Party Girl: A Novel (6 page)

If I were to do that, it would mean I had a problem
, I think, and remind myself that I’m acting like an amateur and I’m perfectly capable of doing a little coke and then going to an event. “I wouldn’t be so paranoid if I didn’t have these thoughts,” I say out loud, but then realize it’s the other way around.

My paranoia has developed legs and possibly arms too by the time I valet my car. I try to shrug it off as I approach the bar with faith that a screwdriver will bring me back to “happy buzz” mode. The drink goes down smoothly and I realize that this had been my problem—I’d just been missing my lubricant. I decide to do a lap to look for anyone I know.

I pass Tori Spelling (regaling a group of men with some story about her dog) and Bill Maher (ogling an Asian woman’s breasts, to her seeming delight) and the stylist Philip Bloch (talking about how he picked Halle Berry’s dress the year she won her Oscar) during my circle of the room before finally coming upon a face that’s familiar because we actually know each other: Brett Lawson from Sprint, who gives free phones to celebrities and other allegedly influential people but never to me. It’s not so much that I want one—I actually have a BlackBerry that I’m more than happy with—but I always want to be deemed important enough by him to receive the offer. He’s sometimes extremely nice to me and sometimes a bit cavalier, depending on if he’s talking to someone less or more important than me at the time, so interactions with him always feel a bit like a worthiness test.

“Brett!” I say and he gives me the cheek kiss and then goes in for the other side. The two-cheek kiss seems to be sweeping L.A. lately.

“Amelia, do you know Trent?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of a tan, gelled guy that I can tell is gay and also a publicist before he even opens his mouth. Trent and I shake hands as Brett explains that Trent works at Sony, after having been Pat Kingsley’s assistant for six years.

I start to ask Trent about upcoming Sony releases, but when I see that Trent and Brett seem to be far more interested in each other than they are in talking shop with me, I realize I’ve tripped into The Void, and there won’t be any finding my way back tonight.

The Void is what can happen when you’re on a little too much coke and a silent, paranoid, and completely insecure personality usurps the bubbly, impassioned, talkative one coke is supposed to give you. In this state, all I can think about is how uncomfortable I sound and how disinterested people seem to be in me. I’ve tried to escape the void with more lines, but moods, as most anyone who’s done drugs can attest, can be impossible to shift once you’re high.

I make a sudden decision to exit the premises immediately, skip out on dinner, and let my tablemates endure the empty seat. I bid Brett and Trent good-bye, but they’re too busy talking at each other to even hear me.

The next morning, I’m walking up to my cubicle thinking about how exhausted I am despite my ten hours of Ambien-induced sleep when I see Brian scribbling a note for me with one of his Sharpie pens.

“Looking for me?” I ask.

He seems incredibly harried. “Yeah, I was just leaving you a note. We have to talk.”

“Why?” I ask, instantly paranoid.

“I’m worried about your lack of professionalism,” he says, as if he were saying he was worried the office coffee wouldn’t be strong enough. Doesn’t he understand how abrupt he sounds, how horrifying this is to hear? Doesn’t he know that my heart has instantaneously started beating faster than it has during any coke binge? How can he go from being my biggest fan, raving about me to charming British editors one day to taking on this stern, humorless boss role the next?

Brian folds his arms, the bottom of his white button-down unearthing itself from the top of his jeans. “What happened to you last night? Melanie McGrath left me a message saying she thought she saw you walk in but by the time the dinner started, you were AWOL.”

“I felt sick,” I protest somewhat weakly, and remind myself that this isn’t in fact an outright lie. For dramatic effect, I add, “I threw up all night.”

“Amelia, you went in my place. If you felt sick, you should have at least introduced yourself to the publicist and told her how sorry you were that you couldn’t stay for dinner.”

I glare. “Maybe I didn’t want to get her sick.”

“Save it, Amelia,” he says. “And please don’t let that happen again.”

I begin to feel thoroughly irritated with Brian. “Stop lecturing me,” I say, and then, probably too late, I add, “please.”

Something about our conversation reminds me of interactions I’ve had with my dad.

“You
need
a lecture,” Brian sneers, and I feel myself about to fly into a rage.

“Enough!” I say. “Will you please leave me alone so I can try to feel better?”

Brian just looks at me and shakes his head. “Get it together, Amelia,” he says as he walks away.

7

While I really did convince myself that Chad Milan could seem sexy and appealing over dinner, this possibility has completely evaporated before we’ve even ordered appetizers. I’m not sure if it’s the way he’s tasting the wine (swilling it around his mouth and closing his eyes pretentiously) or the fact that he’s declaring
The Da Vinci Code
the best book ever written, but I literally want to reach across the table, put my arms around his neck, and squeeze tight. I absolutely hate it when I feel like people, particularly men, aren’t acting like themselves but like someone they think you’d like. What’s further annoying me is his insistence on touching my arm or leg whenever he makes a point. As he tells me how thrilling it was the first time he saw his name in
Variety
, I realize that he’s not doing anything that terrible, that he’s just being exactly who he is.

“Look, Chad, I wanted to make something clear,” I say, after taking a gulp of wine for liquid courage.

He looks up expectantly: every guy knows this kind of introduction, and that it’s time to stop talking about the thrill of getting your name in the trades and pay attention.

“I…I…” I want to be able to say, “I only think of you as a friend” but I can’t seem to get that sentence out. Because the truth is I don’t think of Chad as anything even close to a friend. And besides, I’m sitting here at The Little Door, a decidedly romantic restaurant, splitting probably a $75 bottle of wine with him. And, though I’m going to do the after-dinner wallet reach, I’m going to expect him to pay and be horrified if he has the audacity to accept my offer to go dutch. So what should I say to him—that I only said yes because I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, and besides, I’m so terribly lonely that at least this “date” would help me believe I’m not completely cut off from the human race?

“I’m not really ready to get into anything now,” I manage.

I expect Chad to have that disappointed-but-hiding-it look that most guys get when they understand that they’re out roughly $200 and probably aren’t getting laid. But something seems to have been lost in the translation, for Chad’s smile widens.

“See, that’s what I love about you.”

“What?” This is so not good.

“You’re so straightforward, so direct,” he says. “Most women don’t ever say what they mean but you always do.”

I’ve often been commended for this quality, which usually confuses the hell out of me, as I almost never say what I mean. If, comparatively speaking, I’m clearer than other women, I feel truly sorry for the male race.

“I’m not sure if I’m being direct enough—” I start to say but Chad cuts me off.

“You were perfectly direct. And the last thing I’d ever want to do to you, or any other woman, is rush her. We’re just here to get to know each other better.” He ends that ridiculously optimistic response to getting blown off by holding up his glass and motioning for me to pick up mine. “Cheers?” he says.

I dated a guy in college who was obsessed with cheering. Coffee, glasses of water, milk—every liquid short of spittle was worthy of making a special moment out of. And, well, I’ve just never really been a “Cheers” type of person.

But, what are you going to do? I tried to explain my feelings to Chad but his blinding insistence on his ability to agent me over to his side means my point hasn’t a hope of getting through. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my part and can now eat and drink guilt free. What’s another hour of my time? I lift my glass and clink his with a smile.

“Cheers,” I say.

As Chad pays the check—the-move-the-bill-to-his-side-and-shake-his-head-as-I-start-to-object move—I start worrying about how I’m going to get out of this night’s good-night kiss. No matter how many people tell you that just because a guy’s taken you to a nice dinner, he doesn’t think you owe him some tongue at the end of the night, those few moments of horribly awkward conversation about how delicious the chicken was or how early yoga starts tomorrow morning say otherwise. As I’m debating whether it might be less awkward to simply make out with him for a minute and get it over with, Chad suggests we go somewhere else for a drink.

I shake my head, calculating that if I have to make small talk for another hour, I may peel all of my cuticles off my fingers out of anxiety and general unhappiness.

“What about Guy’s?” Chad asks, hitting a soft spot. It’s the one bar in L.A. that I actually like and it’s so tough to get into that being a girl doesn’t even help. “I’m on the list.” I’m sort of surprised that Chad has the cachet to pull off Guy’s, but I shouldn’t be. The doorman probably dreams of being the next Johnny Depp, and is under the mistaken impression that Chad can help make that happen.

During the car ride over, Chad gets on his cell phone, which would normally horrify me but I’m actually grateful to the person on the other end of the phone for saving me five more minutes of pretending to seem interested. It seems to be another agent on the phone, because I’m hearing Chad talk about Ashton and packaging fees and Orlando Bloom in a way that I can tell he thinks might impress me. And, truth be told, if it were a guy I was attracted to, it might well have.

When we pull up at Guy’s, Chad hands the car over to the valet, and an enormous black burly doorman opens the velvet rope and waves us through. I spy my friend Bill Kirkpatrick at the bar, with an assortment of shot glasses filled with various and sundry liquids in front of him. Bill and I were good friends in college but for some reason we don’t ever hang out in L.A., which is unfortunate, seeing as he’s the only friend from college that I’m still in touch with. So Bill is a major breath of fresh air after two hours of Chad Milan. I poke Chad’s arm and point to the bar.

“That’s my old friend Bill,” I say, starting to step through the throng and in Bill’s direction.

“I know Bill Kirkpatrick,” he says. A pause, and then, “I hate Bill Kirkpatrick.” There’s always the chance of this with Bill, as he’s never afraid to piss people off.

“A girl I dated was two-timing me with him,” Chad continues, glaring at Bill.

“That sucks,” I say. “Oh, well.” I know this is a coldhearted response but the truth is, I need a break from Chad and this discovery seems to provide it. Particularly when a guy in a three-piece suit—clearly another agent—slaps Chad on the shoulder by way of greeting.

“I’m just going to go say hi to Bill,” I tell Chad as he starts chatting with Three-Piece-Suit Guy. “I’ll be over there.” Chad nods as the other agent guy hands him a cocktail.

Then I make my way over to Bill, who glances past me, toward Chad.

“Oh, God. Please don’t tell me you’re here with Chad Milan,” he says. Bill likes to act protective of me, but the way he typically expresses this is by telling me that the guys I hang around with are complete idiots. “He’s such a tool.”

I don’t refute the statement and Bill slides down a stool to make space for me at the bar, nodding his head in the direction of a guy whose back is to us. “I’m here with my friend Rick. We’re matching each other, shot for shot.” Bill gestures to the shot glasses, most of which are still full. Just then, Rick turns around and I realize with a jolt that Rick is Rick Wilson. As in Rick Wilson, the former child star who I’d been almost preternaturally obsessed with in eighth grade.

“You’re Rick Wilson,” I say, before I can help myself. With famous people, you’re supposed to act like you don’t know who they are or, if you happen to, that you’re not all that impressed by what they do but are quite interested in getting to know what they’re really like as a person. When it’s an extremely famous person, it’s easy to remember this. But if it’s someone decidedly less known, I get initially confused and think I actually know them. I once saw Gregory Hines walking down the street in New York and greeted him with a “Hey, how are you?” because I thought for that minute that he was, like, one of my grade school teachers.

Rick, for his part, looks altogether thrilled to be recognized. It’s actually possible that he hasn’t worked since the mid-’80s. “I am,” he smiles, tiny but perfect teeth shining under his full lips. “And, though I don’t recognize you, I wish I did,” he says. He leans past Bill to brush my cheeks with his lips. Bill glances from Rick to me.

“Shot?” he asks, but before even waiting for an answer, he slides one over to me and one over to Rick. Somehow when Rick says “Cheers,” it doesn’t bug me.

And that’s around where everything starts to go slightly hazy. Or maybe it’s after the second round of shots, or the third. All I know for certain is that eventually we make our way through the glasses on the bar that had once been full. The bar gets extremely crowded and then it seems to thin out. I wonder why Chad hasn’t bothered to come over to where I’m standing and decide that he’s being really rude. Bill helps support this theory.

“He brought you here and doesn’t even have the balls to suck it up and come over and have a drink with us?” he asked. “What a tool.”

Rick nods, continuing to make heavy eye contact with me. And then I come up with the ideal solution for getting out of kissing Chad Milan and into kissing Rick Wilson.

“Why don’t I tell Chad I looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him?” I ask Bill while Rick is in the bathroom. Guys isn’t exactly a massive nightclub—it is, essentially, one room—but Bill nods supportively.