by Anna David
Jean-Paul apparently doesn’t notice because he keeps shooting and cooing at me and calling me belle and tres belle. I try not to concentrate on the fact that my lips and nose are less than a foot from a glass of champagne.
When I got into rehab, I was perfectly willing to admit that I had a problem with coke and sleeping pills, but I still never really bought into this whole idea of being “alcoholic.” I’d told Tommy on one of my first days at Pledges that I was willing to consider the fact that alcoholism and drug addiction might be the same thing, but I still wasn’t convinced. In fact, in those meetings, when people introduced themselves by saying their name and the word “alcoholic,” I clung steadfastly to what I truly knew about myself, so I replaced the word “alcoholic” with the word “addict.” I wasn’t the only one. A guy who used to be in Twisted Sister, who’d done the Pledges program the month before me and I’d heard share in the alumni meetings, was also clinging hard to the word “addict.”
And sitting in the champagne glass, with the scent of Dom Perignon wafting up my nostrils, I become more convinced than ever that my problem never has been with alcohol. The glass is so close that I could easily tip the flute into my mouth and sip—a slew of assistants would surely spring to attention at the opportunity to re-fill it—but I really have no desire. All these wonderful things in my life—this new gig, my friendship with Justin, the reconnection with Stephanie and potential romance with Adam, not to mention the overall sense of peace that seems to have replaced all those self-absorbed feelings of misery that I’d come to accept as normal—are, I feel, completely related to my having gotten sober. And I’m not interested in screwing any of that up, even if it means having to go along with this notion of being an “alcoholic” without actually believing it.
I seem to be shooting okay pictures during the entire time I’m zoning out and thinking of the proximity of the glass to my lips, because Jean-Paul is looking genuinely thrilled and Tim and John are smiling as they whisper to each other and point at me. And I think, Screw what the people at Pledges are going to think if they see this picture of me that’s essentially an ode to champagne. I’m wearing a Missoni gown in the Chateau Marmont’s penthouse suite being fawned over by a photographer who’s a household name. Why the hell should I care what anyone thinks?
20
I’m dreaming about signing autographs—and in the dream, my handwriting doesn’t look the way it does in real life but like it did when I was little and just learning how to write cursive letters—when the phone wakes me up.
I usually sleep through the phone, but I’m being devil-dialed—that is, someone is calling my home phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my cell phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my home phone again. Eventually, I reach over and garble a hello.
“Oh, thank God you’re there.” It’s Tim, sounding more excited than I’ve ever heard him. “What’s your schedule like? Can you make it?”
“Make what?” I try to move my cat off me so I can sit up.
“Haven’t you gotten any of the messages from me or Nadine?”
“Who’s Nadine?”
“The publicist we hired to promote you.”
“Publicist?”
“Sweetheart, get yourself out of bed and to your computer. Nadine has proven herself to be worth every penny: according to Page Six, Gawker, Perez Hilton, and Liz Smith, you’re a sensation.”
“Me?!”
“We slipped advance issues to the gossips, not sure how they would react. And each of them went bloody crazy for your column.”
“My column’s out?” I hadn’t seen the photos of the shoot, let alone the actual magazine.
“Oh, dear. We didn’t send you a copy? Well, I’ll have one messengered over right away. In the meantime, the Today show wants to do a segment on you ASAP and if you won’t be too knackered, we’d love to put you on the red-eye tonight—in fact, I’d come along but I have a damn dinner with the Ford people here. Regardless, The View wanted you, too, but Nadine thinks it makes more sense to wait and put you on there once a few more columns have come out.”
For some reason, my heart isn’t going a mile a minute and I don’t feel like I’m out of my body observing a girl named Amelia Stone receiving this absurdly good news. I guess I’m getting better at handling surreality. But glancing around my paint-splattered bedroom, I’m highly aware of the ridiculous dichotomy between my world and the one I’m hearing about on the phone.
Tim continues to talk excitedly, about how I’ll probably want to join AFTRA so I can get paid for my TV appearances, about how we might want to try to sell a book of my columns now even though only one of them has been written, and about how we should set me up with a film and TV agent in order to try to sell the rights, and yet all I seem to be focusing on is the fact that I’m going to be in New York, where Adam is. Focus, I tell myself, on being fabulous.
By the time I shower, brush my teeth, and feed the cats, three copies of Chat have arrived at my front door in an enormous brown envelope. I bring them upstairs and place one in my lap. The magazine is spectacular, from its stunning cover shot of Jude Law through its table of contents—which lists an essay on literary salons by Dave Eggers, a humor piece by Augusten Burroughs, and an interview with Jude Law, done by Jay McInerney. How on Earth did I get included in this group? I wonder as I flip to my column.
And there I am, Missoni-encased and lying in the enormous plastic champagne glass, legs extended, wearing an enormous, toothy grin. Is that really me? I wonder as I examine the photo. It looks like a far more flawless and ecstatic version of me—me if I’d been born into a different family, era, and life. There’s no evidence of the discomfort I was feeling when the picture was taken.
The copy, too, looks and reads much better than it did when it was just a Microsoft Word document on my computer. Maybe it’s just seeing it in Chat’s elegant font? I notice with surprise that Tim made almost no changes to my text.
Then I log onto the gossip websites and read about this “stunning” “sexpot” whose debut in Chat “hints at what is surely to be a lengthy and notable career,” according to Liz Smith. “Forget Carrie Bradshaw and Candace Bushnell,” raves Perez Hilton. “Amelia Stone writes about what sex today is really like. Mr. Big? Try Mr. Bigs.” Page Six praises the column and wonders if Stone will delve into her lengthy love relationship with sexy singer-songwriter Kane (now married to an actress) in future columns. I always knew I was underappreciated, I think as I imagine Brian and the entire Absolutely Fabulous staff gathered around his computer reading these items.
My phone rings, and even though I haven’t had a chance to even listen to the morning’s messages yet, I answer it. “Amelia, how are you?” a voice booms. “This is Richard Johnson from the New York Post. Do you have a minute?”
I try, probably unsuccessfully, to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Richard, it’s great to hear from you,” I say. Remembering what Tim had instructed me, I add, “Would you mind if I referred you to my publicist?” I expect Richard to laugh, or at least act snippy, but instead he says, “Not at all.” I suddenly feel like I’m acting out a scene from one of those movies you’d watch and go, Hah—like all this would ever happen to someone.
21
“Oh, you’re adorable!” a brunette in a wraparound Diane Von Furstenberg dress shrieks as I make my way through JFK toward a driver carrying a sign with my name on it. Even though I managed to sleep a few hours on the flight, the red-eye has left me exhausted enough to not hear her very well or even imagine she’s speaking to me. She looks like the kind of person who would typically give me the once-up-once-down fashion disapproval look, but her voice is so much kinder and softer than it looks like it would be that I’m completely thrown off and for a second I think that she’s a random, well-dressed lunatic. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” she says, pumping my hand with enthusiasm, then adds, “I’m Nadine, your publicist. I hope you don’t mind my intruding on what
would have been a peaceful ride into the city, but I wanted to be able to talk to you before you go on Today.”
I smile and shake her hand, and she grabs it so that she can pull me along as we follow the driver out to his car. It seems like such a girlish move for someone who looks so sophisticated, but I’m too busy trying to keep up with her Chipmunks-speed style of speaking that I barely have time to ponder it.
“Tim had told me you wouldn’t need any media coaching, but I just wanted to go over a couple of things,” she says as we get in the car. It lurches forward and she pulls out a notebook scrawled with lists and filled with Post-It notes of more lists. “Now, I’ve been pitching you as the embodiment of the modern-day, sexually evolved, intelligent woman. A Marilyn Monroe for the twenty-first century, but not so out of it or self-destructive. Carrie Fisher with sex appeal. The woman who really lives Sex and the City. Capische? She has a sex drive and she’s not afraid of it. If she goes to a wedding and can’t decide between two groomsmen, she takes them both to bed. Am I right?”
I nod, finding myself so caught up in the notion of this perfectly evolved and confident-sounding creature that I forget we’re even talking about me. I’m not sexually evolved, I think. The main word I associate with my own sexuality is “confusion.” In the column I’d just tried to have a sense of humor about what I’d done. But as Nadine talks, I find myself a bit won over. I liked the idea of being a sexually evolved woman. It makes me sound so much more together than I actually feel.
“But you’re not slutty,” Nadine continues, making a face. “You’re not Jenna Jameson—who, by the way, I represented and actually found to be quite sweet. You’re classy, with both a brain and self-knowledge. You’re the ideal modern-day woman.”
I nod. How could I do anything else?
“For the Today show, I want you to just be you. Always keeping in mind, of course, that you are representing Chat and all that Chat stands for. You’re witty but not silly, aware but still carefree, serious and yet spontaneous. In essence, you’re wild but you also know exactly what you’re doing. Make sense?”
I nod.
Nadine continues, “After this, I think our best plan of attack is to sit quiet?” She suddenly starts turning her voice up at the end of sentences so that they’re questions, and I get the sense she’s doing it so that I feel more included. “Let everyone see who you are, and make them want to find out more, but don’t let them have it yet? Until, of course, you have a few columns out, when we put you on The View? And oh my God you look a little overwhelmed? Am I overwhelming you?”
I hadn’t realized any anxiety I was feeling was actually apparent on my face but something about Nadine’s master plan is starting to make me feel dizzy.
“I’m fine,” I say, “just a little tired.”
“Oh, no!” Now it’s her turn to look alarmed. She looks like the kind of person who might typically gaze at me with some sort of disapproval, and I immediately know that my gray James Perse sundress isn’t appropriate. “We’ll need to stop by the Marc Jacobs showroom to pick up something a bit brighter. You look adorable, of course, but we need something a little more TV friendly? You won’t be able to check into the Royalton until after the Today show, but you can rest then, before we have dinner with Chat editors tonight at Schillers? And then it would be nice if we could put in an appearance at Butter afterward? Just so we could get something in one of the gossip columns tomorrow about how you came into town and managed to be everywhere all at once?”
I nod, suddenly feeling the effect of the double-shot espresso I had on the flight and realizing I’m excited. “Everything sounds great.” I smile. “Bring on the Marc Jacobs showroom.”
Nadine seems to exhale for the first time, and smiles back at me. “Are you sure you’re okay with going there? I know you might be feeling rushed so I could call ahead and let them know that you’re not going to wear Marc today unless we’re guaranteed that no one else is in the showroom?”
Remember in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere is giving Julia Roberts strawberries and champagne and she reminds him that she’s a sure thing and he doesn’t need to woo her? I want to say some version of this to Nadine, to explain to her that everything that’s happening is already beyond my wildest dreams and she doesn’t need to worry. But I feel fairly certain that stress is so built into her DNA that whatever I say won’t calm her down.
“That’s sweet but I don’t think it will be necessary,” I say, as Nadine’s cell phone starts bleeping. She gives me a manic grin and a thumbs-up as she answers the phone.
As Nadine starts chatting into her phone, I sit back and look out the window, willing myself to be as cavalier about everything as Nadine seems to expect me to be.
“Do you think the modern-day woman should be able to sleep with whomever she wants to?” Meredith Viera asks me.
“Well, I guess that depends on how often she wants to,” I say, smiling. “I don’t think anyone should look at sex like it’s an all-you-can eat buffet.” Meredith and Matt crack up.
I’m shockingly calm and composed on TV. I’d sort of assumed that I’d be filled with the same neuroses that used to plague me before I did anything where a lot of people would be watching me but I can only imagine that being at Pledges—where I’d grown accustomed to regularly sharing my most personal details with a group of strangers—has eviscerated any nervousness I used to feel about being the center of attention. With the camera on, I feel witty, attractive, and charming—qualities that I only occasionally feel I possess in real life. I think of my first three colicky months of life and the toothless grin I gave the photographer who came to photograph me. Turn on the lights and watch me shine, I think, as I answer one of Matt’s questions.
While I field a question Meredith asks me—if I’ve heard from either guy since the column came out (That would be no, I’d said, which was met with extensive laughter)—I marvel at how easy this TV thing is. It feels like being at a party where the entire focus is on me, and everyone else is just dying to laugh and be entertained by what I’m saying.
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t mind if either of them disappeared into the ether,” I add, and again, I’m rewarded with the sound of laughter. How come my friends and family have never been so appreciative of my sense of humor?
Even though it feels like we just started, before I know it, Meredith turns to the camera and says, “If you know what’s good for you, get yourself down to the newsstand, grab Chat, and check out Amelia Stone’s Party Girl column. If anyone represents the modern-day woman we all want to be, it’s her.”
And then it’s over. I shake each of their hands, feeling as close to high as I have since getting sober, and make my way to the green room where Nadine is waiting.
“Honey, you were brilliant!” she shrieks. “Who knew you were so funny?”
Even though her question is clearly rhetorical, I feel somewhat compelled to fill the silence that follows. Silence between two people tends to terrify me, sending me into a full-blown panic that the other person is in the process of discovering how uninteresting I actually am. But I’m so buzzed from the TV shoot—feeling like serotonin is suddenly dashing through my veins with stormlike speed—that I decide it doesn’t matter. And then Nadine says something that makes me feel even more confident that I probably don’t have to do much else for people to think I’m interesting now.
“There’s virtually nothing you can do to stop yourself from becoming huge now.”
For the next few hours, my BlackBerry rings nonstop—apparently everyone and their mother watches the Today show because as soon as I clear out the congratulatory messages that have gathered, the voicemail fills up again. I’m getting ready for dinner and am just about to toss the damn device out the window of my hotel room when it rings again.
“Hello?” I sort of say and sort of shriek.
“Amelia? Is this a bad time?” When I realize whose voice it is, I want to dance a jig across the room.
“Adam!” It�
��s the first time I’ve heard from him since the day we spent together and I don’t make any effort to hide how happy I am to hear from him. “How are you?”
I expect him to launch into the same speech everyone else has been giving me about how funny and natural I was on TV, but he doesn’t. “Good,” he says. “Just been in back-to-back interviews for the show. The only problem is that I’m completely distracted.”
“Distracted? Why?” I smile as I lie down on my king-size bed.
“Honestly? Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Hooray, I think. I wish for superhuman powers that could allow me to break through the phone and touch him.
“Me?” I ask, dying to hear more.
“Yes, you. Spending time with you the other day just sort of sparked something obsessive in me, I guess.”
I allow the pleasure of hearing these words bathe me in happiness for a second. Then I say, “I’m thinking about you a lot, too.” Fuck the “rules” and playing hard to get. “And guess what, Adam? I’m in New York.”
“What? Are you serious? For how long?”
“Just till tomorrow.”
“This sucks,” he says. “They have me on this insane interview schedule the rest of the day and night.”
I glance at the clock and realize I only have forty-five minutes to get uptown to meet the Chat editors for dinner. “And I have to go to dinner and this club and—”
“Wait, have you even told me why you’re here?” he asks. “Oh, shit. They’re motioning for me to go back into the room. Why don’t we just stick with our plan to see each other in L.A.? I’ll call you in a week or two when I’m back.”
After we hang up, I marvel over the fact that this phone call has made me feel about a thousand times better than the entire collection of enthusiasm on my voicemail. I’m sitting on my bed thinking about that while I rock back and forth and grin like some special ed student when I hear Nadine knocking on my door and telling me she has the car downstairs to take us to dinner.
