FEBRUARY 1994 #2
“I don’t get it,” Oisín had said when I showed him the script.
“You don’t need to rush into another job.
Stay here for a while, stir up the press, and wait.
Don’t waste your time on bit parts like this.
A big studio will come calling. You could be the star of the next big franchise hit if you play your cards right. ”
“That’s not what I want.”
I had nothing against that—if the right franchise came along, of course I’d be interested.
But that’s what I needed: interest. I wanted the opportunity to take on projects I adored and roles that meant something to me.
I was living my dream, and—during the weekdays at least—I was loving every minute of it.
I felt more myself than ever.
And evidently this wasn’t the version of me he wanted.
———
Those were the moments of doubt I ignored until they reached their crescendo.
Oisín attended few auditions, rocked up to set late, left early, and started drinking in between.
(“It’s not like I’m sitting home alone nursing a beer, Nadine!
I’m out with the people who matter, the ones who are going to take me far.
Of course I’m having a drink or two!”). Wherever You Are debuted to moderate success and plenty of praise. Code Delta flopped.
He was furious.
“It happens!” I insisted. “You just need to find a new project.”
“I keep being offered crap.”
Because you aren’t going to auditions, I’d wanted to scream. “What sort of thing are you looking for?” I’d asked instead.
“Look,” he took an incensed breath, and god only knew what I’d done to deserve it. “I appreciate you’re trying to help, but you just got lucky. I don’t need your advice.”
I blinked. Only a portion of this was luck—the rest was strategy, auditions, reading dozens of scripts to hunt for the right part, and conferring with my team on the best opportunities.
I’d even hired an assistant so I could put more of my focus into finding the right roles, which added even more pressure because between Lana, Ruchi, and Victor, that was an awful lot of people depending on me for their income.
This was strategy and hard work—luck, yes, but only with the right dice roll at the right time.
Oisín enjoyed the premiere for Wherever You Are more than Trellis, which were my only films released that year. He’d smiled on the red carpet, graciously leaving my side so I could have my photo taken and rushing back so we could have far more.
“It was alright,” he’d said after. “Though who was your hair and makeup artist? They should be shot.”
He’d whined throughout Trellis. It was too small, a tiny cinema, not enough people in attendance, and my costars could hardly be considered stars, apparently.
The film was boring, I didn’t get enough screen time, the lighting did nothing for me, and I had no chemistry with my on-screen lover.
None of the reviewers seemed to agree with him.
Afterward I got a call.
“Clipboard, how are you doing?”
It took me a moment. “Amos? How on earth did you get this number?”
“I asked around. So, first of all, congratulations on all the success. Very fun for you. Did I even see pictures of you at parties? Did your publicist have to drag you?”
“Is there a purpose to this call?” I’d ground out.
“Yes, your wardrobe, Heywood. Needs an update. Do you have a stylist on staff?”
“What? No, I—”
“Great, I’ll catch a flight.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“I got your email too, Nadine, when I got your number. I sent over samples.”
I hung up—but only so I could use the line for the dial-up, which screeched at me, and I could feel the heat radiating off the Mac Ruchi had insisted I purchase. The pictures loaded line by line until eventually I had half a portfolio staring back at me.
This was what Amos always understood: Clothes are performance. If I wanted to keep part of myself hidden from view, I had to forge someone else to hand over.
Amos helped create her.
He picked back up on the first ring.
“Be here by Tuesday,” I said. “I’ll have my assistant get in touch.”
———
Ruchi turned up at my door a few mornings later. The woman was a pro—she brought a small raspberry smoothie and a fruit salad from the café I liked on Rodeo Drive, a selection of fan mail, and the bundle of tabloids she’d come to discuss.
“Do you think this has too much sugar?” I asked, eyeing the smoothie.
“Is that all you have to say?”
I sighed. “Is this not good for me? I’m getting press coverage without having to seek it out myself.”
I pulled the nearest magazine closer. Oisín was not famous enough to be on the front cover, but nestled neatly a few pages in was him clearly passed out at a bar, mustache drawn on his face, lipstick visible on his neck.
My gut tightened at the sight—but I’d been in Hollywood long enough not to believe everything the press printed. For all I knew the lipstick was just like the mustache, planted by a friend to embarrass him.
But I knew what it was: retaliation. I’d been on the awards publicity circuit—flown round the country to attend dinners and parties with the right people.
But evidently all those nights away from home had riled up Oisín, who already felt like I put everything else before our relationship and before him.
God, I was so tired.
“Firstly,” Ruchi said. “Are you alright?”
Many people would try to poach Ruchi over the years, and though I would have been loath to lose her regardless of when that might happen, it was this that made it an impossibility: She cared about me more than she cared about the potential of a scandal for growth and reach.
Clever, in a way. We’d all seen celebrities crash and burn under the weight of their own mental loads. Looking after me was looking after herself.
But I couldn’t remember someone taking care of me like that since my grandfather passed away, and so I would meet any of Ruchi’s demands or pay disputes with whatever she requested.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m still dazed that this is my life. Nothing feels real. Especially not when it’s printed and glossy and selling my future heartbreak for $1.95.”
She had a tissue out before I even realized I was crying.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, if that’s what you mean to ask,” I proffered.
She nodded curtly. “Just let me know when you do. But please think about it. We might need to time whatever approach we have right, whether we salvage this or leverage it. The Academy shortlists are announced in a few weeks, and the bookies have great odds on both Wherever You Are and Trellis. You certainly don’t need a relationship for publicity anymore. ”
———
I wasn’t nominated for anything, but both films had multiple mentions across the various categories, and Wherever You Are cinched a Best Picture nomination, which meant even though I only had two small roles in each, I had an invite and a seat at the Oscars.
I was beside myself. So happy I wasn’t sure what to do with that—and I think that’s what finally broke him.
I’d insisted on celebrations, asking Lana to book a table at Laurier and dragging Oisín out, even as he protested that it wasn’t even my accomplishment we were celebrating.
He knew I’d seen the pictures. He knew I was concerned about us.
He knew I had my doubts, and, honestly, I think perhaps we both knew this was a sinking ship; we just wanted to see it combust before we witnessed it slip quietly beneath the waves.
But here I was celebrating. Here I was, having the nerve to be happy.
We didn’t even make it to the first course.
“I have to choose my next project carefully,” I said, feeling giddier than the bubbles in my glass, like nothing was appropriate for the glee I was feeling, everything unmatched. “There’ll be momentum with this, so if I can—”
“For fuck’s sake, Nadine. Can we make it through one dinner without you planning out a career move?”
My happiness shattered so quickly, and what’s worse is I think I sort of knew this would happen. I was making the most of it before he broke it.
“This dinner is to celebrate my career move,” I said quietly, aware that the other diners were glancing over at us.
“Right, and that’s all you care about. Your films, your awards, your opportunities. Not me. Not us. I’m fucking devastated, Nadine, and you know that. You know how hard things are for me right now, and you’re rubbing it in my face.”
“I think we should go home,” I said, standing as quickly as I could. I left that restaurant without paying—knowing they’d send Lana the bill.
Oisín followed me, at this point shouting that I was a coward for trying to walk away the moment a conversation turned from me.
His comments battered me. “You’re so fucking selfish. You’re entitled. You’re a talentless slag who had to get her tits out to sell tickets, and you think you’re so much better than the rest of us just because—”
He stopped the moment I started crying, crouching in the street so I could bury my head in the folds of my dress, fumbling with my stupid brick of a phone for the right number to call and why the hell hadn’t I set up speed dial and where the fuck was my car and should I return to the restaurant and—
Oisín crouched beside me, hand on my shoulder as a camera flashed. And then, dozens more.
I leaped to my feet and stumbled back as the paparazzi crowded in.
I just stared. I was used to the cameras by now, and them finding us wasn’t a rare occurrence. But finding us now, in this moment, felt like too cruel a twist of fate, and I couldn’t fathom a world in which mere moments ago I had been raising my champagne glass and celebrating.
“I’m sorry,” Oisín said—and I don’t even know if it was only because of the cameras. “I’m such a prick. I’m just jealous. God, I need to get help. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t. I don’t know why I do this.”
“How do they know we’re here, Oisín?”
My voice sounded so hollow it rang, echoing in its own emptiness.
“I … I was going to propose. I …”
He phoned them. He got them here.