Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [101]
I feel suddenly grateful for Jeremy’s presence, so I turn around and smile at him. He takes my hand.
“Seriously,” he says. “I don’t know what you have going on with that guy but he sure doesn’t seem to treat you right.”
I nod as a tear falls down my face. “You’re right.”
Jeremy reaches over and wipes the tear away and the act seems incredibly gentle, especially for someone who seemed like a drunken buffoon about five minutes ago. At least he’s being nice to me, I think, which is more than I can say for Adam.
“Plus, this party sucks,” Jeremy says. “It would make anyone cry.”
For some reason, this strikes me as incredibly hilarious and I start laughing like I haven’t in weeks. When Jeremy grabs my hand this time, I don’t shake him off.
“What do you say we get the hell out of Dodge?” he asks, as he gives me a spontaneous twirl. “Have an after-party at my place?”
My eyes land on Adam and Lizzie making their way to the exit, and then on Stephanie, now talking to someone near the bar. I wave to her and mouth that I’ll call her tomorrow.
“Why the hell not?” I say.
Jeremy’s house, nestled high in the Hollywood Hills, has a view not only of L.A. County and the Valley, but also of the roofs of houses belonging to Keanu Reeves and Leonardo Di Caprio. As I look at the incredible view, an altogether bizarre thought occurs to me.
Roughly translated, it’s that I’m probably not an alcoholic.
Suddenly, everything becomes incredibly clear. I never actually enjoyed drinking all that much—it always made me feel kind of achy and tired. But I allowed Tommy and everyone in rehab to convince me that being a coke fiend and an alcoholic were one and the same. But I could see now—Christ, any sane person could surely see—that they weren’t. They were entirely different. And I’d spent the past six-and-a-half months in meetings with people that, now that I thought about it, seemed incredibly insane. Justin was really the only person I felt connected to and he had distanced himself from Pledges altogether. Why had I allowed these militant sober people to influence me so much?
Of course, I’ve been listening enough in meetings to have heard people talk about how this might happen to me—how one day my “disease” would probably try to convince me I wasn’t an alcoholic. But if I didn’t actually suffer from the disease, it couldn’t be my disease convincing me of anything, could it? Besides, who the hell believes that diseases can talk?
The only person who could answer this, the only person who’d understand, is Justin. With Jeremy inside checking his messages and e-mails, I pull my BlackBerry out of my bag and speed-dial Justin.
I’m sorry. The mailbox for the person you are calling is full. Please try again later.
It’s that damn recorded voice lady, the one who always sounds so harsh and yet calm, a voice that couldn’t ever be in the midst of a crisis or important quandary because she’s not real. Suddenly, I’m having a hard time trying to figure out what is. And since Justin is one of these utterly modern creatures who uses his cell phone as his home phone, there’s nowhere else I can try him. I could call Stephanie, I think, but I know that try as she might, she won’t ultimately understand. And for some reason, I’m just not in the mood to hear Rachel’s opinions right now. “They” say that when you want to drink, you’re supposed to call someone in the program before you do. And I had tried, I tell myself. I did exactly what they told me to.
“So, baby, what do you say—I’ve got a 1995 Chateau Margaux that I could crack if you’re game,” Jeremy says as he joins me out on the balcony. I detect the distinct scent of Drakkar Noir that wasn’t there before.
“Jeremy, I have to tell you something and it’s going to sound a bit crazy,” I say, looking down at the infinity pool.
“I like crazy.” If a voice could leer, his now is.
“I don’t actually drink. I’m sober.” He looks at me confusedly, so I add, “I went to rehab.”
“But—”
“I faked doing the shot that night at the Roosevelt,” I say, and he crinkles his forehead as he clearly tries to