by Anna David
Then he says, “I have to go to New York for publicity stuff for a month or so, but can we go out when I’m back?”
I can’t help but smile. “Definitely,” I say, wondering if I should try to pin him down to a specific date. I had a roommate once who always said it was good to nail guys down to a time and place if you really liked them. Girls are allowed to be aggressive now, she’d say. This isn’t the fifties. But she also terrified most every man she came into contact with and stayed in on weekend nights so she could read the dictionary. “Have a great trip,” I finally say.
“I will,” he says, then leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek and adds, “I’ll talk to you soon.” As I watch him walk away, I wish that I had a time machine that could make it be “a month or so” already. Just then, Adam turns around and walks back to me. “How much do you know about puppies?” he asks.
I think about the dogs we had when I was growing up and then about Tiger. “Some,” I say weakly.
“Well, I got one—a golden retriever—and while she’s basically the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, I don’t know entirely how to handle her. I’ve only had her a week and she’s already chewed through almost my entire sneaker collection. And she runs in circles around my apartment, like she’s just inhaled helium or something.”
I laugh. “Inhaled helium?” I ask.
“Weird imagery for a dog, I realize,” he says. “Point is, right now she’s sitting in my apartment, potentially tearing the entire thing to shreds, and I could definitely use a wise woman’s help in taming him.”
I stand up. “Should we take two cars or one?” I ask.
“One,” he says, smiling. “You’re fun to drive.”
“If it hadn’t been for cocaine, I probably would have been a practicing, miserable alcoholic my whole life,” I say, as Adam drives us on the 10. I see a smile creep onto his face as he switches lanes, and I playfully punch him. “Glad you’re so amused by my sad tale of addiction and recovery.”
His tentative smile breaks into a mammoth grin. “I’m not amused. Just happy.”
I smile and ask, “And what are you so happy about?”
He gestures from me back to him. “This. You. The way you talk. All of it. If I could bottle your voice, pheromones, and words, I’d be a rich man.”
I laugh. I’m about to give him a hard time for being such a cheeseball, but instead I just grin. I reach over and grab his right hand, placing it under my left leg, and it feels like the most natural gesture in the world. “I feel lucky right now,” I say. Adam smiles as he exits the freeway, and then he bursts out laughing.
“Let me guess: just laughing out of the joy of this moment?” I ask.
“Sort of,” he laughs. “That, and the memory of you sleep-singing the last time you were in my car.”
Now I start cracking up. “Christ, why didn’t you drive me to the nearest insane asylum?” I ask, cringing at the memory.
“Don’t think I didn’t want to,” he says, smiling. “But then I knew I’d never have a chance with you.” Still chuckling, he pulls up in front of a garage in Venice. “Now prepare yourself for a creature so cute, she even gives you a run for your money.” Adam stops the car, jumps out, and rushes to open the door for me. “My lady,” he says, giving me a mock bow.
“Sir,” I say, mock bowing back, opting not to confess what a horrific surrogate Mom I was to Tiger. “Please bring me to my arch nemesis, the other woman vying for your love.” As soon as the word “love” is out of my mouth, I want to hurl. The primary way to terrify a man—probably right behind sleep-singing in his car—is to tell him you love him. I hadn’t, of course, but the word is potent enough on its own.
But Adam doesn’t seem remotely ruffled. “Don’t you worry, now,” he says, leading me down a path to his apartment. “There’s enough love in my heart for both of you.” As he opens the door and an adorable, tiny golden retriever comes bounding over to him and immediately starts humping his leg, I tell myself not to make too much over the fact that he said the L-word back. And I don’t really have time, seeing as the image of this tiny dog thrusting back and forth on his shin like her very life depends on it is so hilarious that I immediately lose it.
“I thought you said she was a girl!” I gasp, between laughs.
“She is!” he shrieks, cracking up himself. “Doris, stop!” he yells at the dog, who seems to take that as a cue to hump Adam’s leg all the more furiously. Adam looks at me. “Is that totally weird—a female dog being this sex-crazed? Is Doris some kind of a mutant, gender-bent pervert—possibly a preop transsexual?”
“Doris?” I ask, actually trying to get myself to stop laughing. “What kind of a dog name is that?”
“It’s not,” he says, gesturing for me to pull Doris the dog off him, which I do. Falling back onto the floor, Adam sighs. “It’s my favorite grandmother’s name,” he says. I look at him, not sure if he’s kidding, and let Doris go. Instead of rushing back over to Adam, she digs under his couch, where she seems to have stashed a roll of toilet paper. “Oh, God,” he says, watching Doris grab the toilet paper in her mouth and start tearing it apart. “She loves to TP the place,” he says, smiling, gesturing for me to come sit next to him. “She’s worse than a drunk teenager on Halloween.” I sit on the ground, next to where he’s lying down, and he pulls himself up and faces me. I see Doris kick the toilet paper across the room and lunge at it, then skid with it in the other direction.
“We should probably take that away from her,” I say. “I predict nothing good can come from this.”
Adam moves closer to me. I can suddenly hear my heart beating in my chest as he moves less than a foot away, staring at me and not breaking eye contact. “Screw the dog,” he says. “I’m sorry but she’s just going to have to share me with you.” He leans in and, before I can wonder if he’s going to kiss me and if it’s going to feel as amazing as it did the last time, our lips are touching and pressing together and opening and meshing as perfectly as two things not belonging to the same person could.
After being with Adam—two hours of the best kissing of my life, followed by him telling me he had to pack because he was taking the red-eye that night, both of us saying we couldn’t wait to talk and see each other soon—I feel so much better that I realize I’m perfectly capable of writing at home without succumbing to any urges to call Alex. Now that I’m filled up with joyful thoughts about Adam, the idea of coke is actually back to sounding completely disgusting again. So I go home, ignore all the thoughts I’m having about how I don’t know the first thing about writing a column, and just type.
I decide to write about Mark’s wedding, and start by titling the piece “Here Come the Groomsmen.” And then it just flows.
It’s not every day that a wedding takes place in the house where yougrew up. And it’s certainly not every day that a wedding takes place in the house where you grew up, and you end the evening in bed with two of the groomsmen. Then again, everyday experiences have never really been my thing.
I keep going from there, describing the competitiveness of my ménage partners in the sauna, the triangular dance we did all night, and finally the bedroom antics, adding, as almost an afterthought, the cousin-of-the-bride incident earlier in the evening. I decide to leave nothing out, except for the alcohol. It’s obvious that Tim thinks of my partying as the frosting to my fabulous life, not understanding that without the drugs and alcohol, all of these so-called exciting things would never have happened. And since Tim wants this column to be funny and sexy, and there’s nothing funny or sexy about drug addiction, rehab, and sobriety, I opt not to mention the succession of Amstel Lights we were drinking or the bottle of champagne I’d had at dinner. If people wanted to believe I could be this wild without any chemicals in my system, they were welcome to.
When I finish the column and print it up, I try to read it the way a stranger would. And, I have to say, I’m impressed: it’s amusing, self-deprecating, and somewhat titillating. Then I star
t to second-guess myself, deciding that since I wasn’t pulling my hair out over it, it couldn’t be good. How could I possibly be making the equivalent of a month’s salary at Absolutely Fabulous, I think, to write something funny off the top of my head? And then I hear Rachel’s voice telling me that sometimes things are easy. People in recovery call it the “easier, softer way,” and as I think about that, I realize how so much of what Rachel and Tommy and Justin and everyone else has told me just flows naturally through my brain now.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I e-mail the piece to Tim and try not to obsess over what his reaction is going to be. So then I switch over to my other newfound obsession, Adam. I decide to Google him and discover that there’s all this information out there about this “unknown Norm’s waiter” who just landed a major part on the hottest new TV show. I’m getting fully into fantasy mode now, imagining the two of us on the red carpet at a premiere and having picnics at the top of Runyon when I realize what I’m doing. One of the reasons it’s not a good idea to get into a relationship in your first year, Tommy always said, is that alcoholics and addicts can do anything alcoholically. Books, movies, Pop-Tarts, Cosabella thong-buying, dating—whatever it is, if you can lose yourself in an obsession with it, we will.
So I force myself to step away from the computer and set about cleaning my apartment, which always seems coated in a thin or thick layer of cat fur, and the activity feels good. I don’t recall actually enjoying the act of cleaning before. I know I’ve liked it when things have been clean, but having fun while Dust Bustering and scrubbing is altogether new to me. I start blasting Eminem and singing along as I clean the living room floor and the music is so loud that I almost don’t hear the phone ring. But I see the red light on my cordless flashing so I turn down Eminem and answer.
“Hello,” I say, as I plop down on the couch.
“Amelia, darling,” says Tim, “John and I were just sitting here discussing how we have to do big, glamorous, sexy shots of you to accompany each of your columns. We were thinking of using Jean-Paul Blanc unless you have a photographer you prefer.”
I try to slow my heart, which seems to be racing like Lance Armstrong in his last mile. Jean-Paul Blanc does all the Vanity Fair cover shoots and his photos are constantly being exhibited.
“Pictures of me by him—really?” I manage. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he laughs. “In fact, it turns out that he has a hole in his schedule—meaning, if you’re game and approve Jean-Paul, we could get you shot this week.”
I don’t know what to say, and don’t want to ask him again if he’s sure. “So does that mean you like what I turned in?”
“Like it?” he brays. “Like it? Darling, it’s ace. You and ‘Party Girl’ are going to take us to the next level. I have no doubts now—not that I did before, mind you. But after reading your copy, which is lively and sexy and at times laugh-out-loud funny, we’re all terribly excited.”
My heart continues to do its dance and I don’t say anything because I don’t think I know the words that are supposed to accompany the ecstatic feeling flowing through me. In a strange way, this moment reminds me of sitting in Robert’s office being fired. This can’t be happening, my inner voice seems to be saying, but it is.
19
“Tres belle,” Jean-Paul coos as his camera snaps away. Three assistants flank him, holding various and sundry lights and pieces of equipment, and a hairdresser, makeup artist, and clothing stylist stand to the side—ready to rush in should they see something on me that doesn’t look exactly perfect.
While this shoot—which is taking place in the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont, which I happen to know rents for $10,000 a day—is far more exciting and surreal than anything I’ve ever experienced, I’m doing a decent job of acting like I’m used to having everything revolve around me, and assistants fetching me Evian, apples, or really whatever else I might desire. I’m afraid that if I let on how shocked I am by the sheer amount of money clearly being spent on my shoot, I’ll reveal just how small-time I am.
The stylist, a well-known one whom I’d actually interviewed over the phone several times while I was working at Absolutely Fabulous, had greeted me when I got here with racks of everything from Armani gowns and Gucci blouses to Chloe suits and Marc Jacobs jeans.
“Tim said he wanted us to shoot the photos for your next several columns,” the stylist informed me. “Since we don’t know what’s going to be in the columns yet, he said we should choose a bunch of different looks: casual, dressy, sexy, demure, whatever we could think of.”
I nod and decide not to remind her that we’ve spoken before. It was, I think, a lifetime ago.
She has me try on beautiful skirts, dresses, shirts and jeans—even lingerie from La Perla—and while I usually obsess over my protruding stomach, she seems to know exactly what’s going to hide the tummy and play up my assets and I end up feeling like all I’ve ever needed in order to feel constantly beautiful was a stylist.
Jean-Paul came over to introduce himself when we were first going through the clothes, and I immediately found him sexy, even though the stylist has already warned me that he’s a “dog,” “pig,” and every other animal you can imagine. Figures I’d like him.
“Ah, you are truly exquisite,” he said with a strong French accent and devilish smile. “The photos will take themselves.” He continued to watch me as the stylist pinned the gown I was wearing so that it hoisted my cleavage up.
And then, once I’ve been made up and gelled and sprayed and shellacked until I look like the supermodel version of myself, Jean-Paul starts snapping. The entirety of my knowledge about modeling has been culled from America’s Next Top Model, but one thing I’m positive of is that I love having my picture taken. Apparently, I cried nonstop for my first three months of life, until a professional photographer showed up to shoot me and I suddenly gave him the biggest, most toothless grin a person who’s only been alive for ninety days possibly could. As I switch my poses around, Jean-Paul mumbles words like magnifique, belle, and tres belle.
In between shots, Jean-Paul and I smoke while his assistants set up the lights for the next set of pictures, and a stand-in takes the place where I’ll be. Then, when I’m done with my cigarette, the stylist comes and gets me to change. Rather than allowing all of this treatment to bring out my inner diva, I’m the very picture of kindness, asking everyone else how they’re doing. I swear, if I was treated like this all the time, I’d be a pleasure to be around 24-7.
We’re getting ready to do our last set for the day—I’m in an insanely flattering purple, pink, and black-striped Missoni gown and tottering around in high-heeled purple Jimmy Choo’s—when Tim and John show up.
“You look stunning,” Tim says, as he leans in to kiss each of my cheeks. John trails behind him and gives me an awkward salute. Then Tim turns to Jean-Paul. “Have you done the champagne-drinking shot yet?”
I sort of inadvertently flinch at the word “champagne” as Jean-Paul hits his head. “Mon Dieu, I almost forgot,” he says.
Jean-Paul says something to two of his lackeys and they leave the room, then come back holding these plastic contraptions that they piece together to make an enormous, six-foot-tall champagne Plexiglas. Tim shows Jean-Paul how he’d like me to sit in it as John lets in a room service waiter delivering bottles of Dom Perignon. And even though I may well be in the middle of the single most validating day of my life so far, I grow concerned enough by what’s happening to wander over to Tim and ask him if I can speak to him for a moment.
“Of course, go ahead,” he says, continuing to stand there next to Jean-Paul and his minions. Couldn’t he see that what I wanted to say was private?
Completely uncomfortable, I force myself to ask, “Is it absolutely imperative that we do this champagne thing?”
Tim looks slightly flummoxed. “Oh, do you not like it?” For the first time since we’ve met, I get a glimpse of the fact that Tim may not be perfect. He
looks, in fact, slightly irritated by my intrusion.
“Well, I just was wondering, do I have to be holding champagne in the shot?”
Tim, now making no effort to hide his annoyance, sighs. “Amelia. You’re the Party Girl. We have to convince readers of that not only through your column, but also visually—through pictures.” He’s suddenly talking to me like I’m seven and don’t understand what the word “visually” means.
I nod. Ridiculously, I feel tears start to well up, but I close my eyes for a second and force them to go away. It seems like it should be simple enough to explain my situation to Tim, but I just can’t seem to. Tell him you’re sober, my head says. And then I think, Hell, no. He’ll startasking questions and figure out that you’re really not this wild-and-crazy girl anymore. Instead, I try channeling the confident, egoless diva-in-the-making that I’d been acting like all day.
“Is there going to be a problem?” Tim asks, quite sternly, just as John wanders over to see what’s going on.
I take a breath and push all my negative thoughts to the back of my brain. “No. Not at all.”
Jean-Paul asks, “So you are ready, ma cherie?” I nod, allow two of the assistants to hoist me into the mammoth champagne glass, get as comfortable as I can in an enormous piece of plastic, and accept the bottle and glass of champagne that the set designer hands me. Tim and John move to the back of the room while Jean-Paul starts clicking and muttering his French compliments.
But the magic seems to be gone. Before, I’d been feeling natural and happy and pretty just by smiling or laughing or gazing into the camera and thinking of funny or intense moments. But now, lounging in this life-size champagne glass, I feel forced. I keep thinking, This is what a girl who’s playing the part of a “Party Girl” should look like.