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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.