by Babe Walker
“No.”
“Oh.” Paul stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that? The phone’s ringing.” He started crawling around on the ground, picked up one of his boots and held it to his ear. “Hello? Oh yeah, one sec.” Paul handed the shoe to me. “It’s for you.”
I took off my chemise.
“She’ll have to call you back,” Paul said calmly into his shoe, smirking.
He jumped onto the bed and we started furiously making out.
“Babe.”
“Paul.”
“You are, like, the best kisser. My mouth is on fire.”
“I’m glad you’re out of rehab and having fun, but I’m kind of worried about you,” I said, looking into his eyes.
“I think I love you.”
“No you don’t. What drugs are you on?”
“Babe, I’m not on drugs. I’m just chilling in my drug house right now.”
“Excuse me? Your drug house?”
“Yeah. Like, the floors and walls are made of molly. There’s also a whiskey garden, a weed chimney, and a cocaine skylight. It’s my dream mansion, and I live in it most of the time, but sometimes I go outside.”
“That is seriously fucked.”
Paul licked my neck. “You taste like a marshmallow. I’m gonna take a piss. Be right back.”
What is he doing here? I thought to myself. Was he sent here to protect me? What is the universe telling me right now—that Paul is the new Robert?
Five minutes went by.
Paul could totally kill someone if they broke in again.
Ten minutes went by.
Paul could be the love of my life if he were sober.
Then fifteen.
I’ll bet I can get him to go back to Cirque.
Then twenty.
I’ll bet I can get him to stop listening to dubstep.
Then thirty.
Paul is definitely the new Robert.
But where had he gone? Was he taking a shit? I really hoped not. That would be a terrible way to start the rest of our lives together. I got up, put on a robe, and walked by the bathroom door, but I didn’t hear anything. I knocked.
“Paul?”
Nothing. I knocked again.
“Paul, are you okay?”
Still nothing.
“Paul, are you pooping?”
Still nothing. At this point I was irritated, so I just started repeating “Paul? Paul? Paul? Paul?” over and over, hoping he would answer me. Finally, I just opened the door.
The good news was that Paul wasn’t pooping. The bad news was that he was dead. I’d never seen someone OD before, so I guess I went into a fugue state, repeating Paul’s name over and over as I ran back into my bedroom and dialed 911. The whole thing was just too Pulp Fiction meets Boogie Nights meets that really scary movie with Liv Tyler and that guy from Felicity.
I was still awash in a chorus of “Pauls” when the ambulance arrived. The paramedics tried to zap Paul’s chest or whatever, but it didn’t work. He was too dead. Finally they gave up, and like a candle in the wind, he was gone.
Some people waltz into your life only to leave moments later. This was happening to me a lot, post-Cirque. Actually, it had been happening with pretty much everyone in my life, with the exception of my family. I’d been hemorrhaging friends since leaving rehab. Was this the universe telling me I was a bitch, or the universe telling me that everyone else was? Either way, I was starting to be over it.
I got a Facebook message from Paul’s cousin saying that his family would prefer it if I didn’t attend the funeral. So rude, but ultimately fine because the funeral was going to be too dark, and I didn’t need that kind of negative energy in my life. Instead, I decided to have a light, uplifting memorial service for Paul in our backyard, which I felt would fully encapsulate his essence. There were no flowers, but there were lots of whiskey shots, and we all ended up pissing on the lawn. Trust me, it’s what he would have wanted. I wore a McQueen frock that had been in my closet for ages, and I only invited Mabinty and Skrillex. I gave a short eulogy, praising Paul for being tragically misunderstood.
“We’re gathered here today,” I solemnly began, “for me to talk about Paul because his family wouldn’t let me go to his real funeral. Basically, Paul, you were insane, but in the best way. The world will miss your unending rants about the evolution of dubstep music, and I know I’ll miss how much you looked like Josh Hartnett. But most of all, I wanted to say thanks. Your death has taught me that sometimes people just need to leave. Like me. I’m at a point in my life where the only option is escape. Escape from old friends, escape from Los Angeles, and escape from my stalker. Good night, sweet Pauly.”
My little speech was the least I could do. I dropped my head for a moment of silent remembrance, and as I lifted it up again to catch Mabinty shedding a tear I swear that over her shoulder I saw some sort of spirit float out of our pool. Paul? Maybe headed to heaven. Maybe hell. Who knows? I believe in neither.
All said and done, I was glad the McQueen dress got me through a funeral, even if it wasn’t the real one. Paul’s death made me realize that rehab doesn’t work most of the time, and if I was ever going to be happy, then I’d have to move on with my life as the old me, the real me.
Moving on.
Growing up.
Losing weight.
Finding peace.
In Europe.
nine
MOVE, GROW, LOSE, FIND.
“I’ve always been the kind of girl who needs to run unfettered, like a Friesian horse. When I’m bridled by sobriety and caged in a guest house, everything around me turns to shit. Case in point: The past couple of months I haven’t been myself—Hold on one second,” I said into the phone, as I looked up into the eyes of a pudgy blond Air France flight attendant who was hovering over me. “Can I help you?”
“Madame, we’re about to taxi out to the runway, so I’m going to need you to turn off all portable electronic devices, okay?”
I forced a single tear to roll down my cheek and attempted my best half-smile.
“Sorry, this is just really important because I’m on the phone with my rehab counselor and we, like, never talk. Plus, I know that electronics don’t actually disrupt anything because my dad used to fly planes, but I will be sure to put my phone away once the plane starts actually taking off, I swear. That uniform is really flattering on you. Can I have another vodka soda?”
The flight attendant blinked and walked away. I gulped down the remainder of my first cocktail in six months and continued my conversation.
“The point is, Jackson, people don’t change. They don’t. I’m always going to be the same Babe Walker who crawled into Cirque Lodge Drug Rehabilitation Center last winter. And you are always going to be the same Jackson who loves telling people they need to ‘search within their within’ even though nobody knows what that actually means, including you. My Ambien’s about to kick in, so I have to go, but I just called to say that Paul is dead and I’m going to Europe for a few months to shop my ass off. Hope you’re having fun in Utah. Call me back if you get this. Or don’t. Your choice.”
I put my phone on airplane mode and threw it into my bag. Gazing out the window, I felt the kind of peace that can only be felt when you’re about to take off on a direct flight from LAX to CDG. Or the kind of peace that can only be felt when you’ve mixed a double vodka soda and a 10mg sleeping pill. Either way it didn’t matter, because in twelve hours I’d be in Europe putting the events of the past two months behind me. I reclined my seat to make a bed, sprayed some Evian mist on my face, and put on an eye mask. Good-bye, Los Angeles. Hello, Euro Babe.
Unless you’ve ever been the victim of a stalker at large, I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend the levels of anxiety I’d been suffering. All the opiates in the world couldn’t quell the nightmares I’d begun having after the notes first started appearing. I awoke the entire first-class cabin on my flight to France thanks to a nightmare involving zombie sorority girls covering me in b
lack lipstick. There were hundreds of them. I was in a tube top and the lipstick they were smearing all over me felt like tar on my dream skin. I woke up screaming, which I guess was very disturbing to the other passengers. One very thin woman even told me to go fuck myself when she saw me at the baggage claim. The remarkable thing is that I was able to push through the fear, taking every day as a new challenge. Moving on, growing up, losing weight, finding peace. Move, grow, lose, find.
Running away to Paris was more than just a method of escaping the sick joke my life in Los Angeles had become; it was my way of truly rehabbing myself. Cirque had been a way for me to take a breather and examine my life choices, get some perspective, and lose some weight, but at the end of the day, did I really have a “shopping problem”? No. Was I a “drug addict”? Never. Did I like doing drugs? Absolutely. Did I have “anger issues”? Who doesn’t? It was time to embrace my true self: The Babe who stole an Hermès cuff from Neiman’s before she could walk. The Babe who would always be a little bit in love with Lance Bass. The Babe who sued Genevieve when she was sixteen for buying the same color prom dress as her. The real Babe is a woman who needs to shop and sleep late and roll her eyes at people who won’t let her smoke cigarettes inside.
I was going to live my life the way I wanted to and listen to my gut (ew), which meant I would finally be free. And not like “zen bullshit meditation yoga namaste” free, more like “shoulder dancing, unbrushed hair, leather jackets, whispering in men’s ears, salads, blowouts, the occasional blow moment, cigarettes, shopping, clear liquids, smoothies, and champagne” free.
Although I no longer subscribed to the universe and its ways, I suppose it was still kind of delivering, because my dad’s partner’s overweight daughter who’d been studying at the Sorbonne for a semester had suffered a nervous breakdown and was taking a few months off to detox at an Italian spa/retreat/fat camp. This meant her amazing apartment in the Eighth Arrondissement was up for grabs, and I was happy to take it over for her while she renovated her neglected midsection.
Even though it featured a little too much shabby chicness for my taste, the apartment itself didn’t pose any problems that a quick feng shui session and a trip to les marchés aux puces couldn’t fix. It had huge windows, molded ceilings, natural light, and super dark wood floors. Very inspiring once I’d gotten rid of most of her furniture. I was actually glad to have a project to keep me busy for my first week à Paris. Even though Cicily hadn’t asked me to redecorate, I knew I was doing her a huge favor by creating a chicer, thinner space for her to live in once she’d lost all that weight. Upon arriving home to her freshly curated living quarters, she’d never want to eat frites again. That’s the Babe Effect™.
I’d traveled light to Europe, only bringing a carry-on, three suitcases of vintage, a suitcase of basics, and two suitcases of shoes. The best way to revamp my wardrobe would be to start from scratch. I wasted no time in going to Colette and then traipsing up and down Boulevard Saint-Germain buying my spring/summer/fall/life staples. Being back in my element felt so empowering. After a couple days of very focused and selective acquisitions, I was ready to be a Parisian. My spirits were high. I was living in the now. Nothing could faze me.
I decided to send Genevieve and Roman apology presents (Louis Vuitton metallic cap-toe pumps and a Givenchy bird of paradise shirt, respectively) and invited them to come visit me via text. This was my attempt to make things right between us. Gen responded with “What? No!” which I knew meant, “Thanks and I love you too, but I can’t leave my demanding job right now because I’m a total workaholic.” Roman called to thank me. He was busy recording demos for an upcoming EP, but he offered to come out in a couple of months if I was still abroad. I was just glad they both still wanted to be my friend despite the fact that I’d acted like a wretched ogre. Well, Gen had really acted like an ogre too, but it was fine. All was forgiven.
One day I was in the middle of trying on the most incredible Creamsicle-orange Sonia Rykiel cocoon shearling coat when I got this email:
FROM: Donna Valeo
SUBJECT: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:22:56 AM EST
TO: Babe Walker
Hi Babe,
It’s been a while. I’m sorry about Paul. Gina told me what happened, and says you’re in Paris now. Are you enjoying your trip?
xDonna
Gina and I had been in touch via text ever since I’d left Cirque, and I assumed she told Donna some of the stuff I told her, but this kind of threw me. I took a seat on the dressing room floor, lit a smoke, fluffed my hair, and formulated a response:
FROM: Babe Walker
SUBJECT: Re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:30:24 AM EST
TO: Donna Valeo
Hey?
Paris is Paris. You know.
Babe
FROM: Donna Valeo
SUBJECT: Re: re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:41:59 AM EST
TO: Babe Walker
The reason I asked is I’m going to be there for a week at the end of the month to do another shoot for Vogue Paris. I’d like to catch up if you’re free.
FROM: Babe Walker
SUBJECT: Re: re: re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:43:18 AM EST
TO: Donna Valeo
Um, sure. Will Gina be here too?
FROM: Donna Valeo
SUBJECT: Re: re: re: re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:49:37 AM EST
TO: Babe Walker
No, she’s staying in New York. She just adopted two baby alpacas, so she’s taking care of them. Couldn’t make it out this time. Will be nice to see you.
FROM: Babe Walker
SUBJECT: Re: re: re: re: re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 8:57:26 AM EST
TO: Donna Valeo
Totally. My # is (310) ###-####. Text me when you’re here and we’ll figure something out. Tell Gina alpacas make better sweaters than pets.
FROM: Donna Valeo
SUBJECT: Re: re: re: re: re: re: Hi
DATE: June 8th, 2012 9:00:31 AM EST
TO: Babe Walker
Will do.
So that was that. Three weeks later Donna arrived in Paris. I’d been so busy shopping, drinking rosé, and making French friends (mostly fashion gays and one waify American girl from La Jolla) that I’d forgotten she was even coming until she texted me that she’d checked into her hotel, the Four Seasons Hotel George V. Her modeling thing was the next morning, so she was going to rest, shoot for a couple days, and we’d get dinner and have a night out when she’d wrapped. I was actually kind of nervous to see her. Yes, she was cool and modely for a forty-four-year-old, but we hadn’t spent any time together since randomly meeting at rehab. What if she was crazy? I mean, I get that you have to be a little insane to still be modeling in your forties, but what if she was Sharon Stone crazy? I couldn’t decide whether I’d love that or not.
When it came time for us to go to dinner, I was a little on edge, so I decided to formulate an outfit that accurately displayed my emotions. A T-shirt by The Row, underneath a crocodile Givenchy blazer with a huge shark-tooth pendant, Chanel hot pants, and Céline platform Mary Janes. Restrained, yet whimsical. Powerful, yet independent.
I met Donna at Café de Flore. She looked really fresh but kind of scared, which made me feel less scared. Neither of us ate much (obviously), but I guess it was nice to have a chance to catch her up on everything I’d been up to since leaving Cirque. Even though she’d never really be my mom, she was still my mom, so I figured I should try to get used to her. I mean, she’d missed every milestone of my most exciting years on Earth (everything after twenty-five is boring bullshit), so I figured we could, at the very least, b
e acquaintances who texted every now and then. Who knows? Maybe we would grow to have the kind of relationship where I could talk to her about STD scares. Either way, I was open to exploring our mother/daughter relationship.
We texted Gina a selfie of the two of us sipping rosé (no one drinks cocktails in Paris). Once we finished dinner, Donna mentioned she had to swing by Silencio, members only, to show face at the wrap party for her photo shoot and asked me if I wanted to come with. Um, duh. Little did she know I’d been a member since forever, and was already on the guest list. Like mother like daughter, I guess.
We arrived at Silencio and were promptly seated at a banquette, a bottle of Dom Pérignon Brut Rosé on ice placed before us. The crowd was mostly Parisian fashion people who were too chic to care what was going on. People were smoking cigarettes, Blondie was playing. I was stuck in a black mirrored room with a bunch of stylish demons and I could not have been more obsessed. Yes, the French are rude, but they secretly love Americans—especially if they find out you’re from California. French people have it bad for California. There was this man seated in a corner booth whose silhouette reminded me of Robert’s, but I was sure Robert wasn’t in Paris and it was probably just my mind playing tricks on me. I wondered if I’d ever stop having visions of him.
I was shoulder dancing with a fashion gay I knew and congratulating him on his enormous Yohji Yamamoto coat, when I suddenly got this weird feeling that someone was staring at me. I turned around and saw this tall, tan Greek god looking right through my eyes and into my vagina. He had to be at least 6'7", with longish golden-y brown hair that was kind of slicked back, but not in a gross way. He was wearing Hermès everything and it was working. I rolled my eyes at him because I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I gave a shit, and poured myself another glass of champagne. As I took a sip, I felt someone come up behind me, move my hair off my neck, and say in a low, husky voice:
“You are without a doubt the sexiest person in this club.”
