It was the beginning of a recurring theme until the day my husband left me: I was pretending to be in a heterosexual relationship while exploring a gay one. My husband leaving put an end to the flirtation between Kali and me, as I realized I was no longer playacting. I couldn’t pretend to be in love with my next-door neighbor anymore, I had to find a relationship with someone who could simultaneously make me grow up and keep me forever young. I continued therapy, painted the kitchen walls, and fantasized about my future life: I would bring water lilies home to her every day in summer, I would wrap my arms around her waist as she chopped vegetables, I would fall asleep holding her hand . . .
2
“GOOD NEWS!” It was early to be calling my mother. It was 2:00 p.m. in Los Angeles, which would be only 7:00 a.m. in Australia, but I couldn’t wait a second longer.
“Hang on a minute, darling. I’ll just get my robe on and go to the other phone.” I stood breathlessly next to my car in the parking lot of Fox Studios, my cell phone plastered to my ear. I was too excited to get in my car and drive.
“Okay, darl. What’s going on? Did you get a job?”
“Ma. I’m going to be on Ally McBeal! I’m their new cast member!” I waited for the enormity of what I was saying to compute, but as the show hadn’t yet reached Australia, I was forced to say this: “Ma, I’m going to be famous!” Both of us fell into an awe-filled silence. I was excited, wondering what my brand-new life would be like, but with the excitement came a little fear. I was gay. I knew that being openly gay wasn’t an option, but what if they—the press, the public, my employers—found out? As the silence grew I couldn’t help but wonder how I was going to pull this off. I could sense by the length of the silence that my mother was thinking the same thing, since the subject of my being gay had featured heavily in all of our recent conversations since my breakup with Mel six months prior. Although I had come out to my mother at age sixteen after she found The Joy of Lesbian Sex under my bed, I had thwarted my own attempts to convince my mother that I was a lesbian by being with Mel, despite the fact that my dalliance with heterosexuality was actually the “phase” she referred to when talking about my lesbianism. However, after months of hour-long phone conversations, she finally accepted that I’d married Mel to try to bury my homosexual tendencies, and she was forced to take my sexuality seriously. Her feelings about it were a source of conflict to her and of confusion to me. She would be supportive to the point where she would talk to me about dating girls, but still she encouraged me to be secretive with everyone else, especially people who had the power to advance my career. She told me not to tell anyone, that it was “nobody’s business,” including close family members. She convinced me that because they were from another generation and from small towns, “They just wouldn’t understand.” So I didn’t talk to anyone about it. I didn’t want to upset anybody. I had upset myself enough as it was. And at least I could talk to her.
After several moments of processing and a few exclamations of pride, my mother gently said, “You’d better be careful, darling.”
“Don’t be crazy, Ma! I’m not even dating anyone. No one will ever know.”
And with that, my excitement about my impending fame dropped substantially. Well and truly enough to allow me to drive. I got in the car but instead of going straight home, I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard to a popular lesbian coffee shop called Little Frieda’s. I sat outside and savored every sip of coffee and every moment of being at a lesbian coffee shop, because after this, I knew I would never allow myself to go there again. The feeling that came with getting the job, the feeling that I had been chosen, was better than limply sitting outside at a lesbian coffee shop too afraid to glance at the other patrons much less approach them. I was not ready live my life as a gay woman. I had a career to establish. Being a regular cast member on a hit TV show was what I had been working toward. Famous actresses were special people. At last I had a chance to be special.
My quest to be special had begun in childhood. My aunt and uncle had lifelong family friends, the Goffs, and the Goffs had three daughters. The eldest, Linda, was a lawyer. The middle one, Amanda, was a physiotherapist. And the youngest, Allison, was a model. Despite the obvious accomplishments of her sisters, Allison received the lion’s share of my family’s interest, admiration, and praise. There wasn’t a week that went by that my mother didn’t point out “pretty Allison” in a catalogue that would be left in our mailbox to announce a spring sale or a winter bargain. Although I was quite a smart kid and received A grades, I needed something that would be exciting to people. I needed to be the girl my mother pointed to in a catalogue. So I decided to become a model.
I wasn’t that pretty, nor was I particularly tall. I was okay looking, but I certainly wasn’t good-looking enough to have one of those annoying stories that supermodels tell on talk shows about how the boys teased them at school and called them “horse face” and “chicken legs” because they were so skinny and “plain.” When I was eight, Anthony Nankervis used to call me “Lizzie,” which was short for “Lizard Eyes” because, as he brought to my attention daily in a singsongy chant, my eyes turned into slits when I smiled. Instead of deflecting the insult like any other eight-year-old would have done with a retort about his body odor, I took him to a mirror in the playground to explain to me what he meant. To the soundtrack of bouncing balls and playground squeals, I alternately smiled and frowned and to my horror, I discovered he was right. When I smiled, my eyes disappeared behind two fatty mounds of flesh. The memory of Anthony and me standing in front of that mirror, both of us horrified by my fatty, slitty eyes, is still quite painful. Being called a lizard is not something that ages into a compliment, not like having the legs of chicken.
If her parents had allowed her to pursue modeling, my friend Charlotte Duke would’ve been that girl with the annoying talk show story. Not only was she teased for being tall and skinny, her nickname was MX Missiles because she had unusually large breasts for her age. She had short, sandy hair, and freckles covered her face, and when she got head-hunted for an editorial modeling job (which her mother wouldn’t allow her to take), I couldn’t have been more shocked. She was so ordinary in my opinion. She never wore makeup or put hot rollers in her hair. She didn’t care about fashion or models or magazines. At twelve, what I thought was beautiful was the cast of Dynasty and anyone who guest starred on The Love Boat, and I looked more like any of them than Charlotte Duke did. With Breck Girl hair and my face covered in makeup, I thought I could pass as pretty. What I lacked in looks and physique I made up for in determination. I took a series of Polaroid pictures of myself in various outfits, including an Indian-style headdress, in the front yard of our suburban house, and sent them to the modeling agencies in the big city, an hour from where we lived.
But I wouldn’t just hit the Melbourne modeling scene unprepared. I’d already been to deportment school, as my mother thought having ladylike manners and learning about makeup was part of a well-rounded education. For me, it was one step closer to becoming a model. I finished first in the class at a runway show/graduation ceremony that took place in the daytime in a dinner-only restaurant, but with the win came my first flush of insecurity. There was a girl called Michelle who was a very close runner-up. We were locked in a dead heat and received the exact same scores for Correct Posture, Makeup Application, Photographic Modeling, and Social Etiquette, but due to my ability to walk better in high heels, I took the Catwalk Modeling category and took center stage to receive my trophy. (Actually, I stood on the carpet between two tables already set for dinner and received a sheet of paper.) But the fact that another girl had been close to taking my crown made my mother and me equally nervous and had a huge impact on both of us. I know this is true for me because I can still remember every physical detail of that girl, and for my mother because whenever my childhood accomplishments are discussed she says, “Do you remember that girl in deportment school who nearly beat you?”
Two weeks after sending
the photos off to various modeling agencies, I received a call from the Modeling World. A new agency by the name of Team Models had seen me in my Indian headdress and were impressed enough to request a meeting. This was slightly problematic because after my father’s death three years earlier, my mother had taken a full-time job at a doctor’s office and she couldn’t just take time off to drive me to appointments. Although she enjoyed the idea of me modeling almost as much as I did, she told me that I had school and to be realistic. So I did what any twelve-year-old would do. I screamed and cried and told her that she was ruining my life. I threw a tantrum so violent and relentless that my mother was forced to take a sick day and chauffeur me to the meeting. As it was my foray into the working world, I felt I had to appear independent and in control, so I instructed my mother to wait in the car while I went in to “wow” them. I’d rehearsed just how I was going to do this several times in the two weeks since I’d sent the photos and waited for the call. My plan was this: I would walk through the lobby and would pause in the doorway of the agency, my hands on either side of the frame, and once I got the bookers’ attention, I would simply announce my name, “Amanda Rogers.” They would show me to a chair, tell me that I was the face they were looking for, and welcome me to the Team Modeling family. And honestly, that’s not too far off from what actually happened. Except for “the face” line. And, thank God, no one saw me posing like a fool in a doorway. But even then I knew that it wasn’t my looks that got me a place in the agency, it was my gift of gab. I talked them into it. I told them that I would be the youngest model on their books and that I would make them the most money. I told them that my look was both commercial and editorial. I told them that I was dedicated to modeling and would be professional and always available. They were no doubt amused by the bravado of this twelve-year-old, and because of that they decided to give me a shot. I collected my empty gray and pink Team portfolio and walked like a model back to the car where my mother was patiently waiting. “Good news,” I told her when I got into the passenger seat. “I’m going to be a model.” And from that day on, “good news” was the phrase I would use to tell my mother when I booked a modeling job, a TV show, or a feature. And “good news” remains the phrase that my mother is always the happiest to hear.
3
DURING THE week before I started work on Ally McBeal, my excitement about my new job continued to be overshadowed by my fear of public scrutiny. Perhaps it was because I was so judgmental of other actors when they were less than brilliant on talk shows or when their answers to red carpet questions didn’t convey the information in a succinct, perfectly witty quip designed to politely yet definitively wrap up the probing interviewer. I’ve always had a gut-wrenching feeling of embarrassment for people when they say stupid things. And now I was going to be held up to the same scrutiny. Would I be smart enough? Would I have the perfect comeback to Letterman’s subtle jab? Would I be able to convey intelligence and yet be fun and flirty with Leno? And how was I going to answer anybody’s questions when my answers couldn’t be truthful? Truthful answers to any of those red carpet questions would kill my career in an instant. “I’m not a fan of Ally McBeal. I’ve only seen one episode and I didn’t really like it.” Or “I actually don’t follow fashion and I prefer engineer’s boots to Jimmy Choos” wouldn’t be a friendly introduction to the world, and I’m sure Joan Rivers wouldn’t have appreciated it either.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that David Kelley had made a mistake by casting me as the new hot lawyer on a show about hot lawyers and their romantic entanglements. When I met Mr. Kelley to discuss a possible role on The Practice, a show I had watched and liked, something I did—like flicking my hair off my shoulder or the way I crossed my legs—made him say, “I see you more for Ally.” And with that I was Photoshopped into a poster of the cast, squeezed into the show’s trademark unisex bathroom. He had made a mistake for sure. Apart from not being that fun and flirty leading-lady type that I knew the character had to be, I just wasn’t good-looking enough for the role. I was okay at certain angles, but my profile was ugly (I knew this from years of modeling), and my face was very large and round. Plus the character itself was a stretch. Playing a commanding, intimidating professional brimming with self-confidence was going to be a challenge. While I would eagerly accept such an acting challenge for a movie, the thought that I had to play this powerful woman who was so vastly different from myself year after year on a television show was daunting. How was I going to stop my head from tilting in deference to the person I was talking to like I did in real life? How was I going to always remember to stand with my weight evenly balanced on two high-heeled legs when I usually slouch over my left hip in boots? Because I would need to fight every natural instinct to act out the character, I decided it would be immensely helpful if I could change my natural instincts. I would teach myself to stand straight and listen with my head straight. I would practice sounding self-assured and confident. I would stop sounding Australian and always sound like an American when I spoke. It was too late to get out of it, so I had to change myself significantly in order to get into it.
I needed to shed my old self and step into this new role. And not only did I have to become the role of Nelle Porter, I also had to play the role of a celebrity. But what did celebrities do? Did they go to parties, get spray-tanned, become philanthropic? Did they get their hair and makeup done when they went to the supermarket? Did they go to the supermarket at all? Becoming a celebrity felt like a promotion to me. The problem with thinking that being a famous actress was an upgrade from being just an actress was that I wasn’t given a new job description. As an actress, I learned my lines, interpreted and performed them. But there was no actual profession that went along with being a celebrity. After observing Elizabeth Hurley’s meteoric rise from actress to celebrity, I knew, however, that becoming a celebrity had a lot to do with clothes. As I didn’t read fashion magazines or care which celebrity wore the same gown more elegantly than her counterpart, how was I going become the fashionable celebrity that the new cast member on Ally McBeal was expected to be? I was given this promotion but then left alone to guess how to do the job.
Either that or I could ask an expert.
When Kali wasn’t painting, she was absorbing fashion. I say “absorbing” because watching her hunched over a Vogue magazine, her arms protectively wrapped around it, her body still and focus intent as she traced the outline of clothing with her eyes, you’d swear she was recharging her life source. You couldn’t talk to Kali when she began to read the new issue of W or even talk to anyone else within her earshot. One summer, a houseguest of Mel and mine saw a plastic-wrapped Vogue on the stoop next door, unwrapped it, and was discovered by Kali reading it in the courtyard. After finding out that this thief who had robbed her of the great pleasure of being the first and only one to handle her subscriber’s copy was a friend from my modeling days in Australia, Kali stood in our living room in a state of shock quietly repeating, “Who would do something like that?” Mel and I were forced to take sides: My husband, who leapt at the chance to argue with Kali, told her she was overreacting and took the model-friend’s side. This argument was one of many that created the state of melancholy in which I lived, as there was a lot of tension between Mel and Kali. Naturally, I took Kali’s side. Since she was a creative genius, whatever inspired her was obviously important. It didn’t matter that I didn’t care for fashion magazines.
With only one week before I had to begin work, I called Kali in a panic. Kali told me not to worry about buying new clothes and becoming someone else. She told me that they hired me for my uniqueness. She told me to be myself.
“A lesbian?”
Kali agreed to meet me at Banana Republic that afternoon.
Dressed in a vintage Iggy Pop T-shirt, faded black denim jeans, and a pair of perfectly worn black leather engineers’ boots, I walked across the outdoor mall in the heat of a Pasadena summer toward Kali, who was waiting for me in the
store. She was going to help me put together a new, casual, everyday look that I could wear to work. I chose Banana Republic, because I figured that I could find clothes there that would help me smooth out the sharp edges and make me look more like an acceptable member of society. Or at least less like an outcast.
I saw Kali among the racks of white and beige dressed in a uniquely cool vintage dress that made her stand out in the store designed to help you blend in. My face must have conveyed the anxiety in my head because Kali just skipped the “hello”s and hugged me, wrapping her arms around my waist, each hand clasping shirts on hangers that dug into my back.
“Thanks for doing this, Kals.”
“It’ll be fun. I don’t know if you need me, though, Pickle. You have a great sense of style.”
Unbearable Lightness Page 2
