MARCH 1996 #3
Oisín hurt me enough that I don’t mind trawling through those tainted depths to the heart of who he was to me. But Sasha?
She didn’t hurt me, and I didn’t hurt her; we just flitted in and out of each other’s lives, enough that I think I’ll always wonder what might have been if we’d met at a time when each of us had more to give. As it was, it was this:
Her piling into my hotel room on that first night, like she used to do in Austria. “My god, Nadine,” she said, as her head fell against my stomach, lying on my bed and staring at the popcorn ceiling. “Tell me everything.”
And then: “What’s it like in LA? I always thought I’d find it lonely. Oh. And Ivan? Well, yes, I suppose he must be busy.”
“How are you? Really?”
“Are you going to see your parents while you’re here? Can I come? I’ve never been to Yorkshire.”
“What do they think about this? You? Your life?”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I’m here.”
“It’s pretty, isn’t it? A little desolate. Fitting though. It suits you … I wish it didn’t.”
And then, at some point, her lips on mine.
It felt like the edge of nowhere, where even the sea retreated on a twice-daily basis, like its curiosity piqued and waned, found the town lacking and still could not resist its enticing draw. It was so very far from the life I’d left behind.
It felt safe there, even amongst the conservative locals and swarming crew. Dreamlike, with the gray-brown banks and gray-green marsh-weeds and gray-blue sea. Curling up beneath soft cotton sheets to stare into Sasha’s gray-gray eyes.
It was silly and fun, and then, suddenly, it was all agonizingly deep and unbearably melancholic.
Sasha’s fingers were gentle even when she clutched at me, everything breathy and wistful and, I suppose, not quite substantial enough to hold.
But for that summer, at that point in my life, it was exactly what I needed.
When I told Ivan, on one of our once-every-few-months calls he just said: “I like this for you. I did always wonder what made you so happy on the Dreadbase set. Maybe we both got it wrong.”
Ruchi asked me how I wanted to play it. I told her I didn’t want a real thing like this to be fodder for the press, but that if it got out, I wouldn’t deny it.
“Noted,” she’d said. Then added: “So, for my records, is this just Sasha, potentially other girls in the future too, or potentially only girls in future?”
“Everyone’s a possibility, Ruchi.” I’d sighed then added, half joking: “No one is more likely though.”
“Not on my watch, Heywood. Your dating life makes great publicity—but you can keep this one. Let me know if there’s anything I can do and … enjoy. You deserve this.”
Our time together was a haze of long walks between sets, holing up in my room for hours, or venturing further afield to spas and country estates.
And yes, we visited my parents.
I hadn’t been home since the Christmas break at CADS. I wasn’t a child anymore. And I had Sasha by my side, but still I felt taut and terrified, like one errant word could reduce me to the anxious, desperate girl I’d once been.
I wasn’t worried about being seen with Sasha—even up there where everyone knew everything and gossip spun for days.
It was a strange time, when queerness felt hidden in plain sight.
Where I could fall for a girl and the photos would have been a delighted scandal, where I could have declared my bisexuality to the world and would have had to repeat myself for a decade before anyone stopped to wonder if that was even a thing, let alone if I meant it.
The truth was within me whether it was a barren coastline in England or the LA strip—no matter how many people were watching, they still wouldn’t see through to it.
Regardless, my mother said: “You’ll be careful though, won’t you? You wouldn’t want anyone finding out about you and your friend.”
And I’d swallowed and said, “Yes, of course, I’ll be careful.” Because I was so desperate for that journey home to mean something. I didn’t want to ruin it. Any clashes would, of course, be my fault.
Which they were later, when my father told me he hadn’t seen Wherever You Are because the bastard video shop wanted ninety-nine pence for the rental, and he wasn’t paying to see his own daughter.
And if he did want to pay to see his daughter he wouldn’t go all the way to LA. Or Essex, for that matter.
And my mother added that I wanted to be careful—though I thought we’d completed that discussion—because the way they were presenting me in the papers was embarrassing.
I had all the people back home to think of.
And I ought to cover up more. Party less.
Say no to shots in bikinis or minidresses, should have said no to that jumpsuit …
My fault, of course, when I was upset. They hadn’t said anything that bad. But that was my whole life: not that bad but still bad. That nothing I could achieve would make them proud or excited or even make them care all that much, but I’d still keep trying anyway.
Sasha didn’t say anything. But she stopped for hot chocolate on the way back down, and I, seeing it for what it was, let her force a cup into my hand and drank it down to its sickly dregs.
She ran me a bath when we got in, and held me tight, and told me I was incredible, that anyone would be lucky to have me in their lives.
And I pretended it made it all better, let her comfort me because I knew she needed to, clutched her close as I fell asleep and pretended I didn’t feel that solitary tear roll from her chin to my scalp.
———
The six weeks crawled and flew, over before I’d come to recognize the effect they’d had on me but filled with slow-paced days, reading Tolkien on set and singing along to Spice Girls on the drive from hotel to shoot.
There were famous lines in the film’s inspiring poem that were never translated the same way.
Maldon’s screenwriter thought that was beautiful and made it central to the plot, the idea of connection despite misunderstanding, of meaning lost and learned.
We all had our own variation of it in our lines, and this was mine as I championed my husband to fight:
“Our spirit must be firmer, our hearts bolder. May our courage grow greater even as our might diminishes.”
And I knew as I spoke them that I’d done it.
I’d just won an award—I simply had to wait a few years to hold it.
———
Sasha and I did not discuss trying to make this work. There was an implicit understanding that we were on our own paths, and it was lovely as they crossed, but that divergence was part of us and what made us possible.
“Call me anytime,” Sasha said, squeezing my hand. “I mean it.”
But, of course, I didn’t. I felt overwhelmed, embarrassed, and far too raw on this island. I needed the false veneers. I needed the bright lights to hide behind.
So I went back to LA.
And a day later I came home from a walk along the beach to Harper parked in my drive.
“Where the hell have you been?”