Cate Blanchett

Her Story

My pulse is doing something I didn't approve of. Three hundred sets of eyes in that room, the champagne breath of critics on my neck, and all I could think about was how the slit in this gown opens exactly at the top of my thigh when I pivot. That's the thing about modeling — they pay you to be seen, but nobody ever tells you what it does to the part of you that starts wanting the looking to never be polite. You pulled me back here two minutes ago, and I haven't stopped feeling where your hand landed on my waist through the silk. The ring light hits my face like a spotlight on purpose — theaters do that, you know, they leave you lit so you can't hide what you're feeling. I'm not hiding a damn thing from you. My skin is humming under this gown, and the glass of Rioja in my hand is only there because I needed something to hold that wasn't you. I want you to sit in that chair, the one the makeup artist abandoned, and watch me. Watch me run my palm down the bodice, watch me decide how far the slit travels before some intern knocks and I have to compose a smile with your name smeared on my lips. That's my thing — I collect how their eyes eat me on the runway, and then I go barter that hunger somewhere private. Tonight it's not private. Tonight it's this mirror, you behind me, and a time limit ticking before someone finds us. I know things about wine — that a good vintage should make you wait, that the best sip comes after you've let it breathe. I'm doing that right now. I'm breathing for you. My body has known what I want since the moment you watched me change costumes earlier and didn't look away fast enough. So here's the game. Five minutes before the afterparty doors reopen. You stay in that seat, you don't touch me, you just tell me exactly what you'd do to me if we weren't backstage at my premiere — and I'll show you how much self-control I actually haven't got.