According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  1. The first element is the same as with anything else in life … location, location, location. The more unattainable the house, the better. Bonus points are given out if the house has a media room, a priceless work of art (Warhol or Banksy are preferred), or a room converted into a club with its own bar and dance floor separate from the actual living area of the house.

  2. Next, there must be an unlimited supply of booze and there must be an appropriate amount of mixers with a wide variety of colas, energy drinks, and juices. If the mixers are off-brand, points are automatically deducted.

  3. A pool is essential as well. If there aren’t any shenanigans going on dans la piscine, what is the point of losing out on beauty sleep?

  4. The last requirement for the perfect after-party is, of course, the perfect host. There are two types of hosts that can make an after-party great. A perfect host can remain aloof and anonymous, which is sometimes preferable, because then they aren’t pacing around the house hovering over guests and worried about people pocketing their belongings. About 50 percent of the time the guests never meet the host, or even know the host’s name. The second type of host is the ringleader of the party, encouraging their guests to eat, drink, and be merry. The perfect host will always offer guest rooms to their visitors who have enjoyed too many spirits or “recreational activities,” or who want to fool around a little bit. Men are generally better after-party hosts than women because a vase that’s broken by accident isn’t cause for a full-on emotional meltdown—or worse, the end of the party.

  Although, since my longtime crush is hosting this fete, I think most of those rules are eradicated by his mere presence. I won’t lie; it’s my goal to get an introduction to fulfill the fantasy of my inner-teenybopper self.

  His friends disperse across the house but I follow closely behind Tristan when we leave the kitchen. He seems to know his way around and leads us to the backyard where a fire pit and heat lamps are keeping guests warm during this unusually crisp Los Angeles night. We stop next to a table, under a heat lamp, and I immediately spot Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob on the opposite side of the pool. He’s drinking liquor straight from the bottle and is flanked by girls. I sip my drink and scan the rest of the backyard to see if I spot any other celebs in attendance and to distract myself from gawking at my crush. Moments later my attempt at a cool, calm, and collected demeanor is put to the test as Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob approaches us and gets close enough for me to notice a small diagonal scar above the left corner of his lips, which must usually be covered by makeup, when he greets Tristan.

  “Hey, man. How’s it going?” he asks, taking a swig from the bottle of Don Julio 1942. He swallows his shot and gives Tristan a bro embrace with one arm while his other hand clutches the tequila bottle.

  “Not too bad,” Tristan answers. “Good to see you, man. It’s been a minute.”

  “Yeah. The network and my publicist are making me keep things chill after rehab,” he explains, using one hand for air quotes to discredit his treatment as he rolls his eyes, sets his tequila on the table and lights a cigarette, conjuring the image of the rebels of old Hollywood. “So I’m bringing the party to me.”

  He certainly doesn’t look like a former junkie. He looks exactly like he’s always looked on-screen, which isn’t always the case with celebrities. He’s the epitome of bad-boy chic with his easy leather jacket, black V-neck T-shirt, and jeans that couldn’t fit any better if they’d been sewn on to him.

  “This is E—,” he introduces. I cut him off before he can finish saying Ella since this is the kind of crowd where I might stumble upon someone who knows or has met Bella.

  “Nice to meet you.” My voice quivers and I stutter on those four small words. Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob is even making Bella shy. I instantly feel heat permeating my entire face and I’m sure that it’s redder than a red carpet. He looks me up and down, assessing what he can see and inferring what’s hidden underneath my clothes. He inhales another long drag of his nicotine, which frees his hand to meet mine. When we touch I’m almost certain that my body chemistry will be altered forever. His firm handshake coupled with him gazing into my eyes makes me feel like we’re alone and the crowd blurs into the background.

  He frees his hand first, which is for the best because I don’t think I’d ever let go.

  “Are you two…?” He drops off in an attempt not to be too forward.

  “No!” Tristan and I both say.

  “You know Holiday Hall?” Tristan asks. Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob searches and I realize he’s the type of person who probably doesn’t retain any information not directly relating to his fame or orgasm, so Tristan assists him and adds context clues. “She’s in my pilot. British.”

  A look of recognition enters his face. “Right. Yeah, the British chick?” He continues to puff on his cigarette and isn’t masking that he has no interest in Tristan’s story about Holiday.

  “We’re seeing each other,” Tristan announces proudly. When the information computes, Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s enthusiasm grows.

  “Nice, dude. Totally fuckable.” He gives Tristan a playful punch on the shoulder. Tristan’s face drains and he’s mortified I’m witnessing this display of misogyny but allows Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob to continue. “I’d hit it. She’s kinda cool.”

  Tristan sees an opening to stray from the momentum of this conversation and introduces me. “She is cool, and this is her best friend,” he says, placing his arm around me.

  Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob eyeballs me again even though it’s clear I don’t hold his interest and he wants to move the conversation along. “How’d that pilot go, man?” He takes a deep, overexaggerated inhale and rubs his nostrils together with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re so lucky to be on a new show. I’d give both of my nuts to be done with mine. I’m so fucking bored. The thought of doing another season literally crushes my soul.”

  “You were never really into your show, even in the beginning,” Tristan adds.

  “I know but at least it was tolerable then. Now … Jesus Christ! I’m twenty-eight. Playing a nineteen-year-old who’s trying to figure out girls and how to ace his statistics final. It’s empty and makes me feel like a hack. I don’t wanna be on an after-school special that airs in prime time anymore,” he whines.

  I wish I could unhear all of this. Manors of Mandeville has been my favorite show since it premiered. Jess and I watched the pilot at least a dozen times when it first came out and to this day I’ve still never missed an episode.

  Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob removes his cigarette from his mouth, noticing he’s smoked it to the filter and tosses it on his perfectly landscaped lawn while he twists his foot over it, smearing the ash, tarnishing grass. As his attention returns, two very young-looking girls wearing bikinis emerge from the pool and drape themselves around either side of him and they steal his focus. Neither of these girls happens to be his current girlfriend but that doesn’t stop him from looping his arms inside of theirs and resting his hands on their hip bones, which are exposed from their very low-rise bathing-suit bottoms. “Damn, you girls look sexy.” He reeks of machismo and they giggle and revel in the fact that he’s ogling their bodies. There’s no attempt to hide his indiscretion and he moves his hands to their bottoms.

  I’m less shocked by his lack of concern for his home or blatant infidelity and more bothered by his condescending comments about his show. I wish I hadn’t heard them but I did … and straight from the source, but I still don’t want to believe them. Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s first acting job was Manors of Mandeville, unless you count being an extra in a soda commercial. In a postrehab mea culpa interview with The Life he praised the show’s writing staff and his fellow cast members for delving deep into the difficulties of being a millennial. He didn’t mean a word of it.

  I understand that a majority of what celebrities say in interviews is preplan
ned, heartstring-tug-inducing embellishments conjured up by publicists and regurgitated by actors, but between him being an alcohol-enthusiast, a womanizer, and ungrateful, any allure he once held vanishes. At least I have some gossip to file and because he’s such a jerk I’m giving myself a pardon from any possible guilt I would feel about sending in a file from his after-party. “Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob ready to leave show that made him a star.” My crush has turned into disgust faster than a mudslide in the Hills decreases property value.

  “It’s cold. Let’s get you inside,” he says to his belles de jour. He not so subtly cups their butts and gently pushes them toward the living room. We all follow, allowing him to shepherd us into the living room.

  I need to start taking notes before I forget anything. Aside from being an addict, Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob is known for being paranoid, so I’m sure he’s installed a myriad of security cameras all over the house. The last thing I would want is for my crush to bust me, but I can always count on one place for privacy.

  “Do you know where the bathroom is?” I whisper to Tristan.

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I know there are plenty of them. Just choose your own adventure and you’ll for sure find one down one of the hallways.” I stare around the colossal living room and squint my eyes, hoping that I can find a clue that will help me determine which hallway I should investigate first. I have three choices and they are all illuminated but cryptic at the same time. I make the executive decision to try the left side.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” The click and clack my shoes make as I take each step on the Carrara white-marble floor echo through the hollow hall. I stop when I reach the first closed door. I knock and count three Mississippis. No response so it must be empty. My hand is clammy from shaking Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s hand and it makes it difficult to get a close grip on the doorknob but I manage to get it open.

  The room is drab and even before I turn the light on I can make out piles of memorabilia from Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s career, slightly visible from the hall’s glow. Scripts are piled up near the door. Framed magazine covers that have never been hung rest on the baseboards. Strewn about a desk are standard teen-idol awards and trophies in the shapes of everything from a bucket of popcorn to a remote control and even a standard regulation surfboard propped against the desk. There’s one I don’t recognize and my curiosity is piqued. I take a brief look-see to make sure no one is coming. By the time anyone sees me being nosey on the security footage, I’ll be long gone. When I confirm the coast is clear I turn on the light and infiltrate the room. I pick up an unrecognizable award. As soon as it’s off the desk I notice the place below the rectangular base is shiny and almost a completely different color. The area around the award is coated in dust and it’s obvious that none of this stuff has been touched since it was abandoned—as if they were a disgrace instead of signs of distinction. I can now see that the mysterious trophy is actually a giant faux gold-plated iPhone with an inscription that reads YEAR’S SEXIEST MALE SELFIE TAKER. I chuckle to myself and place the prize back on the desk exactly where it was before, matching the base to the outline of dust. I turn off the light and quietly close the door.

  I progress about fifteen feet before I find myself in front of another door. I knock again, this time simultaneously opening the door. I jump back, startled, as I see a toned masculine body clad in expensive denim and a formfitting navy T-shirt bent over the countertop whose head is moving from left to right as he snorts a rail of cocaine. I grasp the doorknob to pull it shut but the person turns his head and I recognize him before I can escape.

  “Bella?” It’s Sexy Indie Film Actor. He could blow my cover if he refers to me as Bella instead of Ella in front of Tristan and vice versa. Sexy Indie Film Actor opens the door to make sure it’s me and ushers me inside. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Small world, smaller city,” I retort with a graceless laugh in an attempt to decrease the awkwardness of catching him mid–drug use. He straightens himself out and takes a deep inhale of air to make sure all of the powder made its way into the nostril and up his nose, checks his nostrils in the mirror to make sure the evidence of his transgression is gone, and then comes over to give me a hug and kiss on the cheek. He loses his balance a little when his lips make contact with my cheek and I put my arm around him to give him a little stability. I can smell the whiskey diffusing out of his pores. The pungent smell is so overwhelming that if I didn’t know any better I would think whiskey was recently discovered to have antiaging properties and he actually smeared it all over his face instead of imbibing what I can only imagine to be a lot for the odor to be this thick.

  “You want a little?” he asks, pointing to the remaining pile of powder.

  “No, thanks. I’m good, I just really have to pee,” I tell him.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll get out of your way.” He quickly plugs his left nostril and blows his last line, once again checking the mirror before he turns to leave. “I’ll see you out there,” he says as he passes me. I close the door and shrewdly make sure to lock it. I don’t want someone busting in on me while I’m doing something I’m not supposed to be doing like I just did to Sexy Indie Film Actor. I don’t have time to process the surprise of his secret drug use because if I’m gone too long Tristan might become suspicious. I close the lid on the toilet, sit down, pluck my phone out of my purse, and write down my notes. When I finish I throw my phone back in my bag and wash my hands.

  I return to the living room where about ten people are gathered including Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob and Sexy Indie Film Actor, who’s sitting next to Tristan. I scurry over there, praying that neither Ella nor Bella has been or is about to be exposed. I plunk myself down between them and Sexy Indie Film Actor pats my knee while Tristan smiles. So far it seems like my secret is still safe. My lungs, not so much. I’m getting a contact high from the dense marijuana smell and notice that Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob, who has a bikini babe on either side of him, has a psychedelically decorated bong in his lap. Clearly his postrehab clarity and sobriety, which he proselytizes about every chance he has in the press, is another lie manufactured for the public’s benefit and even more so, his career. Bikini Babe Number Two reaches the bong in our direction as an offering while she continues to cough.

  “No, thanks,” I tell her.

  “I’m good, too,” Tristan says.

  “You sure, dude?” Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob asks.

  “I’ll hit it,” Sexy Indie Film Actor chimes in. Bikini Babe Number One passes it to Sexy Indie Film Actor and he returns it to her and she takes another hit before she passes it around to Bikini Babe Number Two, who takes a hit and then returns it to Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob, who indulges again.

  “But when you think about it, lingerie is just a bikini you don’t wear in the water,” Bikini Babe Number One claims.

  “I’ve never thought about it like that,” Bikini Babe Number Two considers. I have my doubts that either of them have ever really thought about anything, and even Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob is deadened by their vapid discussion from the look on his face. Sadly his brain and his genitals disagree with one another.

  “Why don’t you girls get to the bedroom?” he requests. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  They eagerly bounce up from their seats as if there is silicone in their butts, too, and without question heed his request as he takes one last indulgent bong rip. He passes it back to Sexy Indie Film Actor, who exchanges a small bag of cocaine for the bong.

  Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob grabs his keys out of his pocket for a quick key bump. He snorts the drugs and wipes his nose with a newfound look of invigoration in his eyes, passing the plastic bag back to Sexy Indie Film Actor. Now I definitely don’t feel bad. It’s one thing if he’s smoking a little weed to relax but indulging in narcotics way crosses the line, and I have no remorse for
spying.

  “Enjoy the after-party, kids. I’m going to get the private party started.” He goes to Tristan, shaking his hand. “Great to see you, buddy. Thanks for stopping by.” Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob winks at me before he retreats for his tacky threesome. I feel dirty witnessing his drug use and infidelity and I wallow in the despair of my dream-boy disenchantment. People warn you never to meet your heroes and tonight confirms my theory that the same goes for your Hollywood crushes.

  When I signed up for this job, in addition to giving up a normal sleep pattern, I gave up the fantasy that the rest of America gets to have about Hollywood. Witnessing his self-aggrandizing, womanizing behavior is a memory I will never be able to remove.

  Tristan turns to me.

  “I think I’m ready to call it a night too,” Tristan admits. Thank God. I couldn’t leave him and Sexy Indie Film Actor alone together and knew I was going to have to wait one of them out. “The rest of the guys are gonna stay and I’m gonna send the car back for them. Do you want to stay or head out?”

  “I’m definitely ready to leave.” I place my hand on Sexy Indie Film Actor’s shoulder. “Have a good rest of the night. Glad I ran into you,” I tell him.

  “Good to see you, babe,” he says without getting up. I sling my purse over my shoulder and follow Tristan to the car.

  There’s no traffic on the way home. There’s no traffic anywhere at this hour. My mouth is dry yet the taste of stale champagne continues to linger. The sky is gray even though the sun is not yet on the horizon, and it won’t get much brighter because of the smog. It didn’t rain but everything feels wet and I am ready to get out of these clothes and my now day-old makeup.

  The morning humidity overpowered my hair on the short trek from my driveway to the front door and although I have a Brazilian blow-dry, I feel the baby hairs around my forehead frizzed. I rush to my room and slip myself out of my dress, shoes, jewelry, and thong as if they were full of toxic chemicals and throw myself across my bed to open my computer. I’m too tired to procure a set of sleep clothes and would swear my eyes are bloodshot even though a quick selfie confirms they are not. Regardless of how I look or feel I need to write my file. I include Sexy Indie Film Actor’s presence at the after-party but omit his drug use. He’s never been anything other than sweet to me and the trivial number of points it would garner isn’t worth ruining his reputation. As soon as I finish, I drop my iPhone next to me without even bothering to place it on the charger.