Party Girl

by Anna David

  28

  “Here you go,” Stephanie says, reaching through a throng of wannabe starlets to hand me a Diet Coke. I accept it gratefully and motion my head toward the side of the room, where I then go stand.

  It’s been almost a week since she showed up with Rosa and basically single-handedly delivered me back to the world at large and I have to admit that I’m feeling significantly better. Of course, I’m still miserable over being blown off by Adam, but Stephanie has convinced me to treat it like a nagging toothache or headache—horrible, in other words, but something I can live with. The launch party for a new Condé Nast magazine, Stephanie convinced me, was just what I needed. But standing here, waiting for her to retrieve her drink from the bar, I remember that depression, like a grating Britney Spears song stuck in your head, has a way of coming back even when it seems like it’s gone away forever.

  Parties like this used to fuel me—I always had that feeling that something exciting could happen—but being sober didn’t so much highlight how fun drinking was as much as it made me realize how intensely boring parties like this are. We’re all talking and no one is saying anything, I think as I tell a publicist who used to snub me when I worked at Absolutely Fabulous that it’s good to see her, too, and accept her “You go, girl” congratulations for the column. When I was drinking, if I had a boring night, I’d blame myself—for not being fabulous enough or not talking to the right people. But now I can see that I didn’t drink to make myself more interesting; it was to convince myself that other people were.

  Stephanie joins me, sipping from her icy Amstel Light, and we watch a slew of club kids filter in, so perfectly outfitted in their Vans and True Religion jeans and tattoos that they may as well have come from Central Casting.

  “You okay?” Stephanie asks, and I nod. She’d asked me the first time we went out together once I was sober if I’d prefer if she didn’t drink, and I told her that she shouldn’t feel like she had to deprive herself because of me. Tommy used to say that anyone out with a sober person shouldn’t drink, and if they did, they may well have a drinking problem themselves. But Tommy worked in a rehab and didn’t really understand the world of plus-ones and doormen who had articles written about them in magazines and open bars and gift bags. Drinking is as normal as putting on shoes to most people at parties like this, I think. Besides, it’s not my job to go around diagnosing people as alcoholic when it’s a self-diagnosed disease.

  And then, just when Stephanie and I see Nicole Richie and Lindsay Lohan pitch their skeletal frames against each other on the dance floor, a thought occurs to me, a thought infinitely more depressing than any others I’ve been having during this recent bout of depression: Wherever I go, there I am. It floats through my head as I stare at the anorexic starlets, until I feel Stephanie poking me in the shoulder.

  “Holy shit!” she exclaims. “Three o’clock. With a bimbo.”

  Stephanie’s not known for her histrionics so I instantly know what her exclamation means and who she’s talking about, but I’m nevertheless not remotely prepared for the physical stab I feel in my chest when I look toward the entrance and see Adam walking toward us with a thin blonde who isn’t his Miss Teen USA costar but is nevertheless scantily clad and inarguably attractive—albeit in a siliconed, Playmate-esque way.

  And now that he’s less than twenty feet away, and growing closer by the millisecond, he seems less real to me than he has while I’ve been obsessing over him the past few weeks. It’s almost shocking to remember he’s an actual person and not simply a construct of my mind.

  “Remember—you’re cool,” Stephanie says, under her breath. “And cool girls do not make scenes.”

  I nod and then force myself to laugh like she’s just said the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard in my life and that, in fact, I’ve been doing nothing but laugh uproariously since Adam and I last talked. He’s now just a few feet away so I glance at him and act surprised, like I’ve completely forgotten he exists until this very moment.

  “Hey, Adam,” I say, as casually as I can. I don’t lean in for the requisite-in-L.A.-hug-greeting but smile so broadly that it doesn’t seem like I’m being passive-aggressive—just that I’m maybe too busy being happy to hug him.

  “Amelia,” he says, looking me in the eye in a way that gives me the good kind of chills. “Stephanie.”

  “Hi,” I say softly. He gives Stephanie a kiss on the cheek and then leans toward me. I hold my breath as his lips brush my cheek. Amazingly, horrifyingly, all the resentment I have for him seems to evaporate instantaneously.

  “A-dam,” the blonde whines, nodding her head toward the bar. “I want to get a drink.”

  “Oh, sorry, um…” He just stands there, looking at me. Our eyes are locked on each other but he breaks our gaze by glancing at the blonde distractedly.

  “Lizzie,” she huffs. He continues to look at me while Lizzie literally stamps her foot and points toward the bar.

  Stephanie, God bless her, looks at Lizzie and says, “What does everyone want? Lizzie and I will make a bar run.” Without even waiting for a response, Stephanie grabs one of the girl’s probably siliconed arms and starts pulling her away.

  “Diet Coke!” I yell after her, gratitude and anxiety rushing through my veins simultaneously.

  “Make that two!” Adam adds.

  And now that I have Adam in front of me, I don’t know what to say. Why the fuck didn’t you call me back? occurs to me. Why don’t you like me? also floats through my mind.

  Instead I say, “You look good.”

  He smiles, and I notice dimples that had somehow escaped my notice before. Christ. Did he have to get better looking by the millisecond? Wasn’t this bad enough already?

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” he says.

  I want to play it cool, but can’t seem to. “Yeah, what happened?” I ask, feeling sure-to-be-embarrassing tears springing to my eyes.

  “What happened?” he repeats, looking hesitant.

  “Yeah, what happened?” I suddenly feel enraged. “You wanted to but first you had to raid the Playboy Mansion for one of Hef’s cast-offs?”

  This last part comes out of me before I even realize it. I’ve always seemed to lack the filter that stops thoughts from turning into phrases and it can be incredibly inconvenient when I happen to be intensely jealous.

  His eyes flare. “Jesus, Amelia. You’re one to talk.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I run into you and you tell me how much you’ve changed, how pure and innocent your life is today, how that wild girl is just a part of your past.”

  “It’s true.”

  He doesn’t even seem to hear me, just keeps talking. “So I’m all excited, thinking this girl I’ve always thought would be perfect if she just wasn’t so out of control has actually tamed herself.”

  I try to talk but he cuts me off.

  “But then it turns out that the very day I’m telling you how excited I am about you, you’re all over TV, selling yourself as this sexy, wild woman who fucks groomsmen at weddings.”

  I have the strong feeling that if this were a movie, now would be when I’d slap him. But I don’t actually feel offended—just misunderstood. “I didn’t fuck them,” I say.

  “Next thing I know, you’re dangling from massive champagne glasses in magazines,” Adam continues, ignoring me. “And dancing on bar tables with, like, bisexual teenage nymphos. And here I am, the sucker who actually believed you were telling me the truth.”

  “Adam, I was telling you the truth. The wedding was a long time ago—before I got sober. And the photo shoot, and dancing in the bar—all that is me just trying to play the ‘Party Girl’ part.”

  He looks confused. “So you clean up your life and tell me you’re thrilled about it, meanwhile you’re trying to convince the world at large that you’re still wild and what’s more, being wild is the most glamorous thing imaginable?”

  “When you put it
like that, it does sound a little crazy,” I admit. “But it’s just a column. It’s what I write. It’s not me.”

  He looks angrier than he has the entire conversation. “So I’m supposed to believe that you would attach your name to something, go on TV shows and get in gossip columns publicizing something that’s ‘not you’?”

  And now I’m pissed and sick of being judged by him. “Christ, Adam. It was an opportunity. I took it. No, I’m not the girl I write about in the column anymore, but I’ve lived that life, and no one’s ever made a big deal about anything I’ve ever done before. So if people want to give me money and make me famous for writing something that comes very naturally to me, what’s so wrong with taking them up on it?”

  He seems to consider this, and takes a breath. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. It just seems like—”

  Just then, I feel a large, sweaty hand clasp my shoulder. And, next thing I know, Jeremy Barrenbaum—an extremely drunk, exceedingly sweaty Jeremy Barrenbaum—is embracing me from behind.

  “Party Girl!” he shrieks, forcing large, fleshy lips directly onto mine. I pull away but he keeps a damp, possessive arm around me.

  “Jeremy, this is Adam,” I say, giving Adam a “please help me” look, which he either doesn’t see or completely ignores. Jeremy notices Adam standing there, and holds out one hand while the other stays firmly clasped to my shoulder. “How are you, man? Jeremy Barrenbaum.”

  Adam shakes one of Jeremy’s hands as he eyes the other one, which is in the process of snaking its way from my shoulder to my waist. “Adam Tencer,” he says, somewhat coldly. Hearing the tightness in Adam’s voice, I actually feel physical pain. Is he telling the truth? Am I really “this girl he always thought would be perfect”? And who the hell is the wannabe Playmate girl?

  “Um, Jeremy. Adam and I were actually in the middle of a conversation,” I say, removing his hand from my waist.

  “Hey, no problem,” he says, but he has “bad drunk” written all over his face and doesn’t move. He surveys the room, spies a waitress carrying a tray of Jell-O shots, and motions her over. Grabbing two cups off her tray, he leers at me. “What do you say, Party Girl? Want to do shots and get crazy like last time?”

  “No!” I snap. This is all going so horrifically wrong. I turn to Adam to explain things, thinking he may even laugh about how I tricked people into thinking I was doing shots, but the look on his face tells me not to bother.

  “Excuse me,” he says to Jeremy, not even looking at me. “I’ll leave you two to your shots.” He glances at me as he starts to walk away, and I start following him.

  “Adam! Stop! I need to explain.” I grab his arm and he turns around to face me.

  “No you don’t, Amelia. Seriously. I don’t know what game you’re playing here but I really don’t want any part of it.” He shakes me off and keeps walking.

  Tears sting my eyes as I start to follow him but I suddenly realize that there’s no point. As I watch him make his way over to Stephanie and Lizzie near the bar, I feel Jeremy enter my personal space yet again. Adam whispers something to Lizzie while Stephanie gives me a questioning look. I shrug as Jeremy envelops me in a hug.

  “Forget about that tool,” Jeremy says, and for some reason this seems incredibly soothing. “He probably thinks he’s hot shit because he’s on some sure-to-be-canceled series about real estate agents.”

  I feel suddenly grateful for Jeremy’s presence, so I turn around and smile at him. He takes my hand.

  “Seriously,” he says. “I don’t know what you have going on with that guy but he sure doesn’t seem to treat you right.”

  I nod as a tear falls down my face. “You’re right.”

  Jeremy reaches over and wipes the tear away and the act seems incredibly gentle, especially for someone who seemed like a drunken buffoon about five minutes ago. At least he’s being nice to me, I think, which is more than I can say for Adam.

  “Plus, this party sucks,” Jeremy says. “It would make anyone cry.”

  For some reason, this strikes me as incredibly hilarious and I start laughing like I haven’t in weeks. When Jeremy grabs my hand this time, I don’t shake him off.

  “What do you say we get the hell out of Dodge?” he asks, as he gives me a spontaneous twirl. “Have an after-party at my place?”

  My eyes land on Adam and Lizzie making their way to the exit, and then on Stephanie, now talking to someone near the bar. I wave to her and mouth that I’ll call her tomorrow.

  “Why the hell not?” I say.

  Jeremy’s house, nestled high in the Hollywood Hills, has a view not only of L.A. County and the Valley, but also of the roofs of houses belonging to Keanu Reeves and Leonardo Di Caprio. As I look at the incredible view, an altogether bizarre thought occurs to me.

  Roughly translated, it’s that I’m probably not an alcoholic.

  Suddenly, everything becomes incredibly clear. I never actually enjoyed drinking all that much—it always made me feel kind of achy and tired. But I allowed Tommy and everyone in rehab to convince me that being a coke fiend and an alcoholic were one and the same. But I could see now—Christ, any sane person could surely see—that they weren’t. They were entirely different. And I’d spent the past six-and-a-half months in meetings with people that, now that I thought about it, seemed incredibly insane. Justin was really the only person I felt connected to and he had distanced himself from Pledges altogether. Why had I allowed these militant sober people to influence me so much?

  Of course, I’ve been listening enough in meetings to have heard people talk about how this might happen to me—how one day my “disease” would probably try to convince me I wasn’t an alcoholic. But if I didn’t actually suffer from the disease, it couldn’t be my disease convincing me of anything, could it? Besides, who the hell believes that diseases can talk?

  The only person who could answer this, the only person who’d understand, is Justin. With Jeremy inside checking his messages and e-mails, I pull my BlackBerry out of my bag and speed-dial Justin.

  I’m sorry. The mailbox for the person you are calling is full. Please try again later.

  It’s that damn recorded voice lady, the one who always sounds so harsh and yet calm, a voice that couldn’t ever be in the midst of a crisis or important quandary because she’s not real. Suddenly, I’m having a hard time trying to figure out what is. And since Justin is one of these utterly modern creatures who uses his cell phone as his home phone, there’s nowhere else I can try him. I could call Stephanie, I think, but I know that try as she might, she won’t ultimately understand. And for some reason, I’m just not in the mood to hear Rachel’s opinions right now. “They” say that when you want to drink, you’re supposed to call someone in the program before you do. And I had tried, I tell myself. I did exactly what they told me to.

  “So, baby, what do you say—I’ve got a 1995 Chateau Margaux that I could crack if you’re game,” Jeremy says as he joins me out on the balcony. I detect the distinct scent of Drakkar Noir that wasn’t there before.

  “Jeremy, I have to tell you something and it’s going to sound a bit crazy,” I say, looking down at the infinity pool.

  “I like crazy.” If a voice could leer, his now is.

  “I don’t actually drink. I’m sober.” He looks at me confusedly, so I add, “I went to rehab.”

  “But—”

  “I faked doing the shot that night at the Roosevelt,” I say, and he crinkles his forehead as he clearly tries to go over that night in his mind. “Water looks exactly like vodka when it’s in a shot glass.”

  “No way,” he says, looking bizarrely intrigued. “But why?”

  “Well, I used to be really wild and crazy,” I say. “Holed-up-by-myself-at-home-not-able-to-stop-doing-coke crazy. I was completely out of control and I lost my job and was generally a real asshole. Then, just as I got my shit together, I was given the chance to write a column documenting my wild and crazy life, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. So I do
the column, culling all my information from my old life, and—”

  “Act the part when you have to,” he says, nodding approvingly. “That is crazy, baby. I like it.”

  I smile, relief over having gotten this off my chest flooding through me. “You don’t think I’m completely out of my mind?”

  Now it’s Jeremy’s turn to smile. “Oh, I do,” he says. “In a great way, though.” He turns to walk back inside. “So, what can I get you? I have cranberry juice and Perrier so I could make you a—”

  “That’s the thing,” I interrupt. “I haven’t had a drink in six and a half months, and I’d like to now.”

  “But I thought you just said—”

  “I said that I was a coke fiend. It’s the people at my rehab who have been telling me that means I’m an alcoholic, too.”

  He looks at me carefully. “I’ve always heard that those people like to go around calling everyone alcoholic,” he says.

  I nod. “They do. All of which is meant to say, yes, I’m game for splitting that bottle of wine.”

  Jeremy looks me over, then nods. “Great,” he smiles. “Let me go get it.”

  The first thought I have when I sip from the crystal goblet and feel the bitter and familiar-tasting liquid coasting down my throat is, Is this what all the fuss has been about? The rehab and the slogans and the meetings and the incessant talk about feelings has all been about this—this liquid? And, feeling even more empowered, I take another sip. It tastes…fine. Nice, even. Not like the first drop of water after having been stranded in the desert for six and a half months—not even close. Clearly, I say to myself, if I were really an alcoholic, this moment would feel monumental. But to me, right now, it just feels like I’m drinking something.

  “This is nice,” I say, smiling at Jeremy. I’ve never been able to tell the difference between Trader Joe’s $9.99 wine and the kind that people save for eons because it’s such a great vintage or whatever and this has always made me slightly self-conscious. If I were an alcoholic, surely I would have studied wines and gone to tastings and whatnot, I tell myself as Jeremy blathers on about why the wine’s particular year is so crucial.