JANUARY 2000 #2
I managed, just, in New York. I thought of my bracing fear when I found that cocaine in my bag all those years ago as I now rubbed it into my gums the moment the curtain fell.
I still wouldn’t let myself perform high, one of my little rules that were beginning to seem less and less important, like if they couldn’t be broken they might at least be teased at.
By the time I was back in LA, they were fraying at the edges—maybe I couldn’t perform high, but I could power through a comedown, shaking in my chair at the edge of the set and pretending I just wasn’t feeling well.
I knew someone would find out eventually. Ruchi, especially, discovered every secret in Hollywood. But I didn’t expect it to come out like this.
I had a small role lined up for production in autumn, and I’d just finished a few weeks filming for Rigged, a political saga airing early next year.
Like my stint on Broadway and that role in Starborn, I was trying to be experimental with the projects I took on, and I hadn’t done any TV work for a while.
But most of spring was whiled away reading through scripts, trying to draw up a shortlist of things I was interested in auditioning for.
I didn’t hear the car on the drive—by this point I’d told my security to let Harper through whenever she deigned to visit, given she kept getting through anyway—and she forewent the doorbell in favor of rapping sharply at the door.
She strutted in the moment I opened it and threw an envelope down on my table, dual rings gleaming on her finger.
She leaned against the table edge, wearing low-rise cargo trousers in a deep khaki green and a lace-edged crop top that skimmed her midriff.
The bones of her hips were stark, her skin smooth, and I wondered if Joel took in these details, if he labored over her as I did or if he dismissed their appreciation in favor of their conquering.
I reached over her for the envelope, my hair brushing at her nose, and I caught her quick inhale, like she needed to memorize every part of me in turn—like we could only beat one another if we knew every tiny facet of each other.
I didn’t pause slitting the envelope open to wonder what I’d find.
Inside were pictures, dozens of them. Me. White powder dusting my lip or rolled note in hand. Dear god, there was even one of me laughing in a club, a half-dissolved tab on my tongue.
“Needless to say,” she said calmly. “These aren’t the only copies I have.”
“How did you get these?”
She turned to me, and even though I’d leaned across her for the photos I was shocked to find her so close. Citrus and jasmine—a sharp, clean spike of her. “That’s for me to know,” she reached for my face, a patronizing pat on my cheek, and, belatedly, I slapped her arm away.
“Well, go ahead and get them published then,” I said, even as the words stuck in my throat. This could ruin me. My whole career was built on being so much better than everyone around me. And far too good for a thing like this.
I’d lose brand deals, roles would dry up, and any attempt at a comeback would be years down the line.
“Would you like me to do that?” she asked, smiling a little.
“I’m not giving you whatever reaction—”
“Because I might not, you know, if you ask me nicely.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
She laughed. “I don’t need to, Nadine. I have 1999’s World’s Sexiest Man to do that for me.” She plucked the photos from my hands and her voice lowered, scraped along the edges of me as she said: “I’m serious. Ask nicely and I might not publish these.”
I nearly refused her again, but something about her shifting tone gave me pause. Of course this was what she wanted. The public was a tool to her, not the endgame. All she cared about was me knowing she’d bested me.
My humiliation was a better prize than my ruination.
Still, it burned—but the thought of all that would unravel if those pictures came out hurt worse.
I met her eye, because looking away felt like an admittance of defeat, rather than a continuation of the challenge. “Please don’t publish those.”
“You can do better than that,” she teased. “On your knees, Nadine, just like I said you would be. Beg me not to publish them.”
I didn’t hesitate, only because I knew she’d savor every moment of my indecision and my final acquiescence.
My knees hit the soft woolen rug, and I realized I did not know where it was from or how much it had cost, only that the designer I’d hired had supplied it and I’d never really looked at it twice.
That was the life I was on my knees for.
“Please, Harper,” I said, looking up at her even though I felt that would be worse this time, to see her smug face above me.
I hated her, always, but especially in that moment, taking in her delicate beauty, the cut line of her jaw and plush lips protruding above, arched in a satisfied little smirk.
Her eyes were positively piercing, and I felt the burn of it, of all of this, and forced myself not to run from it.
I’d done too much of that—that’s why I was here on this floor.
Where I determined never to be again. “I’m begging you. Please don’t publish those photos.”
Her smile grew, and she flicked her hand, telling me to get up. It was almost worse that she did not linger in it, like it meant nothing to her. I knew it didn’t, but god, she always knew exactly what would hurt me most and caught it by the jugular.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I demanded. This game of ours had rules—and keeping our word was at its forefront. After all, this sort of betrayal was only the kind of thing you could do once.
“I said I might not. Oh, don’t give me that look.
You’re going to ruin everything. Screwing yourself over like this.
You’ll get yourself kicked out of the A list or the drugs will suck your talent away or you’ll fucking die—then what am I supposed to do?
I have a right to be angry about this. And I certainly have a right to make a few more requests before I let you off the hook. ”
I had to grab one of the dining room chairs to keep from swinging at her. “What sort of requests?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t thought of them all yet. But I’ll be by sometime this week with the first. Don’t worry, you’re off to an awfully good start.”