And it was her implication—He was pretty good—that made me curl my fingers so tightly into little balls that my red manicured nails practically sliced my palms. He hadn’t slept with her; he’d spurned her, and he told me, immediately. But the way it rolled off her tongue—He was pretty good—she made me doubt him, not that he had slept with her. Of course not that, but that maybe he’d been tempted. My dad had never been much of a partner to my mom until the end; Piper told me that was when he dug in and committed. I sat in the stall in the bathroom until it emptied, reminding myself over and again that we weren’t my parents, that I wasn’t my mom, and Ben wasn’t my dad, and I steeled myself for the rest of the day with Lily, and the rest of the awards season with her too. And I transformed myself into someone I wasn’t: a woman who believed that she’d left her old self behind, a woman who wasn’t still chased by the ghosts of her childhood.
Now, on the last night of awards season, I swallow four Tums and hope that they fight back my braying, ever-present heartburn.
“You OK?” Ben says in the limo.
“Fucking heartburn,” I say, and burp. Most of the time, in the press, at the endless awards dinners, I try to play the role of a glowing, cherubic mom-to-be, but with Ben, there’s no need.
“It’s almost over,” he says.
“The baby or the awards?” I laugh.
“Both.” He swings one of my waxed and faux-tanned legs atop his lap and massages my elephant-sized ankle.
“You’ve kept me sane,” I say, easing my head against the leather seat, emitting a groan. I meet his eyes. “You know that, you’ve kept me sane, right?”
“Ah, every actress says that right before she goes batshit.” He laughs.
“I make no promises,” I say with a grin, then close my eyes once more.
But he has, it’s true, and I probably haven’t been gracious enough, thanked him enough. It’s admittedly a quieter time for him as he waits forAlcatrazto go in March, and then hopefully getsReaganout of turnaround. But he dutifully shows up as my plus-one, sings my praises to the likes of anyone who will listen, rubs my belly with cocoa butter to prevent stretch marks, heads to the guest room to sleep on nights when I am sweaty and restless and need the entire bed to myself.
“My hands are shaking,” I say, as the limo rounds the bend to a line of other black cars, all carrying anointed Hollywood types. “Jesus, I guess this is really real.”
His hands move from my ankles to my fingers, where he weaves his own into mine.
I blow my breath out.
“You have your speech?” he asks, moving both of our hands to my belly, stopping expectantly to wait for the baby’s kick.
“I’m not going to need it. Lily’s gonna win.”
“But do you have it? Because you never know.”
“Yes.” I exhale again, crane my neck to see how far we are from the entrance, then, as Ben checks his phone, I rehearse my speech one last time.I’d like to thank my agents, my publicist, my amazing team, David Frears for seeing the sliver of potential in my terrible audition, for dreaming that I could ever inhabit this beloved role of Elizabeth Bennet! Colin Farrell, oh thank you so much, dear, you know how much you mean to me. My dad, who is a fighter! My sister, love you, Pipes!! I can’t forget my husband and, well, let’s be honest, there’s no denying it now, this baby who might come out of me at any moment ...
My publicist had tweaked the speech for me, felt that a dose of humor and heart were the perfect way to introduce myself to the world on a larger scale.Pride and Prejudicehad given me industry cred, likeRomanticahhad done for Ben, but I wasn’t yet a household name, wasn’t yet commercial. It wasn’t like I didn’t have practice delivering a speech, though. It was my favorite way of disappearing when my mom first got sick, my favorite way of imagining a road out. From my suburb in Ohio, it’s not as if there had been a streamlined path. Nina Blackwood, whom I watched every afternoon on MTV in fourth grade, was from Cleveland, and Teri Garr, who was inTootsie, my mom’s favorite movie and thus my favorite movie for all of seventh grade, was from Lakewood, but there wasn’t a brick path paved with gold from our state borders to Hollywood. But still. I’d stand in front of the mirror, with a hairbrush or a flashlight in my hand, and I’d thank all the little people:I’d like to thank Mr.Lawrence, my sixth-grade PE teacher, for announcing my mile time as the worst of the grade; I’d like to thank Philip Paulson for pointing out that my training bra was, in fact, too large.I’d bow, and I’d spin, and I’d swirl, and sometimes Piper would come in and sit on my bed and applaud and ask me to do it again and again.I’d like to thank Jessica Johnson for telling Philip Paulson that I just got my period. I’d like to thank Aaron Johnson for taking my virginity and then dumping me for Julie Seymour. Thank you, thank you! Look at me now! Ha ha ha ha ha!
But when I flitted about in the mirror or for Piper, mostly, it was just fantasy, a dream of a dream of a dream.
Now, the dream of a dream of a dream seems tangible; my team is already strategizing my next move: how to leverage this to catapult me to A-list. Offers rush in at a dizzying pace; roles I’d never have had access to prior toPride and Prejudice, as if I somehow became a better actor overnight. I’ve done magazine covers, I’ve doneEllen. I’ve been asked for pregnancy advice, I’ve been asked for marital advice. I’ve been asked how I stay grounded and how it feels to be vaulted into the Hollywood stratosphere. Everything has shifted.
The baby kicks against my taut stomach just as the limo edges up to the red carpet at the Dolby Theatre.
“I think I might puke,” I say to Ben.
“You look perfect. Nowhere close to green,” he replies, though he’s actually looking a little peaked himself.
“It’s all this makeup, you can’t see anything close to what’s going on beneath the makeup.” That was the point, Hailey explained. To cover up my dark circles, the hormonal acne that had flared along my left jawbone (despite the weekly facials since the nominations), my splotchy T-zone.
“You’re going to be great,” Ben says, leaning his forehead to mine.
“Thank you for doing this all with me, beside me. I couldn’t be here without you.”
“Not true,” he says, pulling back, waving a hand, averting his eyes. I wonder, for a beat before I lose track of it, why he does that. “You would have done it on your own. It was just my privilege to watch you.”
“I don’t believe that. That’s not true.”
He stiffens his spine and turns his attention to the window, to the roar of the crowd that is greeting whichever star just made her own grand entrance.
