Party Girl: A Novel (33 page)

I drive over to Holly’s office at Imagine but a serious-looking, bespectacled brunette is sitting where Karen used to. I ask if Holly’s available and the girl—who introduces herself as Samantha and explains that she’s a temp—says that Holly’s in meetings at Universal all day. So I sit down in the waiting room and write Holly a note, apologizing for bailing out on the job and for not giving it the energy it deserved, and adding that she should call me if she wants to discuss the matter further. I put the note in an envelope, along with her keys, that I leave with the temp.

Rachel had made it clear to me that I should make every effort to apologize in person but if there were people I couldn’t get to or felt too uncomfortable to see, it would be okay to e-mail them or write a letter. And since Justin’s voicemail is full, I send him an e-mail saying that I’m sorry for acting like his relapse was some personal slight against me, only calling him when I needed him, and essentially abandoning him the minute he told me he wasn’t sober. I also ask him to call me whenever he wants to because I’d like to say these things to him in person.

I call Rachel to tell her about the apologies I’ve made and she says I’m off to a great start. I know that I have far bigger and more terrifying apologies to make—to, say, Mom and Dad—but that I don’t have to do them now. Rachel says I’ll know when I’m ready.

As Rachel and I talk, the other line keeps ringing and I notice Nadine’s 212 number on my caller ID. She’s been trying to schedule this trip to New York for me to be on the
View
and I can only put her off for so long. So, even though I’m not remotely sure I can keep doing the column, I say good-bye to Rachel, then click over and tell Nadine I’m sorry I haven’t called her back but that I can go to New York whenever she wants me to.

“Fantastic, sweetie!” she trills. “They’d love to have you on tomorrow so how about the red-eye tonight?”

Looking around the apartment, I see that it’s in complete disarray, and realize that it doesn’t matter.
I’m tidying up what’s inside, not what’s on the outside,
I think as Nadine calls me back and tells me that she’s made my reservation and I have a few hours before the car will come get me and take me to the airport.

After packing, I sit down to make my final apology for the time being—to Adam. Like with the others, I want to make it simple, direct, and absolutely devoid of motive, so I write him an e-mail saying I’m sorry for criticizing his date when I saw him and for generally taking out my frustration on him because he wasn’t doing what I wanted him to do. I add that I appreciate his questioning me over why I’d do something for a living that I didn’t believe in because it was helping me to look at my life and my actions in a new way. As I send the e-mail—Rachel and I had decided that it was okay for me not to make this apology in person because, face to face, I might try to manipulate and cajole him into asking me out—I realize that I don’t actually want anything from Adam anymore. My feelings for him are still there, but if he doesn’t want me, I now see, there’s really no point in my pining for him. It’s clearly not meant to be, and one day I may come to understand why. The feeling that he has to be my boyfriend is simply gone, just like that. Then I realize something even more shocking: my desire to use cocaine and drink is also gone. I’ve heard people in meetings talk about how their urge to drink or do drugs had suddenly been removed and I’d always gazed at them somewhat skeptically, but I guess I’m now living proof that it can happen. As I sit here thinking about how serene I feel, a wonderful idea occurs to me, so I make a call asking someone to meet me in New York.

Who have I become?
I wonder as I walk down my driveway to the waiting Town Car. As I get inside, I realize I don’t really have the answer to that yet.

32

“You’re something else,” Joy Behar says after she takes a sip from her coffee cup. “Getting together with two groomsmen. Kissing girls during Truth or Dare. Picking up on a guy at a bar while you were on a date. Most women would be hanging their heads in shame, but you—you’re going around getting rewarded for it. Now why do you think that is?”

The
View
producer went through all the questions they were going to ask me in my dressing room, so I already have my answer ready. I glance at Tim, who’s sitting with John and Nadine in the studio audience, and offer, “Maybe other people are doing the same thing and they’re relieved someone is actually being honest about it?”

Some audience members laugh and a few of them applaud as Elizabeth Hasselback squints her eyes at me. “Do you think you represent society’s movement toward a more brazen attitude toward sexuality, as some people have said?”

I give Elizabeth a Nadine-coached response about how I’m just being myself but if people want to call me the poster child for a movement, then it’s fine by me. As I continue to field questions from Rosie, Joy, and Elizabeth, I deliver all the appropriate quips and answers but I’m distracted because I know a big moment is coming soon. It seems terrifying but at the same time completely appropriate and I suddenly know that everything’s going to turn out fine.

And then, before I know it, the moment is here. “What are your plans for the future?” Rosie asks, looking up from one of her note cards.

“Actually,” I say, leaning forward, “my plan for the near future is to be thoroughly honest.”

All four of their heads spin toward me, since this is when I was supposed to mention the plans to make Party Girl into a TV series. Before anyone can say anything, I say, “And that means telling all of you that I’m not, in fact, a party girl.”

“Come again?” Joy says. I hear people start whispering to each other.

I glance at Tim in the studio audience and say, “I used to be one—big time—but thank God, that’s behind me now.”

Rosie tries to interrupt me but I just keep talking.

“The thing about it is that my life wasn’t cute and sexy and funny, the way I make it sound in the columns. It was actually rather soulless and empty—I was always trying to avoid my real feelings by creating drama and crises or just escaping through chemicals, which really only made me feel worse.”

In the audience, Tim stands up but then, clearly realizing there’s nothing he can do, sits back down.

“So you’ve been living a lie?” Joy asks.

“Well, yes and no,” I say, amazingly calm for someone who’s in the process of upsetting a number of people. “Everything I’ve written about did happen, and a lot of it did seem amusing and entertaining at one point. But I wasn’t so much free and loose as I was just out of control.”

“Why have you been writing the column, then?” Elizabeth asks, looking perplexed.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” I say. “And I guess the answer is that I wanted to feel special. I could just be another struggling freelance writer, slugging it out with everyone else, or I could be celebrated—albeit for a part of me that I put to rest. And I chose to be celebrated.” I gaze out at the studio audience. “Wouldn’t anyone?”

A heavyset woman in a flowered sundress nods and Joy makes a gesture to a producer that they should cut me off. Before that can happen, I say, “I may be a fraud, but I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s not—someone who’s living the life because it’s who she is and not because her self-destructiveness brought her there.”

I glance down at Charlotte—aka Tube Top girl—who’s sitting, as planned, in the farthest audience seat to the right.

“Want to come up here, Charlotte?” I ask as I hear a producer backstage shout that they need to cut me off. But Charlotte stands up and removes her Marc Jacobs wrap, suddenly the very picture of sexified youth in a halter dress, thick belt, and dainty heels. Joy shakes her head while the other three cohosts sit there eagerly, waiting to see what will happen next. As Charlotte walks onto the stage, her tanned and muscular legs sauntering confidently toward us, I marvel over how ripe she is for this opportunity and how much publicity Nadine and Tim will surely get over my dramatic departure and her sure-to-be stunning takeover. I walk over to give her a hug, then turn back toward the women.

“May I present the real Party Girl,” I say, nudging Charlotte toward them and then walking off the stage. I remove my mic from my shirt and place it on a shelf filled with other microphones in front of the green room. As I walk down the hall toward the exit, I hear a producer say into a headpiece that they’re going to bump the next guest so they can see how this story plays itself out. I smile as I continue into the green room, stopping only to pick up my bag, which contains my ticket back to L.A. My BlackBerry beeps that I have a text message, so I pull it out as I make my way from backstage into a hallway. Glancing at my BlackBerry, I see that the text is from Adam and it starts with the line
Always trust your first impression.

As I take the elevator down to the ground floor, I read the rest of what he wrote.
Just saw Hasselback almost lose her lunch, thanks to you. She wasn’t the only one. Any chance you can forgive me for buying into the hype instead of trusting my first impression?

I smile as I put the BlackBerry back in my bag and exit the building. Nobody chases after me, and, casually as can be, I hail a cab and ask to be taken to JFK.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I cannot conceive of what rough road
Party Girl
and I might have traveled had we not been lucky enough to be discovered by the tenacious and devoted Pilar Queen—who guided me through every step of this process.

Thank you as well to Maureen O’Neal and Jenny Brown at HarperCollins for always being so respectful and encouraging, and to Suzanne Wickham, Chase Bodine, Gregg Sullivan, and Megan Beatie for doing all they could to get the
Party Girl
word out.

Without a doubt this book would not have existed had Melanie Bromley not made a deal with me that we’d send each other one thousand words of the novels we planned to write every Sunday. Thank you as well to Brendan Smith, who helped motivate me when Mel’s career interfered with our plans. I look forward to buying both of your novels one day soon.

Thank you to Andrew Brin, Mike DeLuca, Alec Shankman, and Vanessa Grigoriadis for reading the manuscript early on, not to mention being the kind of friends who offered to do so—and did it with the kind of expedient enthusiasm that a sensitive perfectionist like myself demands—without having to be asked.

Bottom-of-my-heart thanks as well to Melissa de la Cruz, who consistently told me, “Don’t worry—it will all happen” with the calm confidence that must come from cranking out five-plus books a year, and to Rachel Resnick—both of whom passed along the wisdom, advice, and encouragement of seasoned pros; I only hope to be as gracious with other aspirants as they were with me.

For general support, encouragement, friendship, and love, my thanks as well to Nicole Balin, Becket Cook, John Griffiths, Phil and Sierra Mittleman, Jeannie Sloan, and Alexis Tellis. For keeping the technological aspects of my life running smoothly, thanks to Joel and Ivy-Anne Sigerson and Eddie de Angelini (the most talented non-designing website designer I’m lucky enough to somehow employ).

For giving me or leading me to the kind of breaks that have allowed me to write for a living over the past decade, thank you to Laura Gilbert, Steve Reddicliffe, Todd Gold, Sean Smith, Jen Furmaniak, Chris Napalitano, Michael Soloman, Amy Sohn, Stacy Morrison, Vicki Larson, Lew Harris, and Andrew Essex.

For financially aiding this struggling writer during the times that were lean despite the help of those listed above, I have gratitude for Steven and Ned David.

For keeping me sane and healthy throughout this process, Gordon Kernes (neck), Alex Katehakis (mind), Colin Kim, Allan Avendano, and Grace at Olympic Day Spa (body), Thom Knolles (breathing), and the pool at the Standard Hotel.

For love, guidance, and help trudging the road at just those moments I needed it, thank you to Bill W., Sammy H., Carrie W., Candace B., Amber V., Rachel L., Susannah B., Justin K., Roger K., Peter M., Leslie K., Richard R., and the 10
A.M.
Bliss 1 and 2 crew (Dufflyn L., Michael D. B., Philip M., Alex D., Denny P., Mark D., Christian S., Rob G., Leslie S., and everyone else both at the table and not).

And finally I’d like to thank my mom, Gail, who not only dedicated her first book to me but also made me want to write (I still remember the awe I felt as a child watching her fingers flit over the typewriter keys without her having to glance down) and hasn’t yet disowned me—even though it’s meant having to put concerned Momness aside in order to swallow
Playboy
layouts, reading graphic sex and drug scenes, and telling people that her daughter writes for “non-girlie” magazines, too.

Also, I never would have made it through even the first draft had it not been for the fact that I promised myself I could eat Trader Joe’s Sweet, Savory & Tart Trek Mix—the best, and most addictive food on the planet—as I wrote. Thankfully—or I’d weigh double what I do now—I’m now in recovery from that addiction, too.

About the Author

ANNA DAVID
is a former celebrity journalist and a recovering party girl herself. She has written celebrity profiles, investigative pieces, and feature stories for
Details, Cosmo, Redbook, Stuff, Maxim, Premiere, People
, and
Us Weekly
, among many others, and has covered sex and relationships for
Playboy, Los Angeles Times, New York Times, Movieline
, and
Razor
. David has appeared on NBC, CNN, Fox, MSNBC, E!, Style, and VH1, is the sex and relationship expert on G4’s
Attack of the Show!
, and blogs about reality shows for FoxNews.com. She lives in West Hollywood, California.