Party Girl: A Novel (26 page)

24

When I walk in the door after a pre-Emmys party, the phone is ringing but I decide to hang a metaphorical “Do Not Disturb” sign and not answer. I feel the need to chain-smoke while unpacking the three shopping bags I’ve filled with thongs, conditioner, skirts I won’t ever wear, and cleansers that promise to deliver “face lift–like results.”

The fact that I’ve just been to a freebie Emmys event and have nothing to do with the Emmys—in fact, I couldn’t even begin to guess who’s been nominated—hardly seems relevant. I was invited by a publicist who sounded so thrilled I’d accepted her invitation that it was immediately obvious she thought getting me there would somehow generate coverage in
Chat. Oh, well
, I’d decided. I’d heard about these award show events where all the nominees and presenters are invited to some mansion to get all this free shit in exchange for allowing photographers to catch them clutching the newly acquired products, and figured there wouldn’t be any harm in attending.

Inhaling deeply on my cigarette, it occurs to me that I may have been wrong. From the minute I’d been allowed into this English Tudor mansion that was rumored to rent for $20,000 a day and walked from booth to booth, I’d felt this childish greed well up in me. My eyes darted around in a feverish panic—I wanted to be at the Keds shoe booth and the MAC makeup table and the Toys “R” Us mini castle all at the same time, even though I don’t like Keds, rarely wear makeup, and certainly don’t need any toys. Every person stopping me from getting everything all at once—which is to say, every person there—seemed an irritant. Yet no one booth seemed to whet my appetite.
The best stuff is over to the right
, I’d think. Or,
ohhh, Nailtiques nail polish—now that’s what I should be getting.
I felt like a contestant on a game show I used to watch when I was little, where the winners could take home everything they could pile into a shopping cart in the allotted time. It used to bring up simultaneous feelings of panic and excitement that I could barely stand. But actually being one of the participants inspired a far more powerful emotion: greed.

And I didn’t much like the sycophantic aspect of my personality the event seemed to bring out.
I absolutely adore sarongs
, I’d found myself saying to this woman giving out inexplicably tacky tie-dyed sarongs. Or
I’ve been looking for sunglasses just like this
I said to the guy giving out Ray-Bans I’d never wear. Most everyone was almost painfully nice—way too nice, considering the fact that I was taking things they typically sell and not giving them anything in return—and it seemed impossible to believe in that environment that something like poverty or a famine in Africa or even George Bush existed. Conversations seemed to revolve around plastic surgery and Emmy after-parties and the new line of Juicy now at Lisa Kline. And where were the Emmy nominees, anyway? The crowd seemed to be comprised of tabloid reporters, publicists picking things out “for their clients,” and other seemingly soulless moochers. And I couldn’t deny the fact that I was one of them.

Now that I’m home and have all the contents out of their bags and divided into small piles, I have this strong desire to give everything away. Not to the homeless or anything crazy, just to friends.
I don’t deserve all this stuff
, I say to myself as I mash a cigarette out,
but I don’t know why.

Then I start resenting the event for making me depressed. I’d been feeling so good since getting sober—like I’d exited my life and wandered into someone else’s—that I guess I’d begun to assume that malaise was simply a feeling from my old life that I no longer had to be bothered with. But in my heart, I know it’s not the event that has me down; it’s the fact that it’s been over a month since Adam and I talked in New York and he still hasn’t called.

My phone rings and, as soon as I check caller ID and determine that it’s not Adam, I return to the couch and my pack of cigarettes.
I shouldn’t be isolating
, I think as I eventually pick up my phone to listen to the messages. They’d warned us about isolating in rehab, telling us that if we felt like being alone, we should do “contrary action” and get out. But I really just don’t feel like it.

There’s a message from Tim saying that he loves the new column, a couple of hang-ups, Stephanie asking if I want to go to a screening with her, and Rachel wanting to know why I hadn’t checked in with her for a few days.
How the hell can he claim to be thinking about me obsessively and then not call?
I wonder.

I turn on my computer to start going through e-mails I still have to respond to and somehow land on the one Charlotte (aka Tube Top) sent with all her writing attached. I open up the first document, thinking that reading her attempts to sound like a writer should make me feel better about myself.

And then something altogether shocking happens: I’m thoroughly transfixed. Her first attachment is an essay she wrote about meeting a nude photographer, asking him to take pictures of her and then almost backing out of the portraits until he gives her painkillers that subdue her enough to help her lose her self-consciousness. The piece so perfectly captures the conflict I’ve felt about being proud of my body while simultaneously ashamed of that pride. It’s funny and honest and so unlike anything I’d ever imagine an eighteen-year-old—let alone an eighteen-year-old that looks like her—writing that I’m in complete shock.
Screw her,
I think, wishing I hadn’t read her e-mail in the first place.

My phone rings and it makes me half jump out of my skin. It’s a private number but I will myself to do “contrary action” and answer.

“Hel-lo.” I sound a bit singsongy and, I notice, almost shockingly normal.

“Party Girl?” I immediately recognize the voice but pretend I don’t.

“Yes?”

“Jeremy Barrenbaum. What are you doing there? Why aren’t we out tearing the town up?”

I feel immediately self-conscious about having been caught at home with no plans on a Thursday evening. “Oh, I’m on my way out,” I say, glancing at the clock: 7:30
P.M.
Sounds reasonable.

“Cool, where to? Maybe I’ll join you.”

Momentary panic, and then: “Just to a friend’s. Private party, sorry.”

“That’s cool,” he says. “How about tomorrow? Nobu in Malibu?”

I’ve never liked fish so I certainly don’t eat raw fish, which has long made me a complete anomaly in Los Angeles. But, most of all, I don’t like the idea of being out with Jeremy Barrenbaum and having to continue to perpetuate this notion that I’m wild when I’m not. What am I going to do, have the waitress crack open a bottle of Martinelli’s apple cider and pretend it’s champagne?

I take a breath. “You know, Jeremy, I should have told you something the other night.”

“Oh, I read that
Page Six
thing about how you’re not into guys. I don’t buy it for a second.”

I stifle the urge to hang up on him. “Oh, I’m straight. But I am actually seeing someone. A guy.”

A slight pause and then: “Look, I don’t care. I’m seeing someone, too.”

Oh my God, no wonder he has so many movie credits
, I think.
What a pushy bastard.
“Yeah, well, I only want to be with the person I’m seeing,” I say. I picture Adam and for a second believe he and I really are dating.

“Oh, okay.” He doesn’t sound put out in the slightest. “Want to take my number? Things may not work out with this guy.”

“Sure,” I say, knowing I’m being spineless. He recites a few numbers—home, office, cell, and a place in Palm Springs—and I pretend to be writing them down while I lie on my back not moving. Then I say, “I’ll talk to you soon.” I immediately know I shouldn’t have said that because I don’t want to but it just automatically comes out of my mouth when I’m trying to get off the phone. He says good-bye and I sit there holding the phone for only what seems like a second when it rings again. A 212 number on caller ID. I figure it might be a
Chat
editor trying to close my column so I answer.

“Hello.” I’m not as singsongy but my voice still sounds misleadingly cheery.

“Sweetie, it’s Nadine. What on earth are you doing home?”

Oh, God. Nadine seems to be under the mistaken impression that I spend every waking minute going to A-list parties, and to be fair to her, I haven’t done anything to correct that impression. “Just stopping home for a minute,” I manage. “I had to change my purse.”

“Oh, of course.” I’d known that excuse would work; people like Nadine changed their purses a lot, while I tend to carry the same one for months or years at a time. “Where are you off to?”

“Just a friend’s private party.” By now, I was definitely beginning to believe myself. “A movie producer.” I plan to give her Jeremy Barrenbaum’s name if she presses further.

“Oh, fabulous! And I’m calling with even more fabulous news! Ryan Duran’s people called. Apparently, he read your column and wants to go out with you.”

Now I’ve heard of this kind of thing happening. Supposedly, Tom Cruise saw Nicole Kidman’s first movie,
Dead Calm
, then called her agent and set up a date. But it still shocks me to hear that it’s possible to look at life like it’s a Pottery Barn catalog or Pink Dot menu, and order people—even if you happened to be world-famous and adorable.

Ryan Duran, a well-respected movie star who had first become well known as a teenager in the ’80s and somehow managed to avoid the inevitable backlash that should have followed his initial success, has a fairly well publicized reputation as both a troubled soul and a ladies’ man—which means, of course, that I’ve had a crush on him for as long as I can remember. I’d actually just read a piece on him in
Premiere
where he’d talked about how all he wanted to do was run with his dog on the beach near Zuma, and I’d fantasized about being the one waiting at the Malibu house for him to come home to after said run. All I can manage to say is, “What?”

“‘He thinks she’s hot,’ his manager said. ‘Can he call her?’ I told him I thought so, but I’d have to check with you.”

I feel a bizarre internal tug-of-war—I don’t really care but this latent adolescent part of me is beyond thrilled. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Say yes! It could be fabulous publicity for the column!”

I’m slightly surprised by Nadine’s response, even though I probably shouldn’t be. What did I think, she was suddenly going to transform into a spiritual giant and talk to me about something besides publicity?

“In that case,” I say, fantasizing that news of my date with Ryan will get out and Adam will be fantastically jealous, “pass my number along.”

“Hooray! I’m so glad you said that—because, actually, I already did.”

“Nadine!”

“He actually should be calling any minute.”

“But you called to ask if it was okay with me.”

“I pretty much assumed you were going to say yes. I mean, who says no to Ryan Duran?”

Just then, my call waiting bleeps in. Private number. “Oh, Nadine. That’s my other line.”

“It’s probably him!”

I can’t imagine Ryan Duran making the effort to do something like call a person when surely everything is always delivered to him before he can even realize he wants it. I’m about to tell Nadine not to worry, that I’ll just call whoever it is back, but she shrieks, “You’re answering it!” and hangs up the phone.

I click down and clear my throat. “Hello?”

“Amelia?” I immediately know it’s him. His voice seems more familiar to me than my mother’s, or even the AOL Moviefone guy’s. Of course, I’m not remotely willing to let this on. “Yes?”

“It’s Duran. How are you?” I’m simultaneously repelled and charmed by his last-name-only introduction—turned off by the potential cheesiness of someone doing that to a person they’ve never met while also touched by the bizarre sense of intimacy our interaction already has.

“I’m well. And you?”

“It’s all good. Except for one thing. I’m sitting here on my deck, having watched an insanely beautiful sunset. And I’m wondering why I’m doing it alone.”

Was this really how he introduced himself to people? Was he not even going to bother with the whole
Hey, I know this is a bit out of left field but I was reading your column and I thought, why not ask my manager to try to get in touch with her?
If you were a household name, were you simply allowed to skip over the small talk the rest of us believe is absolutely imperative?

All I say is, “Is that so?”

“Mmmm hmmm,” he says, and I can picture him on the other side of the phone, sitting on an expansive deck talking on a cordless phone, wearing the close-lipped smile I’ve witnessed in at least half a dozen of his movies. “What are you doing?”

“On my way to a friend’s house for a party.” I’ve said it so much that at this point, it may as well be true.

“What do you say you blow that off, drive over to the beach, and hang out with me? I’ve got my kid tonight.”

Ah yes, I’d forgotten. Ryan had been briefly married to a Spanish aspiring actress/singer in the mid-’90s and he sometimes talked about his kid in interviews. Even though all I’d wanted for the night was to go into a TIVO coma and everyone knows that you don’t go over to a guy’s house the first time he calls, I feel hopeful that hanging out with Ryan could potentially take my mind off Adam.

“I can be there in half an hour” is all I say.

“Come on in,” Ryan says as he opens the door to reveal a minimalist, cavernous white loft. Looking every bit the way he does in movies, he gives my lips a quick peck and gestures for me to follow him into his kitchen. “Can I get you a drink?” He picks up a glass, shakes it so that the ice cubes in it rattle, and then takes a generous sip.

“Water?” I ask, feeling nervous and hating myself for it.

“Pellegrino okay?” He says this as he opens the fridge.

“That’s great.” Ryan produces a small bottle of Pellegrino, pulling the corkscrew top off by wedging it under a wooden table and pushing the bottom of the bottle down. It’s such a casually masculine move that I find myself unnervingly turned on by it. He hands me the bottle and I take a sip.