Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [109]
“It happens,” I say. “More often than not.”
Again, Nadine doesn’t say anything. She never asked me what happened with Ryan Duran and I never offered up any information. I have the distinct impression that I’m devastating her, which feels wrong but also strangely necessary.
“Well, I was just calling to let you know that we’ve booked your View appearance for the week after next,” she says. “And also, I have some very exciting news!” Her voice is now about four octaves higher than when she first started talking. “I know there’s been a lot of talk about companies buying the rights to Party Girl and making it into a movie or show. But a little birdie told me that the VP at Ridley Scott has come to Tim with a solid offer. Honey, they want to make it into an HBO series for next season!”
“Really?” I ask. I know I should be thrilled—this is what everyone in Hollywood and beyond fantasizes could happen with what they write—but I feel bizarrely unaffected.
“Sweetie, you don’t exactly sound excited.”
“I am,” I say, trying to muster as much false enthusiasm as I can. “That’s terrific.” I can’t remember the last time I used the word terrific.
“Of course, since only a few columns have come out, they need to wait and read the next couple,” she says. “But he said—his exact words were, ‘If she continues to do what she’s done so far, I can’t imagine why we wouldn’t make the deal.’ Sweetie, they’d want to make you a consulting producer! And you could even be on the show. Tell me, have you thought about acting? There’s no reason you can’t be Party Girl and an actress.”
Something—or rather everything—about this conversation suddenly starts giving me a headache and I know that all I want is to be off the phone and lying down.
“That’s great, Nadine,” I say. “I actually have to get back to what I’m doing but thanks for calling to tell me that.”
“But sweetie—”
I hang up.
30
I spend the next week writing down my resentments, only taking breaks to go to Pledges for meetings. By now, I’m on the last section, where I write down the part I played in each resentment—whether I had overly high expectations or was being competitive or said something nasty before the person yelled at me. It’s starting to become incredibly surreal to remember details about all these things that I’d somehow forgotten or repressed. Yet owning up to my part doesn’t feel shameful; it’s actually a relief because it makes me believe my future can be less messy.
“You don’t need to do it like a speed demon,” Rachel says when I tell her that I’m almost done. “Most people take months. Some people take years.”
“I know,” I say. I’d heard as much. But for some reason, as soon as I started writing, some compulsion deep inside kept propelling me forward at this rapid-fire pace. I didn’t even know if I could stop. It’s like I sensed that if I didn’t take action now, my perspective might change again and I didn’t want to risk forgetting how important it was again.
It was hard to believe what I was learning about myself—essentially, that, except for my grandfather, who used to call me stupid for no particular reason, I played a part in every single resentment I had. I’d either had expectations from people that weren’t met or done something to provoke whatever I was now angry about. Kane, for example, couldn’t have screwed me over if I hadn’t acted completely inappropriate and unprofessional in the first place. Even my grandfather and my parents, whose transgressions against me, I’d always felt, were almost too numerous to mention, were just doing the best they could at the time. If I was too young to have played a part in what they did, my part today was that I was continuing to hold on to the resentment.
I go to a Pledges meeting and share about all the realizations I’m having, and for the first time, I’m not saying things that I hope will get a laugh or demonstrate how articulate I am. I finally understand what people mean when they say that talking about things in a group helps them to make sense of their emotions.