Nora Goes Off Script(54)

I go for a run through the flats of Beverly Hills and meet my parents at In-N-Out Burger for lunch. I want real food in my stomach tonight; I want to feel solid. “I hope your fairy godmother’s bringing backup,” my dad jokes as I wipe the grease off my face with the last napkin. I’m in my most comfortable jeans and an over-washed sweatshirt.

“Charlie!” my mom admonishes with a grin.

“You think I’m going to have a chance to meet Leo?” my dad asks.

“Maybe. But if you do, just pretend he’s any guy, like this never happened. No questions. No innuendos.”

“Oh, I’ve got questions all right. Putz.”

This feels like a real wild card. “Dad, let’s all just act like he’s a guy who showed up to celebrate my big night. We’re not mad at him. We’re not intimidated by him. We’re just happy, neutral people who have moved on.”

“I’m not an actor, sweetheart.”



* * *



? ? ?

    The glam squad shows up at my room and they blow out my hair and curl the ends, making me look like I didn’t have my hair done but that I’m just a person with good hair. This is what I asked them for.

Someone shows up with a spray tan tent. “Weezie sent me,” she says. I tip her and send her home. This is the color I am, I’m afraid. I tell the makeup lady that I don’t feel comfortable in makeup, that she needs to go on the light side.

“They all say that,” she says.

“But I mean it.”

She rolls her eyes. “You need to look like a cheap stripper in real life so that you don’t look like a corpse on camera. Can you just trust me?”

No, not at all. “Sure,” I say.

My dress is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I love this dress. I asked for lavender to please Bernadette and also to not seem too overt. This dress is simple enough that it doesn’t shout anything, but it makes me feel like I’m beautiful in my own right. My shoes are the same exquisite silver ones I wore to the film premiere when I made my Cinderella exit.

When I am ready, I feel ready. Martin is picking me up, and all I need to do is get my body into the lobby. This is not my world, and I could easily shrink from the magnitude of this thing, but I keep repeating to myself, “I’m nominated.” It’s not just like I was invited to this party; the party’s for me.

Martin gets out of the limo to help me in. “Well, look who got out of the sticks.”

“Me,” I say and kiss him on the cheek. When we’re settled and I’ve re-smoothed my dress several times, I say, “How do you think we’ll do tonight?”

“I have absolutely no way of knowing. Wartime Sisters could knock us out. Or it couldn’t. Any one of us winning is a win though; we’ll always be referred to as Academy Award–winning The Tea House. Even if it’s just that dull musical score.”

I look out the window.

“Were you in love with him?”

“Yes,” I say after a while. I smile. “I’m fine now.”

We’re silent for a while before I ask, “Does Naomi know?”

“I don’t think so. Eventually she’ll see Sunrise, and she’ll know.” How have I never thought of this? Is this going to cause a problem between Leo and her? I decide that I don’t really care, that he deserves it. And at least she wasn’t cast for the part. I’m grateful that I don’t have to watch the great love story of my life play out with the great love of his life in the leading role.

We’re here. Martin knows that this is more nerve-racking to me than it is to him. He takes my hand. “I’m going to get out first and then help you out. People are going to be taking pictures so your best look is shoulders back and a mild Mona Lisa smile. A real smile and you end up looking like the Joker in the papers.” Unfortunately, this makes me smile for real. I try to contain myself.

Walking the red carpet is exactly what you’d expect. I’m sure I’ve watched the past thirty-five Academy Awards ceremonies on TV, and there are no surprises. Fans seem to know who Martin is, and I assume they think I’m his date. There’s a logjam where some of us are supposed to wait to talk with whoever’s replaced Joan Rivers. I can’t remember who I’m wearing, and I hope they won’t ask.

There’s a hand on my elbow, and I know it’s him. I turn around and face him, glad I’ve opted for the too-high version of these shoes and that my collarbones are exposed.

“Hi,” I manage.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks. It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors.” I indicate the dress, the hair, the tiny handbag. Anything to break the tension of this moment because any more eye contact and I’m going to start to cry.

Martin is now at my side, protective. “Best-looking date I’ve ever brought to one of these things—am I right, Leo?”

“Careful,” he says. “She’ll break your heart.”

And suddenly I understand rage. I understand setting fires and smashing in people’s faces with iron knuckles. I ball up my fists and search my rage for the right words when Naomi approaches and breaks my focus. She is ethereal in a white silk gown. I’m preoccupied with whether or not she’s wearing underwear. I’m one hundred percent sure she didn’t have a burger for lunch.