I never liked how guys would find ways to touch me when they took pictures with me, but I was used to it, and so I’m not sure if I even flinched when I felt this guy’s fingers wrap around the other side of my bare midriff. My attitude was, Ask them not to touch you and it makes the whole interaction last longer, so why not just get it over with?
“Hey, no touching,” I heard S say from behind us. I swiveled around to see him, leaning against a couch. He shook his finger and furrowed his brow.
“Sorry,” the guy said, dropping his hands from my body instantly. I’d never been with a man who interjected himself in that way before. My boyfriend before S would never speak up when someone approached or touched me. I assumed he meant to be respectful, showing that he knew I could handle these kinds of situations on my own, which I’d always thought I appreciated. In that moment, though, watching S, all relaxed yet assertive, telling this guy to back the fuck off, I thought, Wow, well, this is nice.
In the years since, we’d gotten together and our careers had changed. The movie S had recently produced had been well received by critics and performed well at the box office. People wrote articles about Oscar buzz and, when the film was snubbed, important directors S admired tweeted angrily about the “injustice of the Academy.” When paparazzi pictures of us were published now, they described S as “a successful producer” and even sometimes linked to a trailer for his movie. It was everything S had been working toward for over ten years, and I was proud of him.
I, on the other hand, had decided to stop being an actor, at least for the time being. I’d auditioned for just two roles in two years, a tiny fraction of the number of auditions I’d been doing when we started seeing each other. “I only want to do projects that I can produce or be a part of on a creative level,” I told everyone, which was true, but it was also true was that I no longer knew what the fuck I wanted from Hollywood.
No one in the industry knew why I’d stopped acting, and most assumed it wasn’t by choice. Actors and models couldn’t possibly want something else, they figured. Every woman wants to be rich and famous for being desirable. I couldn’t fault them for thinking that way. Hell, I’d thought that way for most of my twenties.
Despite my better judgment, it bothered me that the people at this party would look at me as a failure or nothing more than a piece of ass. Even though I thought they were assholes, it frustrated me that I’d lost their respect. On a good day, I’d call people sexist who condemned a woman for capitalizing on her body. On a bad day, I’d hate myself and my body, and every decision I’d made in my life seemed like a glaring mistake. Mostly, though, I knew I was a whole, complex person with thoughts and ideas and things I wanted to make and say. I wanted so desperately to prove them all wrong. I just hadn’t gotten the chance yet.
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.