The movie studio made up a backstory for me. It started with what everyone once thought I should hide: my scar. Tell everyone it was from a riding accident. You were in a forest when a hailstorm hit. Your horse bolted and a tree branch whipped your face. A tiny sliver of ice penetrated your skin and turned your heart cold. You’re still looking for the right man to melt it.

In my first film, I played a creature of the night who swam in city rivers and pulled men to their deaths. My blonde hair waved in the waters. I had sharp nails and a whiplike tail. Instead of being hidden by makeup and soft lighting, my scar was highlighted for the camera. I could hide behind being a monster: I never had to speak.

There was a scene where I stood, tail concealed by a gown, at an elegant New York party. A goldfish swam around in panic before I plucked it from its bowl. College boys swallowed such things on a lark back then, but my merwoman did it out of true hunger. Then she tore out a man's throat.