Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [37]
Of course he’ll call me back, I say to myself. How could he not?
The afternoon isn’t a soothing one. A few more trips to the bathroom have made me so jumpy that every time my phone rings, I quite literally spring about five feet into the air before picking up the phone and trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. Of course, today it’s only the second-and third-rate publicists who have called—benign, sycophantic ones offering me opportunities to write about products and people the magazine wouldn’t even consider.
Sometime after lunch, I start to accept the fact that Kane may not call back, so I dial his manager. To my surprise, Janet is nice. When I explain that I have some follow-up questions and also need to interview a few of Kane’s well-known friends about him, she tells me she’ll get right back to me. I debate running to the bathroom for a quick bump but decide against it, and less than a minute later, she calls back. But she doesn’t sound quite as agreeable now.
“Look, I just got off the phone with Kane and he told me to tell you he’s done answering questions for you,” she says.
“I’m sorry?” I say and even though I am, I’m using it here to act like I’m surprised by what she’s saying, even though I’m not.
“He also told me you came to his house?” This is more an accusation than a question, and I want to reach through the phone wires and slap the bitch. You’d think I bought a star map and showed up there like a stalker from her tone.
“I did go there,” I say. “But—”
“Please don’t go to his house or call him anymore,” she says. “We don’t want you interviewing anyone about him. And, as for the woman in the picture, she’s just a friend.”
Janet hangs up before I even have a chance to respond and I sit there for a moment—stunned and yet determined not to give this British cheeseball singer who makes elevator music any of my tears.
An hour and a few more bathroom trips later, I decide that I can’t handle a face-to-face interaction with Brian so I e-mail him and explain that I can’t get the Kane questions answered or terts. No excuses, no explanation. And then I just sit there. Despite all the PR about coke making you energetic as hell, sometimes it can be completely immobilizing. As I continue to stare at my computer screen, Brian e-mails back.
So we’ll kill the piece, the e-mail reads. Not I know you tried or How could you let this happen? Although it seems like Brian has given up on me, I feel inordinately grateful, like I just talked my way out of a speeding ticket I clearly deserved, and all the more determined to win my way back into Brian’s good graces by saving my Linda Lewis story. I haven’t even been given a deadline for the piece yet, but if I finish it as quickly as possible and then turn it in early, he’ll have to be impressed.
First, of course, I have to deal with this ridiculous age issue. Glancing at the original assignment sheet, I see that Bruce Young, a New York senior editor, is going to be editing the piece so I decide to call him directly. Brian and Robert always tell us not to bother the New York staff with inane questions, but since my question isn’t inane and I haven’t called a New York editor in the year and a half that I’ve worked here—I’ve only talked to them when they’ve called me to go over my articles—I tell myself that this time it’s okay as I dial Bruce’s number.
“Bruce Young,” he says into the phone, sounding harried.
“Bruce, hey. It’s Amelia Stone in L.A.”
“Who?” He sounds frenzied and annoyed.
“From the L.A. office. A staff writer.”
“Oh. And?” Christ. I know editors aren’t renowned for their interpersonal skills but can’t he make more of an effort to be gregarious?
“Look, I’m doing the reporting on the Linda Lewis piece and—”
“Are we doing a story on her?” he asks, cutting me off.
“Yes, it’s on the schedule,” I say, marveling at