Unbearable Lightness Part 2

"Whoa. They're some crazy eyebrows!" the male model said to me in a big, stupid way that made me angry rather than ashamed.

"They're exactly like my father's eyebrows and he's dead." That shut him up. I started thinking about my dad and wondered how he would feel about me modeling. Although I felt really bad about using him to justify having big, bushy eyebrows, it wouldn't be the last time I did it to stop people from talking about them. Until I realized you could pluck them. Other than that one interaction with the model, I didn't actually talk to any of the other Team models until after the show when we were directed by the bookers to mingle with the crowd. As I was awkwardly standing alone at a high-top table trying to look sophisticated by sipping sparkling water, I overheard one of the girls say, "Apparently there's a girl here who's only twelve," and I blurted out in excitement, "That's me! I'm twelve!" as only a twelve-year-old could. After that, word spread and other models talked to me in the condescending way adults talk to children. I was hardly a child and they were only a few years older than me, so I didn't appreciate it. But the most upsetting thing about meeting them was that I realized how beautiful all of them were. Stripped of their crazy fas.h.i.+on show makeup I could see their big eyes, set far apart and cradled by their perfect cheekbones that the rest of their face hung from in perfect proportion. Their hair, thrown up messily yet beautifully in a hair tie, and their loose, easy clothes spoke of their att.i.tude toward their beauty-it was effortless and unconscious. It didn't require their critical eye reflected in a mirror to craft it; it just was there. They were so much more beautiful than me that I was in awe of them. I felt so ashamed of the dress and heels I'd bought for the occasion, and so stupid to have reapplied makeup after removing the show makeup. But the thing that gave me the pit in my stomach was the fact that I knew I needed it. Underneath the caked-on foundation was red blotchy skin, and if I didn't wear eyeliner, my eyes looked too small for the roundness of my face. I was different from all those girls, and I had to be careful not to let anyone see it.

The show itself was pretty uneventful. I had to model only one unrevealing outfit-culottes and a T-s.h.i.+rt with built-in shoulder pads. I was sent down the runway with a male model who strutted around like he was line dancing, holding me by the wrist and twirling me around like I was a prize he'd won at the state fair. I felt stupid that I'd made such a big deal about the show. After I'd stood around practically in silence for over an hour, overhearing conversations that intimidated me because I couldn't understand what anyone was talking about, I was finally allowed to go home. I felt relieved that the night was over. I got into my mother's car, took my heels off, and curled my cold feet underneath me. I sat facing her as she drove, talking to her all the way like she was my best friend. I ate a whole bag of mint candies that my mother had put in the car for me as a reward for getting through my first fas.h.i.+on show and for successfully losing all that weight. I ate them greedily and steadily until there were none left. As we pulled into our driveway an hour later at midnight, exhausted and full of sugar, it crossed my mind that eating all those candies might have caused me to gain a pound. As I walked barefoot to the back door, my belly distended in my skintight dress, I devised a plan to stop the sugar from turning into fat. Tomorrow was sports practice at school, and I made a promise to run ten extra laps around the hockey field to make up for it. And that wasn't the only promise I made that night that I didn't keep. I promised myself I wouldn't binge again.

7.

"HEY, PORTIA. How were your days off?" I walked into the wardrobe fitting room pa.s.sing Jane Krakowski as she was leaving.

"Great, thanks." I was aware as I spoke that I hadn't talked in awhile. It felt unnatural and my voice sounded raspy and constricted with phlegm, the telltale sounds of a chain-smoker. I cleared my throat, embarra.s.sed.

"See you in there." She said it in a way that sounded like we were both in trouble, like we were about to walk into a detention room at school. I couldn't help but smile when I saw Jane. Her facial expressions were infectious, like she was keeping a naughty secret that could crack her up at any moment. Apart from Jane, I hadn't really gotten a sense of the cast yet. They all seemed pretty quiet and professional, more like corporate businesspeople than the actors I had known in the past. The cast of my first movie, Sirens Sirens, interacted with each other in a much more playful manner than I'd observed with the cast of Ally Ally. During Sirens Sirens, we'd eat lunch together and listen to Hugh Grant's hilarious stories or Sam Neil's dry explanation of what it was like to be a supporting actor to a dinosaur in Jura.s.sic Park Jura.s.sic Park. But maybe I would eat lunch with them today and hear their stories. Maybe I'd even tell them some of Hugh's stories. They were much funnier than mine.

As I said my h.e.l.los to the folks in the fitting rooms, it occurred to me that in a great ironic twist, I could possibly be perceived by the cast as a threat. Any new cast member threatens to take away airtime from the ensemble cast members, their story lines and attention. No television actor really embraces the idea of a new cast member, with perhaps the exception of the overworked t.i.tular character. I didn't feel as though the cast was threatened by me, however. I felt that they were threatened by the change that my presence signified, that it prompted them to ask themselves, "If this could happen, then what's next?" While everyone was very pleasant to me, I got the sense that they were all just wondering why I was there. They were celebrities on a hit television show, and I'd only had small parts in three movies and two very short-lived sitcoms to my credit. I guess we were all wondering why I was there.

I was in the wardrobe rooms to check-fit my outfit for Day Two. I was nervous to try on the size 6 suit the tailor had taken in after my first fitting three days prior. After bingeing and purging I feared that I'd gained weight. I always tended to gain a pound after a binge and purge even if it was just bloat. I struggled to zip up the skirt in front of the costume designer, her a.s.sistant, and the tailor, who all witnessed the effort.

"It fits," I said to the crowd, as I stood straight with my legs pressed together, careful not to show them that it would likely bunch up at the slightest movement. Even though I had to wear the skirt for the last scene that day, I was too ashamed to admit that it was too tight.

"Is it comfortable?" the costume designer, Vera, asked, squinting as if seeing better would help her sense my discomfort.

"Yeah. It should be fine."

"I think I take in too much," the tailor told Vera in a thick, unrecognizable accent. "I take out a little."

I didn't say anything. I just took off the skirt and handed it to the tailor, allowing her to believe that it was her fault that the skirt didn't fit. I slipped into my new beige Banana Republic pants, walked outside, and headed into makeup, all the while fighting the desperate urge for a cigarette.

"Hi, Portia. How were your days off?" Peter MacNicol was sitting in the makeup chair next to the empty chair that was waiting for me. He looked tired and I could tell that he was slightly envious that I'd had days off when he was working twelve-hour days all week.

"Great, thanks." It occurred to me that the more important the character, the fewer the days off. I hoped I would never be asked that question again.

I stared into the mirror at the red dots on my eyelids. Despite my efforts to conceal them, they were so p.r.o.nounced I could see them clearly in the mirror from several feet away. To my amazement, my makeup artist didn't comment. It was almost worse that she didn't, as it suggested to me that maybe she knew how I got them and didn't need to ask. She began my makeup by thickly applying foundation with a wide, flat brush. After several minutes of silence, Peter got up from the chair next to mine.

"See you in there."

The makeup trailer wobbled as he walked down the steps.

"Yeah. See you in there."

"Cut!" the director yelled loudly to the cameraman and the actors, which was then echoed by several ADs stationed all over the set. I heard the word cut cut about ten times after each take to release the background or let the people who were at craft service go back to making noise as they fixed themselves coffee or a snack. We were all waiting this time, however, for the first AD to ask the cameraman to check the gate, which meant that the cast and crew could break for lunch. The scene was a "walk and talk" that took place in the hallway next to the courtroom. It was a short scene where I met up with Ally and asked her to have drinks with me at bar at the end of the day, explaining, "I would like to talk to a woman's woman" before making a decision to join the law firm of Cage and Fish. I did well, even though it made me nervous as it reminded me of a scene I did in the movie about ten times after each take to release the background or let the people who were at craft service go back to making noise as they fixed themselves coffee or a snack. We were all waiting this time, however, for the first AD to ask the cameraman to check the gate, which meant that the cast and crew could break for lunch. The scene was a "walk and talk" that took place in the hallway next to the courtroom. It was a short scene where I met up with Ally and asked her to have drinks with me at bar at the end of the day, explaining, "I would like to talk to a woman's woman" before making a decision to join the law firm of Cage and Fish. I did well, even though it made me nervous as it reminded me of a scene I did in the movie Scream 2 Scream 2, in which my character, a nasty sorority girl, walked up to the entire a.s.sembly of the movie's stars, and for some reason, had to say, "In a six degrees of Kevin Bacon sort of way." I kept s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up. Take after take I would wrongly say, "In a six degrees of separation sort of way." I was panic-stricken before each take and the panic made my head spin with fear and my mind go blank. I literally saw white light as I incorrectly repeated the same line over and over again. In this scene where I bullied Ally into meeting me for a drink, despite my urge to say, "I'd like to talk to a woman first," I got the line out without any cause for panic. I was very nervous, though, as I was lauding it over Ally, intimidating her. In between takes I felt just as nervous, feeling as though I should fill in the silence with small talk, even though no one was really doing much talking. I, like the crew, was breathlessly waiting to be released for lunch, only I didn't need to eat. I just needed to be released from the stress of being looked at, being judged. Was I good enough?

"Check the gate."

The cameraman shone a penlight into the camera to check for dust on the film. "Clear."

"Gate's good. That's lunch. One hour."

I walked from the set to the dressing rooms with Calista and Peter.

"Where do you guys normally eat lunch?" The minute I said it, I felt stupid, and like a nerdy schoolgirl who was attempting to force an invitation to be part of the cool kids' group. There was a slight gap between my asking and their answering that reinforced my feeling of stupidity.

"I tend to nap during lunch." Peter spoke sweetly but in a way that informed me that there would never be an exception to this routine.

"I have a phone interview." Calista made a slight face that suggested that in another time before she became the poster child for America's changing views on skirt length and feminism, she would've gladly swapped stories over lunch with another actor. The face she made was enough to make me think she really did wish things were different. I knew in that second that I liked her. But I also knew that I would never really get to know her.

"How are you liking it so far?" She looked directly into my eyes.

I inhaled and nodded my head up and down a few times. I wanted to tell her that it felt strange, that I felt out of place, that I was scared of not delivering. I wanted to tell her that I felt pressure to look good, to be fas.h.i.+onable, to be someone other than who I was. I wanted to say that I felt isolated and that maybe I kind of hated the show. But I didn't. In the four years of working on that show I never did say any of that to her.

"I love it."

"Great! See you back in there."

As I walked through the door with my name on it and into my dressing room, I heard my name being called from the hallway. It was Courtney Thorne-Smith in sweatpants walking toward the makeup trailer.

"You break for lunch?"

"Yeah. What are you up to?" Maybe I could have lunch with Courtney. I hadn't had any real scenes with her yet and I wanted to get to know her. I used to watch Melrose Place Melrose Place.

"That's weird. They just called me into makeup. Everyone's at lunch?"

"Yeah. You wanna grab lunch with me?"

She looked at me in a way that suggested that she felt sorry for me. I guess you could call it condescending, but there was a glint in her eye that told me that she too thought what she was about to tell me was strange.

"We don't really eat lunch together here."

"Oh. Cool. Okay." I stared down at the carpet, embarra.s.sed, as I began to close the dressing room door. "See you later, then."

I looked at my bag that was sitting on the new green chair opposite the full-length mirror. I had an hour. I grabbed my cigarettes, stuffed them underneath my s.h.i.+rt, and started walking out of the building. I walked away from the windowless monolithic peach rectangles that housed the stages and away from the offices, stacked one on top of the other, David Kelley's office sitting on top of them all. In the far corner of Manhattan Beach Studios, out of sight of anyone and in between the chain-link fence and the loading docks, I embarked on what would become my lunchtime ritual. I hid from the people who made me feel awkward, stupid, or like a schoolgirl. I hid from producers, directors, and people who evaluated me. I hid from the voice that became very loud in front of that full-length mirror in the dressing room that was supposed to make me feel comfortable. And I chain-smoked.

8.

I FELT NERVOUS FELT NERVOUS. As I walked through the house with wet hair to make myself tea I heard the television broadcasting my thoughts. "What will she be wearing? Who will win for best comedy?" The Emmys was a thing that I'd only seen on TV; I'd never actually helped provide the content that made it a show. Ally McBeal Ally McBeal was nominated, Calista and Jane were nominated, and I was a debutante about to be introduced for the first time to the public who could potentially love me or hate me. My brother, thinking he was being supportive, had turned on all the TVs in the house for the preshow. I knew at some point my nerves would get the better of me and I'd lose my nonchalant att.i.tude toward it and would tell him to shut it off. But I was trying on a different personality, one that was excited to walk the red carpet and show people who I was because I thought I was perfectly fabulous. This personality was not a bit worried or nervous that I'd say something stupid or be wearing the wrong thing. As I made my tea and listened to what was left of the segment after the kettle had sputtered, boiled, and whistled, I was completely unaffected by the shrill voices of the entertainment news reporters and the judgment of fas.h.i.+on commentators. I liked this new personality. It was calming, mature, balanced. I wondered how long I could keep it. was nominated, Calista and Jane were nominated, and I was a debutante about to be introduced for the first time to the public who could potentially love me or hate me. My brother, thinking he was being supportive, had turned on all the TVs in the house for the preshow. I knew at some point my nerves would get the better of me and I'd lose my nonchalant att.i.tude toward it and would tell him to shut it off. But I was trying on a different personality, one that was excited to walk the red carpet and show people who I was because I thought I was perfectly fabulous. This personality was not a bit worried or nervous that I'd say something stupid or be wearing the wrong thing. As I made my tea and listened to what was left of the segment after the kettle had sputtered, boiled, and whistled, I was completely unaffected by the shrill voices of the entertainment news reporters and the judgment of fas.h.i.+on commentators. I liked this new personality. It was calming, mature, balanced. I wondered how long I could keep it.

I found that if I sat still for too long, my insecurity seized the opportunity to take control of my mind. Especially if the chair I was sitting on was positioned in front of a mirror. It's not that I hated the way I looked, it's just that I worried that I wouldn't look good enough. That I wouldn't be transformed from the girl who often forgot to shave her legs and rarely got a facial into Portia de Rossi, Hollywood actress and new cast member of the hottest show on television. In an attempt to avoid looking at my face as my hair was blown-dry, I looked down at the notes in my hands. My hands; my big, ugly, red hands that had only recently seen a manicure because that was what my cast mates did on weekends to ready themselves for the week ahead. I did whatever they did because they knew things I didn't. Although I hated going to a nail salon, I wasn't going to ignore the people around me who were more successful than me and who had figured all this out. I really hated my hands. My hands were manly. They belonged to a working-cla.s.s boy who helped his dad around the farm. In my ugly hands were the pieces of paper that would act as my safety net, my little bit of rea.s.surance, proof that if I studied them, I could ace the ensuing exam on that bright red carpet. On sheets of lined, reinforced paper I'd written: How did you get the role on Ally McBeal Ally McBeal ? ?I met with David Kelley for a role on The Practice, The Practice, but he saw me more for but he saw me more for Ally, Ally, and within a couple of weeks, I was sent a script that featured my character, and that became the first episode of the new season. and within a couple of weeks, I was sent a script that featured my character, and that became the first episode of the new season.Describe your character.Nelle Porter is a very driven, ambitious woman who has sacrificed her private life for her career. She's seemingly ruthless and insensitive, but deep down she wants love and happiness like everyone else. She's so cold her nickname is "Sub-zero."Were you a fan of the show?Yes. I love the show and I'm so proud to be a part of it. It's like a dream come true.What is everyone on the show like? Have they welcomed you to the cast?The whole cast is great. Everyone is lovely and has been really friendly and welcoming toward me. I feel very lucky to be working with such a talented and nice group of people.What is in store for Nelle Porter this season?Well, you'll have to watch and see . . .

As I memorized my scripted responses to hypothetical questions in the kitchen chair that could barely fit in the bathroom of my one-bathroom house, I wondered if anyone else out there sitting in hair and makeup was doing this. Did any other actor rehea.r.s.e "off the cuff" responses to red carpet questions? Did they rehea.r.s.e their talk show stories as they sat in foils at the hairdresser's? When you're under spotlights and nervous, it has to help to have a script to fall back on. The fact that my character always knows what to say is one of the reasons I love acting. If I could be given a script to answer the hard questions seamlessly, I wouldn't be so nervous that I might say the wrong thing. Sitting in front of the mirror and learning my answers, a feeling of self-hatred and shame came over me as I remembered a conversation with Greg Germann a couple of weeks earlier. On set and in between takes, in an attempt to be friendly, Greg had asked me what he no doubt thought was a simple question, but it was a question that silenced me with fear.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

When I froze and was unable to answer this seemingly easy question, Greg raised his eyebrows and in a joking, incredulous tone asked, "Are you gay?"

The question took me off guard. I wasn't prepared. If only I'd had a script of perfect witty responses, I could've flicked through the brilliantly written pages in my brain and found the right one. But without the script, all I could think to say was, "I don't know."

I hated seeing him at work after that. I worried about that conversation every day.

I arrived at the Shrine Auditorium alone after getting into the car an hour earlier and chain-smoking the entire way. The last twenty minutes had been spent circling the venue, waiting in line as the celebrities, in order of importance, were given the drop-off spots closest to the red carpet. My driver told me all of this as we were waiting, which suggested to me that despite my silver dress and diamonds dripping from my neck and ears, he instinctively knew I was a n.o.body, even though my clothes suggested otherwise.

When I eventually got out of the car at the mouth of the red carpet, I felt a.s.saulted by the heat. For the first time, it occurred to me that it was the middle of the day, the hottest part of the day, and all these people were in gowns and diamonds pretending it was evening. It looked ridiculous to see a sea of sequins and tulle and satin at 3:30 in the afternoon on a hot summer day. Of course, it was just another costume, and these were actors. The red carpet was full of people. There were hundreds of people all jammed on a carpet, some trying to hurry through to the entrance of the Shrine, some lingering, trying to be noticed by photographers. And then there were the publicists, the people in drab black "stagehand" outfits swimming upstream to grab a client by the hand and hurl him or her in front of the firing squad, the section at the beginning of the carpet with photographers, all screaming and sweating, in rows ten deep. The noise coming from this section was aggressive, and it came in surges depending on who walked near them. The photographers yelled the name of the actor to get her attention and then a few minutes later the fans in the bleachers did the same. There was definitely a lot of yelling and sweating, posing and cheering for such a glamorous and important event. I didn't know why, but it seemed different on TV. It seemed like the actors simply walked to the entrance and happened to be shot by photographers, quietly and respectfully as they breezed past. The fans, in my fantasy, would fall silent as the celebrities pa.s.sed by, awed by their proximity to these precious creatures, like people do at the railing of a zoo enclosure. This seemed more like a sports event.

The Fox publicist found me patiently waiting at the start of the carpet after beads of sweat had formed all over my face and body. This was my introduction. This was my turning point. After today, everyone would know who I was and have an opinion about everything I did. And with my hair in ringlets and my individual eyelashes glued onto the corners of my eyes, scripted answers and a silver Calvin Klein dress, I was ready to face the firing squad. She took me to the start of the photographers' section of the carpet. As I'd just watched several women get their picture taken, I wasn't terribly nervous. I knew I'd stand in four different spots as the photographers yelled out my name and jostled for the best picture. I approached the line of fire as the publicist stated my name and place of business. "Portia de Rossi-Ally McBeal." As I stood there, smiling, hip jutting out in a casual but elegant pose, I was alarmed by the silence. Not one of these people with machines for faces had called my name or asked me to spin around. No one was asking me who I was wearing. I instantly felt like this unenthusiastic response was my fault, like I should do something to make the picture better, more interesting. I felt sorry for these people whose bosses expected something more than just a girl in a silver dress. They expected a star with personality. They wanted to see the reason for adding a cast member to an already successful show. At the end of the stills photography section I saw a news crew whose reporter was handing out plastic fans. In a desperate attempt to justify the photographers' time, the jewelry designer's generosity, the publicist's uphill battle to get me noticed after swimming upstream to come fetch me, and to not make David Kelley look like he made a mistake by casting an ordinary girl with no personality, I grabbed a fan and dramatically posed with it high in the air-like Marilyn Monroe with her dress blowing up, but different. The photographers liked it. They were taking pictures. Some of them were even yelling, "Over here!" so I'd turn more toward them while holding the pose.

I was officially a hypocrite. I wanted to blend in and disappear yet be noticed doing it.

Before I knew it, I was answering questions into a microphone.

"What is the one beauty item you can't live without?"

s.h.i.+t. I didn't know the answer to that one. I mean, "concealer" was the truthful answer, but what was the right answer?

"Lip gloss."

I hate lip gloss. I hate anything on my lips, but it sounded right. It sounded pretty and feminine and like something boys would find attractive; big, goopy lips, moist and inviting. Next . . .

"What is your must-have fas.h.i.+on item for the season?"

s.h.i.+t. I didn't know fas.h.i.+on at all. I didn't read magazines and I wasn't really interested. I wished Kali were there; she would've known the answer to that question. In fact, a few months ago she'd wanted Chanel ballet flats . . .

"Chanel ballet flats."

My answer took a little long in coming, and the interviewer could sense it wasn't going to get any easier, so I was dismissed from the interview with a "Thanks for stopping to talk to us." I was surprised by the questions I was asked. Most of the interviewers didn't care about my character or the show. All anyone wanted to know was who I was wearing and what my beauty tips were and how I stayed in shape. As I walked away from the news crews, I heard the last reporter ask my publicist, "What's her name?" The reporter didn't discreetly whisper the question to my publicist in an attempt to save me from having hurt feelings, she yelled it. She had just been interviewing me like I was important enough to tell the public my thoughts about the increasing number of actresses who wore their hair down to the Emmys and yet she had no idea who I was. The answer came over raucous screams announcing Lara Flynn Boyle's arrival so she asked again as if she wondered if she'd heard correctly. "What's her name?" her name?"

I was embarra.s.sed and a little afraid. I was often embarra.s.sed to tell people my name because I had made it up. I had a deep fear of someone discovering the truth, that this exotic name wasn't mine-that I'd borrowed it like I had borrowed the dress and the diamonds, that it was a little too fabulous for me to own and at some point I was going to have to give it back. Portia de Rossi. A fabulous name. A name that belonged to a celebrity.

I made it up when I was fifteen. I was illegally in a nightclub when the club's manager took me into his VIP room to award me with a coveted all-access, never-wait-in-line medallion. I knew I couldn't give him my real ident.i.ty for fear that he would discover my age and never again allow me back in the club. I was fl.u.s.tered coming up with a name on the spot, but I knew I had to do it. Not only was he offering me a key chain medallion to flaunt, a sliver tag announcing to the world that I was in with the "in-crowd," he was offering me a job. I could be a hostess for the club, and all I had to do was show up twice a week. All that-if I could come up with a name other than Amanda Rogers, the name that belonged to the fifteen-year-old kid that stood before them. I could be a VIP if I could come up with the right name.

I hated my birth name. Amanda Rogers. It was so ordinary, so perfectly average. It had "a man" in it, which annoyed me because every time I'd hear someone refer to a man, I would turn my head, waiting for the "duh." I'd toyed with changing it the way most kids do. When I became a model, my modeling agents suggested I change it, as reinventing oneself was pretty common practice in the modeling world in the eighties. Sophie became Tobsha, and Angelique became Roch.e.l.le. What Amanda could become was something I was still fantasizing about until I heard one manager in the VIP lair say to another, "What's her name?" as he hovered over a book of entries with a black fountain pen.

"Portia . . . de . . . Rossi." The words came out slowly but with certainty. I really wanted that medallion.

"How do you spell that?"

I wrote the name in the air with my index finger behind my back to see whether a small d d or a big or a big D D would look better. I got Portia from would look better. I got Portia from The Merchant of Venice, The Merchant of Venice, and de Rossi from watching the credits of a movie. The last name stuck in my mind among a million names that flew by. In a sea of a million unimportant names, I saw de Rossi. I put it all together in that room, got my medallion, a job, and walked out in shock. I had changed my ident.i.ty. Just like that. and de Rossi from watching the credits of a movie. The last name stuck in my mind among a million names that flew by. In a sea of a million unimportant names, I saw de Rossi. I put it all together in that room, got my medallion, a job, and walked out in shock. I had changed my ident.i.ty. Just like that.

As I walked into the Shrine Auditorium where the Emmys were about to take place, I freaked out about how caught off-guard I'd been, how unprepared I was for the biggest test of my life-the test that required me to show them all why I was special and chosen. I made a mental note to buy fas.h.i.+on magazines and start caring about beauty items and perfume and exercising. I needed to find answers to these questions if I were going to feel confident next time. It was time Portia de Rossi earned her name.

9.

AS I drove to work, my thoughts kept returning to my wardrobe. For Day One of the scripted days in this episode, I wore the black pencil skirt and long jacket. That would be okay because the waistband on the skirt was a little roomy, unlike the jeans I was currently wearing, which were cutting into my flesh and making my stomach fold over the top of them. I took my right hand off the steering wheel and grabbed my stomach fat-first just under the belly b.u.t.ton and then I worked my way over the sides in repet.i.tive grabbing motions. For fun I did it in time with the music. In a way it felt like a workout or a kind of dance of self-hatred. The fat extended all the way around to my back-not enough for a handful, but enough to take a firm hold of between my thumb and forefinger. As I looked down at my cavernous belly b.u.t.ton I couldn't help but wonder if I was getting away with it. Did I still look like the girl they had hired? Did people notice? Obviously, my costume designer was aware of my weight gain over my first month on the show as she watched the weekly struggle of trying to pull up a skirt over my hips or straining to clasp the waistband. If pretending not to notice is the kind thing to do, then she was very kind to me. She always blamed the zipper for getting stuck because it was cheap or not properly sewn into the item of clothing even if she had to call her a.s.sistant in to hold the top of the zip as she put some muscle into trying to move it. drove to work, my thoughts kept returning to my wardrobe. For Day One of the scripted days in this episode, I wore the black pencil skirt and long jacket. That would be okay because the waistband on the skirt was a little roomy, unlike the jeans I was currently wearing, which were cutting into my flesh and making my stomach fold over the top of them. I took my right hand off the steering wheel and grabbed my stomach fat-first just under the belly b.u.t.ton and then I worked my way over the sides in repet.i.tive grabbing motions. For fun I did it in time with the music. In a way it felt like a workout or a kind of dance of self-hatred. The fat extended all the way around to my back-not enough for a handful, but enough to take a firm hold of between my thumb and forefinger. As I looked down at my cavernous belly b.u.t.ton I couldn't help but wonder if I was getting away with it. Did I still look like the girl they had hired? Did people notice? Obviously, my costume designer was aware of my weight gain over my first month on the show as she watched the weekly struggle of trying to pull up a skirt over my hips or straining to clasp the waistband. If pretending not to notice is the kind thing to do, then she was very kind to me. She always blamed the zipper for getting stuck because it was cheap or not properly sewn into the item of clothing even if she had to call her a.s.sistant in to hold the top of the zip as she put some muscle into trying to move it.

Did people look at me and think, "She's let herself go?" Did my actress rivals look at me and smirk, satisfied that my weight gain rendered me powerless to steal roles, scenes, or lines? As I pulled into my parking s.p.a.ce, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe it was not just increasing familiarity but my nonthreatening physique that was the reason everyone had seemed a lot more comfortable around me lately. My presence no longer prompted them to ask themselves, "If this happened, then what's next?" as another actress, Lucy Liu, had joined the cast and answered that question. I was no longer the new girl, and I had proven to them that I wasn't a threat to their status on the show. With the weight gain, I wasn't exactly the hot blond bombsh.e.l.l that Cage and Fish talked about almost daily in their dialogue to each other. I cringed to read their lines and how they would talk about my character as being "hot" and "untouchable." While I wanted to be considered attractive, it made me uncomfortable to be thought of as being s.e.xually desirable to men. But mainly the dialogue made me uncomfortable because I knew that reality didn't match up to the character David Kelley had written.

"Hey, Porshe. Haven't seen you in awhile. How were your days off?" Jane pa.s.sed me in the hall on her way to set.

"Great, thanks."

"See you out there."

I walked into my dressing room and threw my bag down on the sofa.

There was a sharp knock on my dressing room door.

"Good morning, Portia. Makeup is ready for you."

"Be right there."

I walked around the desk to look in the mirror. The fat that I'd felt on my way there didn't really show under my sweater. At least not when I was standing. I lifted my sweater so I could see my bare stomach and the fat that I remembered feeling. But I didn't see fat. My stomach was flat. I stared into the eyes reflected in the mirror. They were smiling at me as if to say, "Oh, Porshe, what the h.e.l.l are you worried about?" For a brief moment, I felt relief. But it didn't last long. As I opened the wardrobe and looked at its contents, a wave of panic pa.s.sed through my body; a hot, rolling rush of panic beginning in my stomach and ending at my head. Hanging on the bar were ten, maybe fifteen, sets of bras and panties. They were the kind of bras and panties that are intended to be seen, not the plainer flesh-toned kind that I was used to finding on the rack. Attached to the first pair was a note: "For next episode. Please try on at your convenience. Thanks, V."

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t! The next episode was eight days away. There was a knock at the door. I jumped out of my skin.

"Portia. Can you go to makeup, please? We're going to get to your scene in less than an hour."

"Alright! I'm coming!" As usual, the people who deserved it the least get the brunt of my anger. The person who deserved my anger the most was my fat, lazy, self. I had been in complete denial. I'd decided that rather than get off my fat, lazy a.s.s and accept responsibility for my job, rather than seizing this amazing opportunity and using every scene as a showcase for my talent, I'd just sit around drinking beer and eating Mexican food. I stormed out of my dressing room and walked toward the makeup trailer, the voice in my head berating me.

You can't eat again until that scene. You need to work out. You're such an idiot for thinking you could get away with bingeing on Mexican food and not working out when this kind of thing could've happened at any time.

For a brief moment, I was aware that Peter MacNicol had pa.s.sed me in the hallway. I'm sure he said h.e.l.lo, but it was too late to reply. The underwear scene probably had something to do with him. Our romance had been heating up and I bet there was some kind of love scene in the next episode. Maybe that's all it was. Maybe it would be a shot of me lying down on a bed in my underwear, or a waist-high shot of me unb.u.t.toning a s.h.i.+rt to expose the top part of one of those pretty, lacy bra.s.sieres hanging in my closet.

"Hey!" My makeup artist gave me a hug and with a guttural laugh she said, "Did you read the next episode? You're doing a striptease, girl!"

I pulled the script from her hands and with a cold, emotionless expression I looked at what she'd been reading. I didn't want to give her any more enjoyment at my discomfort than she was already having. Of course, I didn't know if enjoyment was what she was experiencing for sure, but given the way we talked about our weight struggles almost every day, I couldn't imagine that she wasn't enjoying my discomfort a little, if just in that way that people are grateful they aren't dealt the same fate. The "better you than me" comment that is always delivered with a weird laugh makes it seem like they're ready to pull up a ringside seat for the ensuing spectacle. The script read: Nelle waits in her office for Cage. Cage enters. Nelle begins to remove her clothing. Cage is fl.u.s.tered. Nelle, in underwear, walks toward him. He runs out of the office and down the hall. At that moment, I would've done anything to run out of the makeup trailer, to my car, and out of this ugly studio with its square buildings and its one-way windows. I would go home and pack my suitcases and take my car to the airport, get on a plane, go back to Melbourne, Australia, and just start the whole d.a.m.n thing over. Start my whole d.a.m.n life over. I'd go to law school, a studious, serious girl who wasn't bopping around from photo shoots to lectures, having earned a place there after attending the local high school where I was the richest and smartest girl in the cla.s.s. I would never have modeled, and so I'd think I was attractive just as I was, and I'd live in this blissful ignorance with my mother and father, because maybe for some reason he'd still be alive, too, and he wouldn't need me to go out and prove I was pretty and special, because he'd know that I was pretty and special, and he'd tell me that anyone who thought I wasn't the prettiest and smartest girl they'd ever known was stupid. Or jealous. Or both.

"Wow. That's really exciting. That's great for my character." When attacked, defend by lying.

I sat in the makeup chair staring at my reflected image as it was transformed from a hopeful twenty-four-year-old to a beaten down, emotionally bankrupt forty-year-old; the thick foundation covered my pores, suffocating my skin, the heavy eye shadow creating a big, deep crease in my eyelids, the red lipstick drawing the eye to my thin, pursed lips. Until now, it had looked to me like the mask of a character. No matter how scared or insecure I was, there was always a glint in my eyes underneath the thick eyeliner that reminded me that this was just a character, that I was young and exciting and had a life away from this world where there were no trees and no one to talk to. But sitting in the makeup chair at that moment, watching the transformation, the lines were blurred. It seemed like less work to create the defensive, cold character. It seemed like we were just putting some makeup onto my face. We were just defining my eye, giving color to my pale lips, covering up my imperfections. The fat was back, too. The fat that I'd felt in the car, spilling over the waistband of my jeans, was visible through my sweater, and I knew that everyone in the trailer was looking at it, wondering how I was going to get it off in eight days. But no one was wondering more than me.

I joined a gym. It was close to the studio, so if I had a break during the day I could just hop in the car and onto a treadmill. That was part of how I got the weight off. The other part was just not eating, which is a highly underrated strategy as zero meals a day works just as well for weight loss as six small ones. The only problem was I was so hungry and weak I limped to the finish line, no longer caring how I was going to stand in my underwear, or which angle would most flatter my body. I stopped caring to the extent that after the rehearsal, my hunger wrestled with my common sense and like a diva I demanded that a PA go to a Starbucks and bring me back a bran m.u.f.fin. But if that kind of behavior is ever justified, it was at that moment when the script called for an extreme situation and I was just expected to comply. There was no question in David Kelley's mind as to whether I would do that scene. He demanded that I do it, and so I made my demands in retaliation. "Let's see the new blonde in her underwear!" Well then, I said, "Get me a m.u.f.fin!" Actually, demanded demanded is the wrong word. I asked. But it was so unusual for me to ask for anything, it replays in my mind as being a little harsher than it was. It was very common for actors to ask PAs to get them food or to mail a package or to put gas in their cars, but I always felt quite disgusted by it. I always felt that actors were just testing the limits of what someone would do for them just to see if they'd do it. I hate ent.i.tlement. But more than that, I hate that someone else in the same position as me feels ent.i.tled when I just feel lucky as h.e.l.l. is the wrong word. I asked. But it was so unusual for me to ask for anything, it replays in my mind as being a little harsher than it was. It was very common for actors to ask PAs to get them food or to mail a package or to put gas in their cars, but I always felt quite disgusted by it. I always felt that actors were just testing the limits of what someone would do for them just to see if they'd do it. I hate ent.i.tlement. But more than that, I hate that someone else in the same position as me feels ent.i.tled when I just feel lucky as h.e.l.l.