Party Girl: A Novel (11 page)

I gently lead Linda back to happier subjects, like the moment she got signed by her record label, when she first heard “Sinner” on the radio, and how it feels to be getting the acclaim she so clearly deserves. She cheers up and regales me with anecdotes and thoughts that I completely relate to—like her take on authority (that she doesn’t have the instinct that other people do to respect the people in charge, and it’s always getting her in trouble), feelings about her sexuality (just because she embraces it doesn’t mean she’s not a feminist) and San Francisco (“overrated”). I feel like most of what she says could have come directly from my mouth.
Jesus, I’m developing a platonic crush on this woman
, I think as she tells me that she so likes the taste of salty and sweet together that when she’s feeling particularly indulgent, she’ll throw Milk Duds into her buttered popcorn at the movies—something I’ve been doing since about the age of ten.

“Me, too!” I shriek for about the thirty-ninth time during the interview.

“Amazing,” Linda smiles. “We’re very connected.”

She actually cares about what I have to say
, I think,
unlike other people I’ve interviewed who pretend like they do but are just planning when they can stick a tongue in my mouth.

And I’m so enamored with everything she’s telling me that I let some other things slide, like the fact that she’s closed off most of the rooms in the house and won’t say whether or not she’s married. I figure I’m getting such amazingly descriptive answers from her on all kinds of other topics that it will more than make up for some of the other odds and ends the story may lack.

I save the whole age question until the very end, starting it off the way I always do when I suspect it might be a sensitive topic.

“So
Absolutely Fabulous
is completely obsessed with putting people’s ages in every piece,” I say.

Linda’s lids fly open and she looks at me with wild eyes. “I never say my age,” she says.

“Oh, so Tina didn’t say anything to you about this?” I ask, even though I know the answer. Damn publicists. Linda shakes her head.

“Well, I told her on the phone that this was pretty important.”

Linda seems really cold suddenly, not at all the evolved and loving being she’d been a few moments earlier. “I never say my age,” she says again. “Just tell your editor I wouldn’t tell you.”

I take a deep breath. “That’s the thing about
Absolutely Fabulous,”
I say. “They don’t accept answers like that. We’re not
allowed
to let people not answer questions.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she snaps, and then, realizing how harsh that must have sounded, she smiles. “Fine. Just tell them I’m thirty-something.”

“If I don’t get an exact number, they’ll just look it up from DMV records.” I say this in a really low voice that some might label a whisper. But the woman has the aural capabilities of a trained dog.

“DMV records?!” she shrieks. “Is that even legal?”

Smiling at her, I think how much I hope that this ridiculous age issue isn’t going to cause a permanent fissure in what I’d imagined would be our lifelong friendship. “Look, I’m on your side about it,” I say. “I think it’s ridiculous. But
Absolutely Fabulous
has all these policies that people just end up adhering to.” I smile again. “You look amazing,” I say, but not in a way that might make her think I’m coming on to her. “And really, age is just a number.”

Glancing down at the ground, I think about how much this situation calls for a cigarette. When I look up again, I see that Linda has tears in her eyes again. This time, I’m a lot less thrilled.

“You can’t let this happen, Amelia,” she says, suddenly reaching over and grabbing my hand. “I can’t have people knowing my age. I’d rather have the piece not run than have it say my age.”

While I’m interviewing Linda, Brian leaves me a message informing me that my Kane piece has been moved up in the rotation schedule, and that I need to be able to turn it in in the next twenty-four hours. His voice is distant, which definitely doesn’t help cushion the news that I’m going to have to stay up all night if I’m going to be able to make this happen.

Luckily, Alex is as available and ready as usual. And, also as usual, he’s a stickler about his two-gram policy. If I’m alone, I usually only want to do one gram—and yet, if I have two, I will do two. Surely Alex has all this figured out. But since, for a drug dealer, he’s extremely reliable, I always buy the two grams and then try to hide the second one from myself so that I don’t do them both in the same night. But I can never think of a hiding place that’s good enough for me to be able to forget about it, which is probably because my apartment is about the size of a postage stamp.

Alex makes his delivery, and I give him the crisp bills still warm from the ATM, slide the folded-up Lotto tickets into my pocket, go upstairs, and lay the coke out on a Jay Z CD. I don’t have the butter-flies and sense of anticipation I usually have before doing coke because the night doesn’t hold the intrigue and promise of a typical night out. It’s just, I decide, a necessary work enhancer. Sure, I could just drink coffee, but the problem with coffee is that it doesn’t keep me interested in what I’m doing. Somewhere into transcribing the second hour of the Kane tape, I’d probably find myself too bored to keep going. But coke has a way of making whatever I’m doing seem infinitely more interesting than it actually is.
I’m doing this to save my career
, I say to myself as I roll up a dollar bill—I’d tossed out all my straws in a moment of remorseful horror at the state of my life during the depression that hit after the Steve Rosenberg party night—and do my first few lines.

I type so much that my neck starts to ache from sitting at my computer for so long and I know that I should take a break and at least stretch a little bit, but I get into this compulsive cycle where I’m playing the tape and typing, taking breaks only to snort more lines and light the occasional cigarette. And then, just when I’m nearing the end of the second side of the tape, I realize I’m a little
too
wired. My heart is racing like I’ve just finished a one-mile sprint and my mind feels jumbled and a bit unsafe.

Knowing that the coke could capture and hold onto this mood, the way it did when I had to ditch out of the NBC event before dinner, I take a deep breath. I’m not willing to surrender to the too-wired-feel-a-little-nervous-wonder-if-I’m-going-to-have-a-heart-attack state, which can basically only be handled with a handful of Ambien and several shots of vodka to move the unwinding process along before the Ambien starts to take effect, and sleep.
I can’t let this happen
, I pep talk myself
. I have a story to write, and it’s going to be the best fucking story
Absolutely Fabulous
will ever see.

I get up to chug some Absolut, and at the last minute decide to chase it with a Diet Coke. All goes down smoothly, but for a tiny gag at the end. I burp, loud. I feel better, calmer—like I just sneezed or had an orgasm.

Which makes me remember that the best way to come down just a little is to masturbate. I mean, I hate to be overly graphic or make anyone uncomfortable here but if
your
heart was racing and you were feeling like you were maybe teetering on the edge of a mountain and could fall off, wouldn’t you think about masturbating?

I retreat to the bedroom and plug in my Magic Wand. The thing is mammoth and manages to penetrate my potentially coke-dulled nether region, making me come in under a minute. And the vodka-and-Wand combination actually works—I feel immediately better. I charge back to the living room, leaving the still-plugged-in Wand on my bed because I know I might need it again later.

The birds have already been through their incessant chirping routine and my next-door neighbor has long since left for work when I’m putting the finishing touches on my Kane piece. It has parts I’ll need to fill in later—like the tertiary comments from his friends—but I’ve done everything I can for the time being. This tiny part of my brain is in complete hysteria about having to call Kane and act like a professional journalist—that is, someone he didn’t kiss the other night—but I’m so wired that this anxiety manages to sort of stay on the periphery of my thoughts.

See, the thing about a coke all-nighter is that you partially feel amazing, like you could conquer the world, while on the other hand you know that what’s going on is incredibly fucked up and you should just acknowledge what you’re doing and start sleeping it off. Since duty calls, however, I make an effort to stay with the first feeling.

A couple of lines get me through the car ride, and once I’m at work I know that I have to call Kane sooner rather than later and also know I need some powder encouragement to do it. Waiting until I’m sure that no one is about to go into or out of the bathroom, I storm in there, enter a stall, sit on the toilet, and lock the door. Not sure if I want a bump or an actual line, I sit there for about half a second but then panic and decide that it’s less risky to do a few lines because that means I won’t have to duck into the bathroom as often. I tap some coke out of my vial onto my left hand, pull out an already-rolled bill and snort it down. That goes well, so I do another.

When I leave the bathroom and make my way back to my cubicle, I see Brian approaching. Even though I know there’s no way any white powder could be lodged under my nose, I can’t help but panic and imagine that some has appeared in the three seconds since I left the bathroom.

“Problem, Amelia,” he says.
I’m so fucking busted
, I think. “Kane told you he was single, right?”

I nod. He’d offered this fact up literally seventeen times.

Brian tosses a photo on my desk—a picture of Kane making out with a skinny blonde. “This was taken at the American Music Awards last week,” he says. Pointing to the blonde, he asks, “Who is she?”

“I don’t know, Brian. He told me he wasn’t dating anyone. And just because they’re kissing doesn’t mean they’re, you know, dating.” All-too-familiar shame courses through my veins. Kane is obviously a complete player. How could I have thought for a second that he was interested in anything more than just sleeping with me?

“Look, if the camera got it, we have to address it,” he says. “You told me how well you got along with him. Just call him up and ask him.”

I nod. “Sure. No problem,” I say as Brian walks away. Before I lose my courage, I start dialing Kane’s cell number. Relief floods me as I realize that I’m getting his voicemail, and I struggle to make my voice sound singsongy and light. “Hey, Kane. It’s Amelia from
Absolutely Fabulous
here. I just wanted to say thanks so much for the other night. Oh, and I have a few follow-up questions for you. Also, if you could get me the numbers of those people I can interview about you, that would be great.” I hang up the receiver, hating the fact that I’m now covered in a cold, clammy sweat. But the message was perfectly appropriate, I decide. If the blonde from the picture hears it, she’d never suspect that his lips had touched mine.

Of course he’ll call me back
, I say to myself.
How could he not?

The afternoon isn’t a soothing one. A few more trips to the bathroom have made me so jumpy that every time my phone rings, I quite literally spring about five feet into the air before picking up the phone and trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. Of course, today it’s only the second-and third-rate publicists who have called—benign, sycophantic ones offering me opportunities to write about products and people the magazine wouldn’t even consider.

Sometime after lunch, I start to accept the fact that Kane may not call back, so I dial his manager. To my surprise, Janet is nice. When I explain that I have some follow-up questions and also need to interview a few of Kane’s well-known friends about him, she tells me she’ll get right back to me. I debate running to the bathroom for a quick bump but decide against it, and less than a minute later, she calls back. But she doesn’t sound quite as agreeable now.

“Look, I just got off the phone with Kane and he told me to tell you he’s done answering questions for you,” she says.

“I’m sorry?” I say and even though I am, I’m using it here to act like I’m surprised by what she’s saying, even though I’m not.

“He also told me you came to his house?” This is more an accusation than a question, and I want to reach through the phone wires and slap the bitch. You’d think I bought a star map and showed up there like a stalker from her tone.

“I did go there,” I say. “But—”

“Please don’t go to his house or call him anymore,” she says. “We don’t want you interviewing anyone about him. And, as for the woman in the picture, she’s just a friend.”

Janet hangs up before I even have a chance to respond and I sit there for a moment—stunned and yet determined not to give this British cheeseball singer who makes elevator music any of my tears.

An hour and a few more bathroom trips later, I decide that I can’t handle a face-to-face interaction with Brian so I e-mail him and explain that I can’t get the Kane questions answered or terts. No excuses, no explanation. And then I just sit there. Despite all the PR about coke making you energetic as hell, sometimes it can be completely immobilizing. As I continue to stare at my computer screen, Brian e-mails back.

So we’ll kill the piece
, the e-mail reads. Not
I know you tried
or
How could you let this happen?
Although it seems like Brian has given up on me, I feel inordinately grateful, like I just talked my way out of a speeding ticket I clearly deserved, and all the more determined to win my way back into Brian’s good graces by saving my Linda Lewis story. I haven’t even been given a deadline for the piece yet, but if I finish it as quickly as possible and then turn it in early, he’ll have to be impressed.

First, of course, I have to deal with this ridiculous age issue. Glancing at the original assignment sheet, I see that Bruce Young, a New York senior editor, is going to be editing the piece so I decide to call him directly. Brian and Robert always tell us not to bother the New York staff with inane questions, but since my question isn’t inane and I haven’t called a New York editor in the year and a half that I’ve worked here—I’ve only talked to them when they’ve called me to go over my articles—I tell myself that this time it’s okay as I dial Bruce’s number.