Jason Priestley (18 page)

“Great, fine, I'll give her a call,” I said. Then, Mr. Cool Guy that I was, I turned another corner or two and realized I was suddenly, hopelessly lost. I had no idea where Joe Allen's was located or where my fellow cast members might be. This was strange, especially since I have always had an excellent sense of direction in any city I found myself in. I wandered around in confusion for a while, made a few false turns, and then headed toward the biggest major intersection I could see, hoping it was Covent Garden. If I could get to Covent Garden, I could find the restaurant.

I turned another corner onto a random London street, and what do you know . . . there was Naomi, again. I nearly walked right into her. Looking back, we were clearly destined. At the time, I was just glad to see someone who could point me in the right direction. “Hey, Naomi!” I said. “How do I get to Covent Garden?”

“We're going that way. Come walk with us,” she said, so I joined the girls for the ten-minute walk to the restaurant. Three random encounters in one night? It was fate. And there you have it.

T
he British were much further ahead than Americans early in the new century in terms of texting; it was the latest craze there. It turned out that Naomi's company used an early version of the cell phones that texted messages—something new and different to me at that time. I spent the next couple of weeks busily settling legal matters and rehearsing for opening night, but Naomi and I communicated by phone several times a day. It was fun, and a good way to get to know her better, with no pressure. By the time I got around to actually inviting her to see the show, I felt that I already knew her.

Naomi came backstage after the performance and we went out to dinner afterward. The restaurant was amazing and we drank a fantastic bottle of wine. We completely closed the bar down at four
A.M.
because we had so much to talk about. It was the best date of my life . . . only ending the next morning because Naomi had to scramble to get to her job! I was crazy about this girl. I planned something special for our second date: a whirlwind trip to Paris for the weekend. She was that special, and I wanted her to know I knew it.

From that point on, we were inseparable. Naomi would come to meet me after every show and we'd go out. In a happy coincidence, my old friend Stephanie Beacham was appearing in
A Fine Day
at the theater next door to ours. There was something special about the way my career had circled back to being so near to her again. I was an adult this time. Stephanie was as beautiful as ever, with a young and gorgeous boyfriend not yet out of his twenties. The four of us spent many evenings together over long dinners and she would watch enviously as Naomi and I drank whiskey. “I remember when I could drink whiskey,” she'd say, sighing. “Now I get too hungover.”

Sometimes Naomi and I would just go to my place and cook and listen to music, stay up late and talk . . . whatever we did together, I was happy.

Although our romance was going great, Naomi's job was not. I was keeping her up far too late every night. After a certain point, she became so sleep deprived that she started falling asleep on the job. I was on a theater schedule while Naomi had a regular office job, and those hours did not mesh. Naomi created a small sleeping area under her desk that she used to crawl into and nap for brief periods of time each day. She reasoned that she was only taking the same amount of the time the smokers in the office did for breaks. Her supervisor did not see it that way, and she was given an official warning, but it didn't slow either of us down.

On Sundays we had picnics, played Frisbee in Hyde Park, or watched the old noir movies that I loved . . . it was a perfect romance. I was in no hurry to leave London. Conveniently, the play kept going and going.
Side Man
had originally been a three-month engagement, but it turned into six months. Eventually, it was time to go and it was horrible to say good-bye to Naomi, but I knew it wouldn't be for long.

Naomi had a long-planned holiday with a group of her college friends coming up in the summer on the island of Ibiza. When she told me of her plans, I said, “Great, I've always wanted to go to Ibiza—I'll meet you there!” Naomi was quite taken aback by the very forward Americanness of this—no proper British boyfriend would ever presume to join someone's vacation—even if it was his own girlfriend. I was definitely shaking this girl's life up!

I finished the play and returned to New York, diving back into the nightlife for a month. My sister flew in from L.A. and met me, and the two of us were off to Ibiza so that we could meet and spend a week together, just the two of us. Then Naomi would arrive, and the three of us would have a week together. The following week, all of Naomi's friends would arrive, and we would all hang out together. That was the plan.

There is no way to describe what a magical place Ibiza is, and what a crazy vacation it was. Lying just off the coast of Spain in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, the tiny island has a very well deserved international reputation for nightlife. In the twenty-one days I spent there, I probably saw twenty sunrises. We would all go dancing at one of the huge clubs where the roof rolled back at dawn and hundreds of revelers from every corner of the globe would all burst into cheers and applause at the sight of another day in paradise.

There was amazing food, ridiculous amounts of alcohol, numerous illegal substances, naps, swimming, sand, sun, friends, naked cliff diving . . . you name it, we did it. It was the wildest, most uninhibited vacation of my life and one that could never happen today. Thank God there was no YouTube or camera phones back then! Suffice it to say, we all let loose on the ultimate vacation. And the best part about it was that Naomi and I fell more in love by the day.

I
didn't see any reason to slow the party down, so I decided, on a whim, to attend the MTV Music Video Awards in Stockholm that fall. As I was checking into my hotel, someone tackled me from behind and I wound up sprawled flat on the floor in front of the check-in desk. I leaped up, fists in the air, ready for a fight. Larry Mullen, the drummer from U2, was standing there laughing at me. This was his welcome. “Jason! Can't believe you're here! We're in the bar, man; come along now, join us!” he said, in his thick Irish accent.

I literally just tossed my bag toward the front desk and accompanied Larry into the bar, where the party was well under way. Larry, Bono, the Edge, and I had a few drinks, then we all headed out into Stockholm. Now Bono is a guy about my size, about five foot eight or nine, average height. In Stockholm, every single person over the age of twelve, male or female, is blond, beautiful, and six feet plus.

Bono and I stood in the corner of the most happening nightclub in the city and with beers in hand took in the scene and all the unbelievably gorgeous girls. After a few minutes, he turned to me and said, “Jason, I've never felt so short and unattractive in me life.” Eventually, we returned to the hotel bar. Robbie Williams was there with his manager, and the two were engaged in a very heated argument. Suddenly, Robbie turned and just decked his manager, who fell unconscious in a heap on the floor. It was complete mayhem. But what did I expect, hanging out with U2?

The next year I found myself in Indianapolis doing color commentary for the Indy 500. U2 was coming to town for a concert, which happened to fall on Bono's birthday. Of course it had been sold out forever. I called their manager and said, “Paul, hey I'm here in town. Any way I can get a ticket to the show?”

“Sure, no problem about the ticket, Jason, but I just don't know what's happening after the show. I think the guys are planning to finish the gig, race to the airport, and take off for New York City immediately.”

“Oh, no, of course, I really would just love to see the show.” When I got to the stadium, I didn't have a seat. I sat at the mixing board instead with the sound guy, where the view and the sound were absolutely incredible, and watched the opening act, British singer PJ Harvey. I was already a big fan of her work, so I was excited to see her perform. Then U2 came on and blew the place away. I was immediately and completely lost in their music.

Except somebody kept jostling me. I tried to ignore it but finally turned around, and there was PJ Harvey herself with a bottle of champagne in her hand. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, telling her what a big fan I was of her music. Next thing I knew I was having a glass of champagne with PJ, watching the U2 concert from the mixing board. It was great to be me that night.

B
ecause of my DUI case, I still had no driver's license, so when I got an invitation to Jennie Garth's wedding, I flew to L.A. and had to take a limo to the ceremony in Santa Barbara. This was the first time I'd seen everybody since I'd left the show, so it was a minireunion of sorts for me.

Jennie was finally making it official with her longtime boyfriend, the actor Peter Facinelli. He'd been around forever. She and Peter got married at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in a Catholic ceremony. Their adorable toddler daughter, Luca Bella, was the flower girl; Tori and Tiffani served as bridesmaids, and I had a fine time catching up with everyone at the reception. I spent most of my time hanging out with Ian, whose company I always enjoyed, and his first wife, Nikki, along with Tiff and her boyfriend, Brady. All my old cast mates were settling down, starting families, and getting on with life after the show.

The lavish reception was held at the Bacara Resort, one of the most gorgeous locations on the Santa Barbara coast and after an evening of partying, everyone stayed overnight. The next morning I got into a town car to take care of one more piece of business. I knew I sure as hell wasn't headed anywhere resembling the Bacara. I was off to Los Angeles to serve my DUI time at a minimum-security federal facility.

For my DUI offense, I was sentenced to spend five nights in a halfway house. The home was located in Echo Park, an east L.A. neighborhood bisected by Sunset Boulevard that has, in recent years, become trendy and revitalized but at the time was still quite rough. This was not a prison as it was located on residential property, but even so, I won't lie; it was scary walking through that door. I had never been in trouble with the law before, and now I was heading into a place where all my freedom would be taken away. Not to mention all my stuff! Wallet, ID, keys, phone—everything had to be handed over. I certainly hadn't realized how attached I was to my personal possessions until everything was taken away and tagged, bagged, and stored. At least I got to wear my own clothes.

The staffer who had checked me in and taken all my property led me out of the intake building into a yard. Not a prison yard, just a shabby suburban backyard covered in dead brown grass and cracked concrete patios. We walked to one of several nondescript bungalows and went inside. The place was split into two small bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. I threw the bag of toiletries they had provided down on what the counselor told me was my bunk and headed back outside.

All my fellow “inmates” were sitting around a large beat-up picnic table playing some sort of game that involved a great deal of gesturing, screaming, and dramatic tearing up and throwing of cards. All the talk was in Russian. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but knew I had to break the ice sometime. I approached the table warily as the group of hard-faced men stopped their game and watched me in silence. Suddenly, the biggest guy at the table—who was straight out of central casting as a mob boss—jumped up and strode toward me. I braced myself. Then: “Brrran-don!” he said, with a thick Russian accent, and picked me up off the ground in a bear hug.

I think I'm going to be okay in here,
I thought with relief.

I plunked myself down in the middle of the group and watched the action. My fellow players were all Russian, serving time for what I would call various “white collar” offenses. There was definitely a large Russian mob presence in Los Angeles, but these apparently weren't the real hard cases. These guys had been convicted of various types of schemes: they were tax dodgers or had committed medical insurance fraud or some other type of corporate malfeasance. My roommate was in for some kind of former “prescription drug” something or other—I didn't understand and didn't particularly care to know the details.

I tried to play their crazy card game for the next five days, but never quite grasped the complicated rules. I also entertained the group with stories of life on
90210
. The middle-aged Russians were riveted! I must admit, they were all pretty cool guys, and I didn't have so much a scary time as a strange, slightly surreal, and, let's face it, boring one. Look, clearly the place wasn't Oz, but it wasn't fun. I never, ever wanted to go back.

My time was served, the deal was done, and my driver's license was restored. I had taken my eyes off the prize and deserved every bit of my punishment. Not to get all kumbaya about it, but the results were clear when I had no structure, no plans, and no goals. This is what resulted—nothing good. I vowed it would not happen again.

S
hannen Doherty was lucky enough to have lightning strike twice in her career—both times with Aaron Spelling. After finalizing all my legal matters, I set up a few meetings. One day, I headed to a studio deep in the Valley to see a producer. As I walked into the studio, I saw they were shooting
Charmed,
so I wandered over and saw my old friend Betty Reardon, a producer from
90210,
who now worked there.

“Betty, wow, what's been going on?” We caught up and she said, “Hey, Shannen's here today, you've got to go see her!”