Friendships were doubtful.
Collaborations were vital.
———
I couldn’t get a feel for where Ivan had put money into this project.
In film terms, it was low budget. But we had a publicist, hotels, and round-trip flights to America.
We weren’t paid very much, but it was still more money than I’d ever earned in my entire life.
And asking about the budgets felt like the sort of thing that might make a friendship difficult.