Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book

by Babe Walker

  It was the dumbest pickup line I’d ever heard, so dumb that it actually worked on me. He continued. “My name is Calisto, but everyone calls me Cal. Come have a drink with my friends.”

  “I have my own friends, but thanks.”

  “Then come have a drink with me.”

  “No.”

  Smash cut to Cal and me sitting in the banquette, so close to each other that our legs were touching and I could smell his cologne. Tom Ford Neroli Portofino. Chic. He was talking about his passion for Formula One racing when Donna walked brusquely over to me.

  “We have to go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “See that woman over there?” she said, pointing to a really upset and drunk-looking model type.

  “Yeah . . . ohmigod, is that Kate Moss?”

  “Yes, it is. Come on.” She motioned toward the exit.

  “Wait, why?”

  “Just get your purse. I’ll tell you when we’re outside.”

  I turned to Cal.

  “Gotta go.” I smiled. “Bye.”

  I leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, and he turned his head at the last second so our lips touched briefly, sending an unexpected wave of chills through my body. His gaze on me felt so intense that I had no choice but to write my phone number on the nearest matchbook, thrust it into his hand, and leave immediately without saying another word. It was a bold move, but well played.

  I pushed my way out of le club and onto rue Montmartre to find Donna basically hyperventilating in the street, cigarette in hand. I hailed a cab and got us the fuck out of there. Once Donna had calmed down, I pressed her for more info.

  “What the fuck was that?” I asked. “Last I checked, everyone was having fun. You were talking to Nicolas Ghesquière, and I was being seduced by a Greek Clive Owen. Remember?”

  “I threw a glass of champagne at Kate Moss.”

  “Oh. Dark. You two know each other?”

  “Not really. She and I had a thing years ago. It was nothing, but I just get so crazy when I see her. We came to blows at this gala in London. I ‘accidentally’ ripped the train of her dress.”

  “I remember that! That was you? All the papers said it was Courtney Love.”

  “No, that was me.”

  “Genius!”

  “I don’t know what it is, but she just makes me insane. I literally can’t control myself around her.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I’m sorry,” Donna said under her breath. She seemed genuinely embarrassed.

  “It’s okay. Does Gina know about your Kate Hulk-outs?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s not the issue. Gina doesn’t care. It’s just—”

  “Jesus, did you sleep with Kate Moss! Is she noisy?” Then I remembered that Donna was my mom, not a friend. “Oh God, is that totally inappropriate? I don’t really know how to talk to moms, much less my own mom. You don’t have to answer that.”

  Donna laughed. “No, no. It’s fine. She’s a very sweet girl, actually.”

  “Oh, well, that’s boring,” I said, disappointed. I’d always thought of Kate Moss as the girl who drinks all the booze, does all the drugs, and has all the fun.

  “But . . . it’s almost as if she elicited this crazy fucking alter ego in me,” Donna said, shaking her head and looking out at the rainy Paris night. Although she said it in passing, it hit me like a Rick Owens boot to the skull. Alter ego? Is Kate Moss my mom’s Robert? I thought. Is Babette genetic?

  I grabbed Donna’s hand.

  “I know what you— Whoa, Jesus, your hands are freezing!”

  “Yeah, bad circulation. Guess you didn’t get that from me. Lucky.”

  “No, I guess I didn’t inherit your weird, cold hands . . . but, um, I think I may have gotten your split personality disorder.” And right as I said this, Donna turned her head to me and looked right into my eyes.

  “When you fall for someone?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Someone who actually fits into your life?”

  “Yes,” I said, catatonically staring back at Donna. It felt like I was meeting myself for the first time.

  “The second you fall in love, you become someone else. An archangel.”

  “Babette.”

  “Donatella.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Then the weirdest thing happened. Donna and I scooted up next to each other and hugged, almost involuntarily. After a split second, we broke away awkwardly and I gave her an abridged lecture in Babe Loves Robert 101, which was basically just me weeping and Donna telling me it was okay. She confided in me that when she first met Gina, she was exactly like that. Donatella was her Babette. It took her years of therapy and self-exploration to exorcise her inner beast, but she did it. Seeing Kate Moss must’ve triggered Donatella’s psycho habits. For the first time since we met at Cirque, I felt actually related to my mother.

  Luckily the snotting, nose-blowing, and retelling of embarrassing anecdotes had ended by the time the taxi pulled up to the front of the Four Seasons.

  “Hold on, you can keep the meter running,” Donna said to the driver, who didn’t understand a word she said.

  “Babe”—she grabbed me—“you have more spirit inside of you than you know what to do with. You are a beautiful woman and you have to trust me when I say this: You are stronger than Babette and you will find a way to accept love. You will believe in yourself. You must believe that you can find love.”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “I mean it.”

  “I believe you. This is just all so intense.”

  “I know.”

  As we held each other (for way too long) I wondered if Donna was right. Could I eventually exorcise Babette from my being? She seemed to have done it with Gina. But was it possible for me to do it with Robert? Maybe there was hope for me after all.

  “Okay,” said Donna, wiping her nose. “I have to head up to my room and call Gina. I’m sure she’s waiting to hear from me. Thank you, Babe, thanks for talking. You know . . . I have some handbags that were gifted to me from the shoot today. Do you want one? You could come by in the morning and take a look at them. We could have coffee before I go.” I was glad to move on from the topic of “impossible love” to bags.

  “What kind of handbags?” I asked.

  “A couple Célines, and I think there’s a Proenza, and maybe a Jérôme Dreyfuss? Not sure though.”

  “Okay. See you at ten.”

  And that was that.

  Breakfast was whatever. We made some small talk and drank coffee. I didn’t take a purse from Donna. It felt weird for some reason. Getting on an emotional level with her in a taxi the night before was one thing, but letting her give me a bag would have been way too intimate. Plus, they were all kind of ugly, and I already had the Célines.

  I walked Donna downstairs and waited while her driver loaded her bags into the car. I didn’t know what to do, so I went in for a limp hug.

  “Thanks for emailing me.”

  Donna squeezed me and held on really tight. Like, really hugged me before pulling away.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out last night, but I’m glad it made us talk about our shit. I feel like I know you now, Babe.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And I’m sorry you inherited my emotional bullshit.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You can always call me. I know how it feels.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Then I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “It was good to see you, Donna. And I don’t blame you for Babette. But I kind of do.”

  With that, Donna kissed me on both cheeks and turned toward the black Mercedes idling by the curb. Before shutting the door, she turned to me and yelled, “Just call him!” The words stung, but I pushed out a smile anyway. I obviously wanted to call Robert, but I couldn’t let myself go down that path. Forward motion was the key to my growth, I knew that. Robert and Babette were my past. Forward motion. Forward mot
ion. Forward motion. I kept repeating those words to myself as I made the trip up to my apartment and let myself in. Forward motion. Forward motion. All this talk about Robert had made me want to call or text him more than ever, so I decided to take a shower. It was the only way I could be alone without reaching for my phone. I disrobed and headed for the bathroom. Forward motion. Moving on. Growing up. Losing weight. Finding peace. Forward mo—

  That’s when I saw it. Written in black lipstick, on the mirrored bathroom door:

  Wouldn’t it be fun to get murdered in Paris? Enjoy your time on this earth while you still can.

  TTYL

  I must have passed out cold on the marble floor, because when I came to, the random maid who cleaned the apartment every week was standing over me looking extremely concerned. She helped me to my feet and I hugged her and started weeping.

  “How is this possible? Did you see anyone in here? Who is doing this to me?!”

  The maid looked completely freaked out. She tried to console me, but she couldn’t speak a word of English, so I couldn’t really understand what she was saying. She started wiping the note off the door.

  “No! Don’t touch that!” I screamed. “It’s evidence. We need to get a forensics team in here, pronto. Somebody is trying to fucking murder me.”

  The maid stared at me blankly.

  “Can you call the police?”

  Silence.

  “The police? POLICE? 911?”

  Nothing. She was clearly going to be of no use to me.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just go ahead and clean the rest of the apartment,” I said, wiping my tears away as I nudged her out of the bathroom. Confused, she hustled out into the bedroom.

  I locked the bathroom door behind her and began to have the world’s biggest panic attack. Whose handwriting was this? How had my stalker followed me across the world? How could they have known I was in Paris? How did they get into the apartment? All I had were questions and no answers. I sat on the floor, curled up next to the sink, shivering and hyperventilating for the next two hours while the maid cleaned the rest of the apartment. I waited until she left and then emerged. I obviously had to get out of there, but I had no idea where to go next. America and France were no longer safe. Fuck it. I’d just go to Charles de Gaulle and choose a destination once I got there. The point was, I needed to escape, and fast. I started shoving clothing into random suitcases.

  Suddenly I heard my phone ringing. I fished it out of my purse, praying it was my dad or Mabinty or someone familiar, but it was a foreign number I didn’t recognize. Maybe this was my stalker? I answered.

  “Listen, you motherfucker. If this is the person who’s been threatening to kill me, you’re not gonna get away with it,” I said in the most authoritative tone I could muster.

  “It’s Cal. Come with me to Greece.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “What?”

  “Is this Babe?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Calisto. We met last night at Silencio. You have been on my mind ever since. I am leaving for Mykonos this afternoon and would love for you to join me. My private jet departs from Paris–Le Bourget airport at sixteen hundred hours. If you tell me your address I can send a car for you.”

  This was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Cal’s words made me feel protected from the vicious forces of evil in the world. Plus, I needed an out and a flight to Greece wasn’t a bad option.

  “Okay.”

  ten

  FOOD IS NOT WHAT I’M HUNGRY FOR.

  I left the Paris apartment with all my shit shoved haphazardly in suitcases. Nothing was organized, but it didn’t matter. I would figure it all out once I was in Greece.

  I met Cal on the tarmac of the private airport around 3:45 p.m. The car he’d sent for me pulled up right next to his plane. My mind was still racing, desperately trying to process the fact that someone had followed me to Paris with malicious intent, but despite my mental unclarity, it was a really chic moment overall. Getting on a private plane with a complete stranger felt like an organic decision for Euro Babe. Also, I had to get the fuck out of Paris before I got murdered, and Cal had provided a direction that at least solved that part of the equation.

  Fortunately for me, there was something about Cal that was so captivating. He was brooding and sexy, and he had really honest eyes. The energy between us was palpable and exciting. Our spirit animals must have mated in their past spirit lives.

  On the short flight from Paris to Mykonos, we made it through the usual “here’s my background” talk. Cal was born in Greece and raised in Paris, his grandfather was the son of a shoemaker and then became a billionaire shipping magnate, and now Cal was running the “family business.” He was thirty-two, divorced, no kids, and he drove Formula One race cars for fun (unclear). His plane was nice, but not as nice or as big as you would think it would be, for a billionaire. I expected more rooms and more white leather. Just more everything, really.

  “That’s a beautiful Hermès bag you’ve got. Whoever bought that for you must really care about you.” Cal smiled.

  “Oh, this old thing? It’s my travel Birkin. I bought it for myself as a middle school graduation present.”

  “I noticed you had a different Hermès bag when we met at Silencio.”

  “Hermès is kind of my thing.”

  “My ex-wife asked for a Birkin every birthday, but I never obliged. Deep down I guess I knew it wasn’t going to work out in the end.”

  “I get it. Birkins represent eternal devotion.”

  “Yes, they do. I would buy you a Birkin, Babe.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  Apparently Euro Babe had it all figured out.

  Two huge men were on the plane with us. I could only assume they were Cal’s security detail. They wore dark sunglasses, didn’t say a word, and had matching Brioni suits (so chic). It was weird, because Cal never introduced them to me or even mentioned them. They just sat there in silence the whole flight (soooooo chic). Their stoic presence was not only calming, it also made me feel incredibly secure, which was a huge turn-on considering the fact that my stalker still very much wanted to assassinate me.

  On the plane, as I was looking out the window at the Mediterranean below us, it occurred to me just how much I was looking forward to being in Greece. My dad and I had spent a couple of Augusts in Mykonos and I had loved it. My Parisian lifestyle encouraged far too much espresso drinking, cigarette smoking, and death threats. I was wanting a beachy, sunny, sandy scenario. Basically anything that would let me not think about the danger I was clearly in.

  I wanted to be in Mykonos with my new super-rich boyfriend, under a giant fucking umbrella, where nobody could see me beneath my huge sunglasses and hat. As soon as we landed and I stepped off the plane I could smell the sea, imagine the tan bodies, and taste the vodka sodas that I was about to imbibe to keep my little body hydrated in the warm Mediterranean air. Heaven.

  The two huge security randos helped me with my suitcases and we all loaded into SUVs that were waiting for us on the tarmac. Cal had booked the most amazing room for us at the super luxe Apanema Boutique Hotel: a suite with two bedrooms and bathrooms (thank fuck), both with Jacuzzis, a huge kitchen, and a private pool with amazing views of the sea. Of course, I’d also gone ahead and reserved a luggage room next to our suite. “The Luggage Room” is the extra room I always need at hotels. It’s where I store my suitcases and travel gear once the clothes have been unpacked or dumped onto the floor. It’s not a good idea to sleep near large, empty vessels like luggage—ask any shaman.

  Everything in the hotel was white. The walls, the floors, the halls, the sheets, the furniture. You have to love any isle that features an all-white backdrop with pops of bright color.

  Cal and I sat out on the terrace to look at the stars and have a few glasses of champagne. He’d arranged for the hotel’s head chef to come up and cook us something fresh and low in sodium, per my request
.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I admitted.

  “And what is this?” asked Cal.

  “Picking up and running away with a man I don’t even know. In fact, I pride myself on being very untrusting.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already met your mother—who is extremely beautiful, I might add.”

  “Thanks, Cal. I’ll let Donna know you’re into her.” I smiled.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I’m fucking with you. She’s a lesbian anyway.”

  “I want to make love to you. And I don’t want to wait any longer,” Cal said as he looked deep into my eyes.

  “We haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Food is not what I’m hungry for.”

  It felt really great to be in the presence of a man who was strong, a little dangerous, and totally taking control of the situation.

  “Okay then.” I relented.

  “Good, then go take a bath and meet me in the bedroom when you’re ready. No more than twenty minutes, please.”

  I didn’t respond. I just got up from the table, smiled, and headed to my bathroom. I’d never been bossed around like that, but I kind of loved it. I drew a hot bath, did a quick ten-minute meditation/Kegel ritual, got out, and stared into the mirror for thirty seconds while repeating my new mantra: “Fuck you, Babette.”

  I left my skin damp before putting on a robe. My body was warm from the bath, and my heart was pounding in anticipation. I hadn’t been this nervous about something sexual since I was about to try anal for the first time when I was eighteen. When I entered the room, Cal was already sitting in a chair next to the bed. He was fully clothed but the top few buttons on his shirt were undone. He wasn’t smiling, which was very unnerving. Cal gestured for me to come closer to him, which I did. Then, he beckoned me to come even closer. I slowly closed the gap between us until I was standing right in front of him. With his hands he indicated for me to lean down to him and when I put my face next to his, he whispered in my ear.

  “Chorépsoun gia ména.”

  I don’t really speak Greek, but I knew enough to understand. He wanted me to dance for him. And the strangest part was that I wanted to dance for him.