by Babe Walker
Téo answered the door with a full glass of whiskey in his hand. The suite reeked of Marc Jacobs Daisy and cigarettes. He dragged me into one of the bedrooms, past a few random crowds of random people smoking and not really talking to each other. No sign of the actress, but I had a feeling she was lurking in one of the bathrooms. Téo smoked a joint, I secondhand smoked a joint, and we had a totally deep conversation about how scary wealth can be. I confided in him about my stalker, he told me it was probably just an obsessed fan of my book, which I highly doubted. We even kissed for like five seconds, but he didn’t get a boner.
Téo paraded me around the room, introducing me to all of his friends. “This is Babe Walker, creator of White Girl Problems. She basically changed the landscape of social media,” he told everyone. Téo knew everyone so well, or at least he made it seem that way. If you know the first thing about me, you know that I have a strong distaste for small talk, especially when it’s about myself and my career, but I was being open. So the night called for a lot of very quick mind-centering mantra reps and about six hundred Marlboro Lights.
Later, my new bestie told me that he and another guy also had a bonerless make-out encounter in the bathroom, so I accepted Téo as a chic asexual bisexual and proclaimed him my new Genevieve and Roman combined. I don’t know what exactly Téo did for a living or where he came from, but everyone greeted him with a smile. I’d never seen anything like it.
By six a.m., everyone besides me was beyond fucked up. The actress had emerged from the bathroom (I was right) and was naked except for a thong, a fur coat, and a HUGE Rolex (which turned out to be stolen). She writhed around on the floor while Téo played a Lou Reed record and took pictures of her with his vintage Leica. He even got a shot of her throwing up into a Birkin filled with cash. It was kind of the most artistic thing she’s ever done, besides Machete. I mean, I would totally buy that photo to put in my pool house or something. When the actress started going around the room pointing at all the guests one by one and calling them “fucking retarded,” the party was officially over.
The next morning, I woke up to this text:
Téo 7:48AM Baby muffin, wake the fuck up and come to the pool. We’re relaxing. Wear something vintage. T
It was at this point that I realized Téo must not sleep, ever. I obviously had nothing to do all day, so I obliged.
When I got to the pool at Sunset Tower and located my new friends lying out next to a table of booze and untouched food, I texted Téo.
Babe 11:40AM I’m here. Where are you?
Sometimes, when you arrive somewhere, it’s a good idea to pretend you can’t find the person you’re meeting, even if you’re looking right at them. I can’t really explain why, but it sets up a good power dynamic between you and your friends. Also, approaching large groups of people alone is not cute.
Téo 11:41AM I’ll come get you.
He came and swooped me up, leading me to his group of friends, which included the actress and several other girls who were dressed eerily like the actress. Everyone was sporting vintage, but in an acceptable way, not a Coachella way. No one was talking. They all were sitting calmly flipping through crisp issues of V magazine, Vogue, and British Vogue. I wasn’t entirely turned off by the vibe, which was a huge relief. Thoughts of my stalker occasionally popped into my head, especially when someone mentioned anything to do with lipstick (there were a lot of heavy lipstick scenarios going on with these girls), but I was able to keep my anxiety to a minimum.
“Everyone meet Babe Walker, creator of White Girl Problems. She basically changed the landscape of social media all from her phone. And she wrote a book,” announced Téo.
“Hi,” I said to the bevy of bikinied zombies.
“We have,” said the actress, not looking up from her magazine.
“Excuse me?” I had no idea what she meant by that.
“We have met. In the bathroom . . . and in the room . . . and now. We know each other. I know about your book—it’s funny. And if you’re friends with Téo, then you’re safe.”
“Um . . .”
“Sit.”
It was like she had this weird command over everyone—including me. I sat down at the foot of an empty chaise. The whole thing was very shameful for me. My power play had gone to shit.
Luckily, the actress and I didn’t have to interact after that odd exchange where she totally queen-bee’d me. Téo and I just lounged while eating ice cubes and making fun of the B-list celebs who were also sunning out at the pool. Whenever someone remotely attractive walked by, Téo said hi to them and bragged about what a famous writer I was. He was basically acting like my publicist, which is tacky, I know, but I let it happen. If I was going to move onward and (more important) upward from my previous social strata, I could use the help from someone as connected and sharky as T.
Two of the girls in his posse were these very, very thin twins named Madalena and Helena. They spent the entire afternoon seeing who could stay underwater the longest. They may have been seventeen, not clear. Also in our group, making everyone uncomfortable, was an obese girl with a neck tattoo of a hummingbird. Téo claimed her mom owned Equinox, which I found astonishing and deeply sad. I was starting to doubt the integrity of my new friend circle. The usual questions swirled: Are they fun enough? Are they chic enough? Are they too LA? Am I the only person here who’s been to rehab? Definitely not.
After a few hours of pooling I needed a nap, so I gracefully made my exit without saying bye to anyone. Everyone was asleep when I left anyway. When Téo invited me to come join in their group “relaxing,” what he meant was group “Xanaxing.”
Over the next few weeks, Téo and I hung out/went out a lot. He was never scarce with compliments and he always picked up the phone when I needed to talk about Robert. Plus, he was a male Gemini (my fave). We went to art openings, club openings, restaurant openings, and one weird party in Topanga Canyon that turned out to be an orgy. He even invited me to go to Sanya (google it) with him and this Japanese pop star he was friends with.
But I never made it to Sanya. Téo and I were supposed to have lunch a couple weeks before the trip to hash out the details and discuss our various Sanya looks, but he “got held up at a photo shoot” and told me I could fly private with him if I “just came to the Burbank airport on Friday,” not specifying a date or time, and not responding to my texts inquiring as to when exactly the flight was leaving. Then the next Saturday morning he texted me that he’d landed at Fenghuang airport and that he would have called me but he “lost his phone.” Whatever. I never heard from Téo again, but I did see a pic of him sitting at Nicole Kidman’s Golden Globes table, so yay Téo.
Not long after Téo disappeared, I ran into his weird twin friends Mads and Hels at a macrobiotic cooking class at M Café. They were inappropriately excited to see me, so I let them have my number. I didn’t want to like them, but I couldn’t deny the fact that visually we made a lot of sense. Not only were they super tall, super naturally blond, and super bitchy, but my hair was in fact the perfect shade of chocolate brown to be hanging out with them. When they got into an epic screaming match (in the middle of our class) over a Balmain clutch that Helena had borrowed from Madelena without permission, and Madelena threatened to strangle Helena in her sleep with her own hair, I knew I’d found my new psycho besties.
We went out for drinks later that night and I was so right—we were the perfect trifecta of hair color and skin tone. I mean, yes, they were crazy and they drank too much and triple kissed with some guy, which was kind of gross, but they were also a lot of fun. They ended up spending the night in my guest house and we stayed up talking ’til sunrise. It was like I’d met two blonder, less pretty, less intelligent versions of myself as a teenager.
But after two weeks of hanging out nonstop, things got dark. Madelena and Helena were super competitive and they were always trying to put me in the middle of their drama. I mean, mostly they’d fight about clothes, so it was kind of a non-issue, but hanging ou
t with twins in matching Isabel Marant Bekkets was really annoying. Especially when the truth was that I hated wedge sneakers and I wished they would go away forever. Also, they’d get really violent with each other if either of them happened to be on Provigil that day. I finally had to call it quits with them after seeing Helena pull out a chunk of Madelena’s hair with her teeth because they both wanted to wear the same leather jacket to lunch. Not to mention the fact that Helena also bit me when I tried to play referee to their insanity. I thought fashion took me to a dark place, but I clearly had no idea.
My social life had been wreaking havoc on my skin, so I decided to take a night off from being out and reinvigorate with a HUGE bottle of alkalized negative ion water, hibiscus tea, and a tourmaline-charged radiance face mask. I had just washed the mask off and was slipping into bed when I heard the unmistakable sound of an American SUV approaching the back gate.
I checked the security camera via an app on my iPhone, and was shocked to see Robert’s surly Ford rental parked just up the street. I knew it was his because I had taken a mental photograph of the license plate when I was with him last (just something I always do when getting into cars). My first thought was: What the fuck? My second thought was: He’s come here to ask me to marry him. My third thought was: Do something you’ll regret.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. I switched to the front door camera view and, sure enough, Robert was standing on the fucking porch of the guest house. I pressed the intercom button.
“I’d invite you in, but the stress of becoming a lovelorn psychopath every time I see you causes lasting damage to my pores.”
“Ha-ha. Can we talk?”
“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”
“Just let me in.”
“Too dangerous. I wouldn’t want to have another episode that causes you to leave and not talk to me for six weeks. So just say what you need to say.”
“Fine. I forgive you for the whole Babette thing at Chateau.”
“You forgive me?”
“Hear me out—”
“I forgive you for coming on to me even though you were engaged, telling me you loved me, and leaving when I got too emotional, then disappearing for a month and a half.”
“I’m sorry. I fucked up. Can you please let me in so we can talk it out?”
“Please, Robert. There’s nothing to say! You can’t handle Babette. You left. You never called me. The end.”
“You know, you could have called me when you got your shit sorted out, but you never did. So this is not entirely my fault.”
“Oh, okay. What the hell was I going to say to you? ‘Hey, Robert, it’s me, the psycho who tried to force analingus and marriage on you. How’s it going?’ ” Robert started laughing, which infuriated me. “It’s not funny,” I continued.
“Babe, come on. It’s kind of funny.”
“No, it’s actually not. It’s fucked up and sad. We’re cursed.”
“Let me in.”
“No. Please leave.”
“Is that what you really want?”
Of course it wasn’t. What I really wanted was for Robert to bust down my front door, fight off the guard dogs, run up to my room, get down on one knee, and propose to me while slipping a four-carat Harry Winston emerald-cut diamond ring on my finger. I wanted him to tell me that I’ve always been The One, and then I would tell him that he’s always been The One—that he would always be The One. Robert and Babe forever. But I couldn’t say that to him.
“Yes, that’s what I want. I can’t be the girlfriend you’re constantly forgiving for being a lunatic.”
“Who said anything about you being my girlfriend?”
“What did you just say?”
“It was a joke, Babe.”
“Okay. Clearly you’re not taking this seriously. Leave now.”
Robert stared into the security camera for what seemed like an hour but was really only two minutes and thirty-six seconds. I know this because I recorded the footage and saved it to my phone. He looked so sad.
“Fine, I’ll leave.” He turned around to go and then walked back up to the door. “No, you know what? You’re acting like a child. Grow some balls.”
“You grow some balls!”
“I have fucking balls, Babe. That’s why I’m at your door trying to talk to you. God . . . fuck it. I’m sick of this shit.”
“Me too. I hate this and I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”
“I don’t actually hate you. That was a test. But since you clearly hate me, you can get the fuck out of here. Now.”
And with that, Robert turned and walked back to his car, got in, slammed the door shut, and drove away. And I rolled over and cried myself to sleep.
I awoke two hours later to the sounds of someone frantically knocking on the front door. I thrashed about, looking for my phone, which had disappeared into my comforter, but my attention was quickly diverted from the bed to the wall next to my closet. A Terry Richardson portrait of me that I’d hung there upon moving into the guest house was smashed to bits. The frame was mangled and there were shards of glass scattered all over the floor beneath it. But the photo of me inside the frame was the scariest part. Whoever had smashed it up had scribbled out my eyes and drawn all over my hair with black lipstick.
I shot out of bed, screaming bloody murder, and ran down to the kitchen, where I grabbed the biggest butcher knife I could find. The knocking was intensifying.
“Go the fuck away!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “I will cut you the fuck up!”
The knocking stopped. I crept over to the flat-screen security panel mounted on the kitchen wall and checked the front door cam to see who could possibly be trying to kill me at 2 a.m., praying that it would be Robert coming back to save my life.
But it wasn’t Robert. It was Paul.
eight
REHAB IS FOR PUSSIES.
Paul was a fellow rehabber I’d been sleeping with during most of my time at Cirque. He had an enormous penis. If you took Josh Hartnett and added two inches to his dick and overall height, you’d have Paul. Unfortunately, in addition to being hot, he was also a total psycho, which made him great to fuck but hard to deal with when he wasn’t inside me.
Our attraction started innocently enough—we’d make out in storage closets after our group therapy sessions while everyone was at dinner. But then once my roommate left, I started sneaking Paul into my bed at night. He developed feelings for me and things got messy. I was looking for someone to blow off steam with (and sometimes blow), and he was looking for someone to latch onto. He needed a real girlfriend who could handle listening to him read Bukowski aloud. Our “relationship” was doomed from the start. But here he was, at my house. My heart jumped into my throat. Was he the one who’d been after me this whole time?
I pressed the intercom button.
“Why aren’t you at Cirque?”
“Baaaaaaaabe. I left. Rehab is for pussies. Lemme in.”
“No. How did you know I live here?”
“You wrote me a letter a week after you were out and told me I was the most spesh person you’ve ever met, and that I should come visit you.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Fuck. I had totally forgotten that, in a momentary fit of missing Paul, I’d written him a semi-love letter. Had I encouraged stalker-ish behavior?
“Did you break in earlier?”
“No way, dude.”
“Liar.”
“I just got here.”
“When?”
“Just now! Landed at LAX an hour ago. This town is fucking boring as fuck, yo!”
“Hold on.”
I rewound all the camera footage and sure enough Paul had gotten dropped off by a taxi and sauntered up to the door of the guest house five minutes earlier. Even though he was acting exactly like Skeet Ulrich in Scream, he wasn’t the culprit. Truthfully I was kind of glad Paul showed up when he did, because he could provide protection from whoever was trying to elim
inate me.
I ran back upstairs, swept up the broken glass, put the mangled picture frame in the closet, fluffed my hair, threw on a La Perla silk georgette chemise with a matching thong, and opened the front door, trying to look as bored as possible.
“Can I help you?”
“Molly for Pauly!” Paul screamed, scooping me up and running into the house with me in his arms. Oh great. Paul was high on molly. He carried me all over the house while I half-protested, and then ran up the stairs to my room, where he threw me on the bed. I wanted to hate him, but I was kind of loving this moment for myself.
According to our group therapy sessions, Paul Courtyard (Courtyard as in Courtyard by Marriott) had grown up with tons of money. His parents bought him his own mansion in Beverly Hills when he was fifteen. Then Paul got into a really intense relationship with some girl named Naomi. He also got into a really intense relationship with heroin, MDMA, and poppers. When Naomi dumped him because she couldn’t deal with his other relationships, Paul lost his shit and beat up her dad (kind of hot) and almost killed him (kind of really hot, except not at all). Instead of going to jail, he was ordered to complete six months of rehab. He spent most of his time in treatment brooding, talking about Skrillex, and fucking me, so I guess it’s not that surprising that he hadn’t made much progress.
“Babe, you look hot!” he exclaimed, breathing heavily.
“Thanks, Paul.”
“No, I mean your face is melting off.”
“Ugh. Stay here, I’m gonna get you some water.”
When I came back to the bedroom, Paul was wandering around naked.
“Paul, just because we used to fuck in rehab and you’re naked in my bedroom doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you now.” Of course I was going to fuck Paul. He was hot as shit, and somehow even more attractive in his altered mental state. Plus, the adrenaline rush from my near-death experience had left me kind of turned on.
“Babe, whyyyy?” he whined. “I came all the way here to find you. Jesus, it’s like two hundred degrees in your house. Why do you have so many plants? Is this a jungle?”
