The Walmart had expected five hundred people. Five thousand showed up. Walmart called the police and cancelled the event because there was too much of a chance for danger. Jessica Simpson: Menace to Society. Afterward, we called basically everybody we knew to tell them. The funny thing was that nobody believed us.
“Well, y’all didn’t get out and do it?” said my dad, thinking of the five thousand sales left on the table. “What the hell?”
“Dad, they would have had to call the National Guard.”
Three people were arrested that day for disorderly conduct, and another was charged with assault and battery. For the signing in Philadelphia the next day, they had a SWAT team on standby. Walmart went ahead and just canceled the Dallas signing out of fear that the hometown girl would draw an even bigger turnout than Boston. I did one more signing at a Tower Records in Los Angeles, wearing jeans in case I had to run. CaCee wanted me to wear sneakers, but I refused. The compromise was Louis Vuitton sandals with a lower heel. There was such a huge crowd that in order to accommodate everyone, I had to start signing just my initials.
“I love you,” strangers kept telling me.
“Aw, I love you, too,” I’d answer, meaning it. In one week, In This Skin jumped from number sixteen on the Billboard chart to number two. (Darn you, Norah Jones!) That morning, Dad read an industry article to me about the success of the album, making sure to emphasize the part where they credited the well-oiled campaign to roll it out.
“The sales went up two hundred percent,” he said.
“Do percents go that high?” I asked.
“They do now,” he said. I felt like I had won the lottery, because as much work as I put into things, I usually didn’t get that kind of return on the investment. There was always still more I needed to do, things I needed to change. “Okay, now, next time . . .” But this time, I let myself enjoy the moment.
Life was always ready to keep me humble, though. On March 14, I performed for President George Bush at Ford’s Theatre, and afterward my dad I went to the White House for a reception. The room was just stunning, and I kept looking around because I had no idea who anybody was. Someone brought a blondish-gray-haired woman up to me.
“Hi, I’m Gale Norton,” she said. “Welcome to the White House.”
“I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking her hand. I made a stab at small talk. “And what do you do?”
“I’m the secretary of the interior,” she said.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, waving my arm high to take in the room. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Everything is beautiful.”
My dad pinched my arm, and she just walked away. I was trying to be nice and give a compliment, but that’s her Jessica Simpson story. Now I know the secretary of the interior manages federal land and national parks. Believe me, I beat myself up so much over that one that I could ace a test on it. At least I’d made it to the White House again. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
I don’t think Nick could either. In countless interviews, people asked him in front of me if he was jealous. “Her success is my success,” he said again and again, so convincingly that even I almost believed him.
12
Success Has Made a Failure of Our Home
August 2004
As we left the club, the flashes of paparazzi cameras blinded us, and Nick reached back for my hand. The photographers walked backward in front of us, knocking each other over and yelling to get us to look right at them.
We were in L.A., a rare night that we were together. The valet had already brought the car, and Nick got in the driver’s seat. I pulled on the passenger-door handle, but it was locked. The paparazzi yelled to Nick to open the door, hoping I would smile at them for a shot. I didn’t. He finally unlocked the door, and I got in.
I put sunglasses on, even though it was after midnight. The paparazzi surrounded us to get a two-shot of us in the front seat, then about half scrambled to their cars to follow us. They would be right behind us to the gate of our neighborhood, just to make sure they didn’t miss us doing something. Anything. A kiss, a scowl—either way, the photo would sell and fit whatever story line a magazine chose that week.
I waited until we were driving to ask him how he knew the girl.
“Who?” he said.
“That brunette by the door,” I said. She worked at the club, one of many that let us right in to drink for free, knowing they’d get an item in the tabloids that advertised their place to customers who would pay more to get in if they knew celebrities would be there. Girls always smiled at Nick, right in front of me. Groupies will always be groupies, but there was something different about the way he had looked at her.
“You gave her that nod,” I said. “Like you knew her.”
“I nodded?” he said. “Jesus, Jess.”
Cue the cycle. I would accuse him of having a wandering eye, and he would rip into me, making sure I knew I was the one causing the problems in our marriage. Everything was my fault. In a real way, I agreed. There was something Nick wanted from me that I no longer had, an emptiness I couldn’t fill, and neither could he.
I would freeze in conflict, which I know now was something that started with my abuse. My anxiety kicks in, and I can’t get words out. I would have the words, but I would weigh and measure each one in my mind. But they stayed there. Because I went silent, each argument would quickly become one-sided. His defense was an offense, and his words cut me deep. We were not one of those couples that screamed at each other, let whatever fly out of our mouths, and then make mad, passionate love. No, we would yell at each other, and then he would go out of town and not answer his phone. Vegas or Miami with his boys. Or he would just stay out late to teach me a lesson. He had a group of guy friends who used him to get into places and enjoy VIP treatment at strip clubs and bars. He liked that scene, and I thought it was gross. There were times I tried to be sexy like that for him, and I even jumped out of a cake for his thirtieth birthday party in an outfit that I thought was burlesque but was really just sad. If I dress like those women, I thought, maybe you’ll look at me.
But he barely looked at me anymore, period, and I had Newlyweds to remind me how much had changed. They still ran our wedding in the opener, that moment when he sees his bride for the first time. He gasps, and all the ladies at home say, “I wish my man looked at me that way.” It reminded people that there had been real love between us. Trust me, if he had still looked at me like that, all my resentment would have melted away.
We were in a place where we loved each other fine, but we just didn’t like each other. I could feel him trying to like me, but everything I did seemed to annoy him. Divorce was not an option for me, if only out of an obligation to my vows. I’d made a promise in front of God and all our loved ones. I couldn’t imagine telling people I wanted a divorce. For generations, my family passed down a marriage guide that only had one tip: “Hang in there.” I was afraid of letting everyone down. We both were. So many couples had told us we were just like them. What would it mean for them if we couldn’t make it?
We got to the gate of our neighborhood, and the paparazzi relented. Nick was still muttering at me, but I was somewhere else, withdrawing again, which I knew he hated, but I couldn’t help it. He parked in the garage, and I closed the car door softly. I withheld even the satisfaction he’d feel if I slammed the door like a child. Instead, I was just a ghost returning to her haunted little mansion.