My Body(44)

I liked being in control, and I’d learned that an actor’s control was limited. It was also true that for some time I’d been battling a serious depression that was, at least partially, the result of years of making myself digestible for the same kind of men that S now laughed with over the phone. My own company was growing, and my modeling work continued to pay the bills. I’d started therapy twice a week and had begun to think of myself as a writer. I knew fame was not all I had imagined it would be—it certainly didn’t make me feel powerful in the way I’d thought it would. It wasn’t clear what Hollywood could offer that would make me feel fulfilled and, simply, happy. I wanted to remove myself from this world in some way, but it was the world in which my husband was just beginning to find his footing.

So here I was, miserable but trying to put my best face on to play the role of supportive wife. I desperately wished that S and I could laugh together at all the bullshit the party represented, but I knew we weren’t completely aligned.

We pulled up to the ex-Beatle’s house and entered the glossy marble foyer. Models I knew strutted by in sparkly mesh dresses and five-inch stilettos, smiling and waving to say hello, their hair and makeup professionally done. S and I held hands as we pushed farther into the party; he kept his right hand free and extended it to the countless men in suits who greeted him with variations on “What up, man?” and “Hey, congrats, man.” I smiled. My complicated relationship to the industry aside, I felt a sense of pride as S moved through a roomful of people who, two years ago, would not have acknowledged him in the same way. It must have felt good. He’d committed years of his life to this film—weekends and nights and long days. Watching him throughout that process had taught me something about patience and working hard.

S led us to a corner where his partners and some other friends were standing together. I kept my coat on and secured with a tight knot around my waist, my tube dress covered up. I positioned myself against a tall stool, my feet already hurting, and dropped in and out of a conversation S was having with an indie musician, taking sips of my watered-down tequila soda and tasting chunks of lime. I could feel a headache coming on. Shouldn’t have worn these shoes, I thought. Then, What’s one more night in heels? You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again.

S, focused on his conversation, wasn’t looking at me much. The music was loud, making it nearly impossible to hear anything without someone coming up very close to your face. I watched the musician lean into S’s ear, nodding and gesturing. How lame I must seem to him, I thought, half sitting on a stool with nothing to say. Playing into exactly what he expects from the model wife, I thought. I shouldn’t have come.



* * *



Three hours had passed. I’d taken quite a few selfies and had enough polite, forced conversations to last me a lifetime.

“So what are you working on?” they’d ask, smiling.

“I’m trying to write a book, actually,” I’d say.

“What?” They’d bring their ear close to my mouth and squint, trying to focus.

“A book,” I’d repeat. “I’m writing a book.” And they’d pull back to search my face, thinking before they spoke again.

“Like, by yourself? You’re writing it?”

“Yeah!” I’d shrug as if to say, Crazy, right? Little ol’ me! Go figure.

“Well, that’s … cool.” Then an exclamation of relief: “Oh, I love what you’re doing with the bikinis! Seems like you guys are killing it!”

“Thank you so much,” I’d say, bending my head forward in a tiny bow. “Really means a lot.”

“I’m going to do a lap.” One of us would bring the exchange to an end, and I’d wander off, only to have a similar conversation with someone else.

I was tired. On the dance floor, a few men in white button-down shirts and loosened ties stuck out their arms and moved from side to side, watching their partners wiggle in circles. I wasn’t drunk enough for that. Besides, I didn’t want to have to take off my coat and I could feel my feet swelling against the leather straps of my shoes. S was between conversations.

I approached him. “How you doing?” I said. “You know, we’ve been here for a while now and it’s almost one.” I looked around the room as if observing it for the first time. “It’s definitely clearing out,” I said.

“Okay, okay.” He was drunk, I could tell. “Can we go say hi to Miley and her manager? He said we should find them before we leave.”

I sighed.

“They’re just over there,” S said, his voice rising, as he pointed across the room. “Come on.”

Most of the familiar faces had left, and the room felt sloppy and warped in the way rooms do when everyone in them has gotten drunk on hard liquor. I sensed men’s eyes on me as we moved through the crowd. “Sorry,” I said as we pushed through. “Excuse me.” I kept my head down.

When S spotted Miley, his hand slipped from mine and he went a few paces ahead. With my aching feet, I couldn’t keep up with him, or maybe I didn’t want to. In that moment, two warm, clammy hands attached to my back.

“Emma!”

I swiveled round to see a man with thick black eyebrows standing to my left. On my right was a blond man’s eager, sweaty face. I was surrounded. Another person bumped into me. Cool liquid spilled onto my bare toes.