Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [19]
When we pull up at Guy’s, Chad hands the car over to the valet, and an enormous black burly doorman opens the velvet rope and waves us through. I spy my friend Bill Kirkpatrick at the bar, with an assortment of shot glasses filled with various and sundry liquids in front of him. Bill and I were good friends in college but for some reason we don’t ever hang out in L.A., which is unfortunate, seeing as he’s the only friend from college that I’m still in touch with. So Bill is a major breath of fresh air after two hours of Chad Milan. I poke Chad’s arm and point to the bar.
“That’s my old friend Bill,” I say, starting to step through the throng and in Bill’s direction.
“I know Bill Kirkpatrick,” he says. A pause, and then, “I hate Bill Kirkpatrick.” There’s always the chance of this with Bill, as he’s never afraid to piss people off.
“A girl I dated was two-timing me with him,” Chad continues, glaring at Bill.
“That sucks,” I say. “Oh, well.” I know this is a coldhearted response but the truth is, I need a break from Chad and this discovery seems to provide it. Particularly when a guy in a three-piece suit—clearly another agent—slaps Chad on the shoulder by way of greeting.
“I’m just going to go say hi to Bill,” I tell Chad as he starts chatting with Three-Piece-Suit Guy. “I’ll be over there.” Chad nods as the other agent guy hands him a cocktail.
Then I make my way over to Bill, who glances past me, toward Chad.
“Oh, God. Please don’t tell me you’re here with Chad Milan,” he says. Bill likes to act protective of me, but the way he typically expresses this is by telling me that the guys I hang around with are complete idiots. “He’s such a tool.”
I don’t refute the statement and Bill slides down a stool to make space for me at the bar, nodding his head in the direction of a guy whose back is to us. “I’m here with my friend Rick. We’re matching each other, shot for shot.” Bill gestures to the shot glasses, most of which are still full. Just then, Rick turns around and I realize with a jolt that Rick is Rick Wilson. As in Rick Wilson, the former child star who I’d been almost preternaturally obsessed with in eighth grade.
“You’re Rick Wilson,” I say, before I can help myself. With famous people, you’re supposed to act like you don’t know who they are or, if you happen to, that you’re not all that impressed by what they do but are quite interested in getting to know what they’re really like as a person. When it’s an extremely famous person, it’s easy to remember this. But if it’s someone decidedly less known, I get initially confused and think I actually know them. I once saw Gregory Hines walking down the street in New York and greeted him with a “Hey, how are you?” because I thought for that minute that he was, like, one of my grade school teachers.
Rick, for his part, looks altogether thrilled to be recognized. It’s actually possible that he hasn’t worked since the mid-’80s. “I am,” he smiles, tiny but perfect teeth shining under his full lips. “And, though I don’t recognize you, I wish I did,” he says. He leans past Bill to brush my cheeks with his lips. Bill glances from Rick to me.
“Shot?” he asks, but before even waiting for an answer, he slides one over to me and one over to Rick. Somehow when Rick says “Cheers,” it doesn’t bug me.
And that’s around where everything starts to go slightly hazy. Or maybe it’s after the second round of shots, or the third. All I know for certain is that eventually we make our way through the glasses on the bar that had once been full. The bar gets extremely crowded and then it seems to thin out. I wonder why Chad hasn’t bothered to come over to where I’m standing and decide that he’s being really rude. Bill helps support this theory.
“He brought you here and doesn’t even have the balls to suck it up and come over and have a drink with us?” he asked. “What a tool.”
Rick nods, continuing to make heavy eye contact with me. And then I come up with the ideal solution for getting out of kissing Chad Milan and