SEPTEMBER 1996 #2
And that’s how it went for a year or two—both of us trying to one-up the other.
We did indeed grace the covers of so many magazines, a friendship that snapped the moment I began the awards circuit for Leave a Light On and, in an interview with Moreno on Thank God It’s Friday, said: “It’s about finding an authentic truth in a character.
You can tell when something is false, as a viewer, like when the TV is full of rich girls playing disenfranchised bartenders. It just feels like a lie. It grates.”
Harper got mileage out of that one for months.
Amos styled me for the whole circuit in edgy, avant-garde pieces that stood out on a carpet full of boob tubes and miniskirts. Fashion moved flirtatious, fun, and casual, and Amos moved me in contrast. “You couldn’t pull that off,” he said decisively.
I swatted at him.
“Harper can. Harper is. Don’t try to compete with her for those fans; take the others. Give them what they want in opposition.”
Leave a Light On had debuted in late 1996 to modest acclaim—glowing write-ups and reviews but without the marketing budget to support it or the box-office numbers to consider it a success. The awards mattered like they never had before.
I was feeling pressure from all sides—not all roles I took could be hits, and I’d turned plenty down in the last year for all sorts of reasons: not the right fit or too similar to what I’d done before.
I even turned down a ’20s-set drama that I’d been so interested in until they’d offered me the role of Estelle, the childhood best friend, and it wasn’t even that it was a small part.
I loved small parts, taking them and drawing the focus to me anyway, the complexity of a role without the easily apparent depth of the leads.
But because I’d had that feeling with the protagonist, Rosanna, and I couldn’t bear to be on a set and watch someone else portray her.
I had that feeling with Leave a Light On, so here I was, desperately trying to prove it was a feeling I could trust.
Maybe Amos was right—I’d forgotten I had fans until they lined those red carpets, begging for an autograph that still felt unpracticed. These were the people unaffected by Harper, those who cared instead for cinema and the art I was creating.
Ruchi phoned me in December when I’d been at breakfast with Ivan, the only time he had to catch up before he had to head to intimidating meetings with serious investors.
“The news is going to break in an hour. You’ve got the Best Actress in a Motion Picture Drama nomination at the Globes.”
“What?” I screeched, grabbing Ivan’s wrist across the table.
“Congratulations,” she said, voice smooth and courteous, but I could hear the smile beneath.
“Ruchi, how is this even possible? We don’t have the budget and—”
She laughed. “Nadine, it’s not all bribes. That or you’re their nod to prove they’re not as corrupt as people claim. Take the win.”
I was not, historically, very good at taking the win.
But I tried. Ivan ordered glasses of champagne and followed up with a bouquet, and I had to send Lana out for more vases because the production company sent flowers too. Victor sent a whole ficus.
And as my team gathered round my dining table, Lana carried in yet another vase. This was full of long shooting flowers in white, pink, and burgundy, speckled with studding blooms of mauve and gold. I leaned for the card, catching the herby smell of them as I did.
I’ll try to watch this one—H x
“What does this mean?” I asked. Lana set it on the table before me with the others.
Ruchi took a quick look. “Probably that she’ll watch it. Ignore it, Nadine. This was supposed to be a rivalry for publicity, not to actually get to you.”
“It’s not getting to me,” I protested, slumping back in my chair.
“Well, in that case, back to business. I think you should bring a date to the—”
“Apparently white camellia mean: ‘You’re adorable,’” Amos interrupted, tapping away at his laptop.
“Right, so Harper’s just being a patronizing bitch.” I sighed, reassured by the slight. I wasn’t sure I could handle another bout of pretend friendship.
Lana leaned over Amos’s chair. “Oh, those dark ones are acanthus; look those up.”
I reached for the flowers to check for a tag explaining which each of them was.
“Oh, dear god, please, can we focus?” Ruchi moaned.
“Acanthus are the fine arts,” Amos said, then flashed me a grin. “And artifice.”
“That seems appropriate.”
“I think the purple ones match this picture. Chives. Which are usefulness.”
“Makes sense.”
“None of this makes sense,” Ruchi grumbled.
“Check out hyacinth,” Lana told him.
“Playing a game,” Amos read.
“Are the yellow ones goldenrod?” Lana asked, leaning closer and reading: “Good luck?”
“No,” Ruchi sighed, leaning her head into her hands. “It’s tansy.”
Amos could hardly answer for laughing. “A declaration of war.”
“Well,” Lana said with a mischievous smile. “Doesn’t that just summarize it all?”
“Can we please move on now?” Ruchi begged. “We don’t need to give her more attention than she’s already begging for.”
“Fine,” I said, but my eyes kept tracking to the flowers.
I was appreciative of them—they were a beautiful sort of message, carefully curated with time and thought, a private message to me.
I wondered if Harper had ordered them or gathered them herself.
She did so love a personal touch—I could see her plucking each stem, her graceful fingers tucking them precisely in place.
After everyone left, I’d have Lana take them from the vase to be dried so I could send them back, or maybe I’d display them proudly to unnerve her next time she paid me a visit.
“As I was saying, I think you should bring a date to the Golden Globes.”
“No.”
“Nadine, come on,” she pushed. “This is great PR, and I can probably call in anyone in Hollywood. You can literally mail order your dream man. Nathaniel Frost would be great; everyone loves that show. Oh, or Joel Ingram? Soccer is gaining traction here, so we can get in before he’s huge—and he’s already a household name in the UK, right? You’d be such a cute couple.”
“No, thank you.”
“Sorry,” Amos interrupted. “You’re turning down Joel Ingram? Have you seen him?”
“Look,” I said, growing irritable in that way I could only get away with now I’d reached a certain level of fame.
“I appreciate it. I do. But this is my first nomination. It’s about me.
Please just let me have this one. I’ll bring whoever you want next time it’s a whole picture nomination, but when it’s just me, can’t I stand alone? ”
“Fine, but do let me know if you’re in the mood for dates with any of those men. Introductions can always be arranged.”
———
My efforts to take the win crashed a little when the Oscar nominations were announced, and I wasn’t on the list, though we’d never really expected to compete with the big-budget studio productions.
Still, evidently a part of me had hoped from the crushing disappointment I felt and the hurt I had to swallow out of existence.
I’d never seen Amos so excited as in the run-up to the awards ceremony. Short of the Wilfred Allen, this was my first award nomination, and it was a bloody Golden Globe. This was huge. He never skimped on a single outfit, but he clearly saw this as an opportunity.
Slinky, figure-hugging slips were on every carpet—some weren’t even pretending not to be lingerie.
But to deviate would have triggered all sorts of articles about suspected weight gain or pregnancy that I didn’t want to distract from the night.
So Amos found a designer from Paris who worked wonders with silk and draped me in sapphire blue that showed off every dimple and edge of me, shining where the light hit it.
My eyes were a murky grayish green, but the color brought out the blue hues, so Amos instructed the makeup artists to make them shine.
In the mirror, I looked like I’d already won. I was radiant, assured, and ready to grace that carpet—perhaps even to take home a trophy.
Which I did.
It hadn’t really occurred to me that I might actually win this thing until about ten minutes before, when I had to frantically check I had my notes for my hastily pulled together speech.
When they said my name, it took me a split second longer than everyone else to hear it, only registering it when my costars grasped me and cheered.
I had to blink back tears as I made the obligatory thank-yous: everyone who had made this possible, to the team I made Leave a Light On with and of course to my parents, who have obviously always supported me.
But when I got to my grandfather I started to get choked up because I did it, I actually did this thing we’d always dreamed of and here was the proof.
Lana brought an array of newspapers and magazines to my house every day, and the morning after the Globes I skipped down to see them, hungover, still heady from the win.
Perhaps not expecting myself to grace the cover—there were plenty of winners, after all—but still expecting the awards to dominate.
But there, pushing past it all:
Caleb Krause Engaged to City Girls Star Harper Moore
I crushed the page in my hand before hurling it across the room, trying to control my anger, trying to not to let it get to me.
But it did. And it did when they broke the engagement off the night I won a BAFTA a few months later. (Her mother even usurped me—Greta’s devastated missive on their breakup page seven to my page fourteen.)
Harper had obviously done it intentionally. The final straw was when Harper won an Emmy later that year and promptly quit City Girls.
It was front-page news.
And I was so furious I could have killed her.