CHAPTER 21
It’s the end of February and I wake up in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Because I’m an Oscar nominee, I remind myself. I go to my balcony to see if I can see the sunrise, but I can’t. Los Angeles seems to center entirely around the sunset. I make myself a cup of coffee and look over the treetops.
I am happy, I think. Whenever I remember to think of the things I’m grateful for, my health, my kids, and the sunrise have been top of the list. Throw in my house, and I really have nothing to complain about. Even when Ben was around and belittling me for selling out and writing crappy romance movies, I felt grateful for my work. I mean someone had to sell out, you can’t walk into the Stop n’ Save and trade big ideas for chicken.
But this. To have written a screenplay that is essentially my truth, or at least represents my feelings about my truth, and to have it produced and then appreciated. It’s almost too much for me to contain at this moment. What if people like Sunrise? What if this is my new normal—showing people my heart and having them applaud it?
And as for my heart, it’s okay. I’ve read that quote a million times, the one about knowing when to let go of things that were not meant for you. Leo was not meant for me. I mean, look at him. We had a moment, and it was perfect. Can’t I just leave it at that? Encapsulate the memory and protect it? Maybe the whole thing was just a dream, anyway. Frankly, if his sheets weren’t sitting on Kate’s guest room bed, I might actually think I made the whole thing up.
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.
“Nora!” She kisses the air by my face, not because she’s an insincere person, I actually don’t think she is, but because the makeup situation is so intense.
“You look absolutely stunning,” I tell her. I’m back on the high road, and honestly what else could I say? She glows.
“Well, good luck tonight,” she says to Martin and me, holding Leo’s arm. “Good luck to all of us, I guess.”
The assistant from the E! channel approaches to bring Leo and Naomi for a quick interview. Leo gives her his full attention and a quick smolder. She goes red and starts to talk at triple speed. “Okay, okay, so just this way, you two were so great in that movie, okay, okay . . .” Leo turns and has the absolute freakin’ nerve to give me a wink.
My award is early, because no one really cares about the screenplay category. I’m glad we’ll get it over with so that I won’t have to be nervous for the rest of the show. I’m not nervous about winning and having to get up there onstage, I’ve managed my expectations. I’m nervous about the part where they show the faces of the nominees on TV as they announce them and then show them again when they name the winner. I’ve been unable to decide how my face is supposed to go. Mona Lisa smile? Glee? When they announce Barry Sterns’s name as the winner (that’s who I’d pick), do I nod in agreement and applaud? I decide that’s what Meryl Streep would do. Nod and applaud. That’s the gracious way out.
Martin and I are on the aisle in the second row. Leo and Naomi are directly in front of us in today’s episode of fresh hell. They look so right together, like they should be the models for all of the wedding-cake toppers in all the world. They must be in that comfortable silence part of the relationship, because they don’t speak.
Peter Harper from Sunrise is announcing the category. His press people have been trying to get him everywhere in anticipation of that film coming out later this year. His last film, Shrapnel, a World War II piece, got him a lot of attention and a quick relationship with a swimsuit model.
He comes out in a tuxedo and says some words about the importance of story. I’m underwater now and can’t really hear anything. “The nominees are,” he starts, and Martin pinches me, actually pinches me. I turn to him and see his best Mona Lisa smile, which I gratefully replicate. I breathe.
“And the Oscar goes to . . . Nora Hamilton, for The Tea House.” I hear this and Mona Lisa is gone. I beam with what must be Bernadette’s smile, and I can only imagine my kids at Penny’s house jumping up and down on the couch.
I am being hugged by Martin. He whispers in my ear, “You have to go up now,” so I do. This part is not what I imagined from watching it on TV. The steps are treacherous, though I manage them by lifting the front of my dress and walking too slowly. Peter Harper is at least three inches shorter than I imagined, and he kisses my cheek as he hands me the statue. It’s heavy, just like they say.
I am at the podium and there are so many more people there than I could have imagined. Thirty seconds count down on the clock, and my three sentences are lost to me. Leo is in the front row and gives me a smile, his real smile, and the surprise of it brings me to.
I ad-lib. “I am really grateful that I had the opportunity to tell this story. And I’m more grateful that it was welcomed, nurtured, and performed by such talented people. It’s wonderful to speak your truth and be heard. Thank you all.”
And now Peter Harper has his arm around my waist and he’s leading me offstage. I didn’t thank Martin or shout out to my kids or even mention the Academy. I now see what the deal is with the index cards.
I return to my seat at the commercial break, and Naomi hugs me and says all the right things. Leo says, “I knew it,” and gives me his real smile again.
“Don’t do that,” I say, too quickly.
The orchestra starts and someone’s coming out to introduce a dance number. I can feel my phone blowing up in my tiny bag. I can feel the weight of this gorgeous statue on my lap. I see Leo whisper something to Naomi that makes her smile. Life really is a mixed bag.
Martin wins and thanks me for such a heartfelt story. Leo wins and says, “And I’d like to thank Nora Hamilton for the story and for letting us overstay our welcome in her tea house.” This makes me cry, and I know that he sees. I fish in my bag for a tissue, more to protect my makeup than my pride. You were welcome to stay, I want to say. I might have even let you start sleeping inside.
When it’s over we pose for photos. They want Martin, Leo, and me all with our Oscars against the logo backdrop. “Can you move in a bit closer, Mr. Vance?” asks the photographer. “Maybe put your arm around her?” He puts his arm around my waist instead of my shoulders and pulls me close to him. This takes me by surprise, and I turn to look up at him. The camera flashes, and I think this is the photo that will make it into all the press. The one with me looking up at Leo like he’s the prom king.