Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [53]
“Want to introduce yourself to the group, Amelia?” Tommy asks, even though that’s what he just did.
“Oh, sure,” I say, pretending that my heart isn’t racing. “I’m thirty years old, and work, or at least until recently worked, at Absolutely Fabulous magazine.” The gay-looking guy titters, but I ignore him as I gaze straight at Tommy. “Um, what else should I say?”
“Amelia, this is probably the one place in L.A. where we don’t care about how old you are and what you do,” Tommy says. The gay guy and Blondie laugh. “Just tell us about your disease.”
I’m humiliated for having answered incorrectly and immediately indignant. Clearly, these people—Joel and gay titterer and Blondie and even hot guy in the corner—weren’t holding down jobs, or if they were, they obviously weren’t very demanding or fabulous. And while it’s true that I’m not currently reporting to work anywhere either, these people look like they hadn’t been employed, like, ever. Where the hell are the celebrities and high-level producers? That was the group I needed to be in.
“Amelia,” Tommy says, and I realize everyone’s still looking at me. “Your disease?”
Oh, yeah. My disease. When I read through the Pledges literature Dr. Ronald Rand gave me at the hospital, I noticed that they made a big thing about how I had a disease as real as cancer or Parkinson’s but my disease—alcoholism—was centered in the mind.
“See, that’s the thing,” I say, glancing around to catch different people’s eyes as a painfully obvious sympathy ploy. “I really have—had—a problem with cocaine. I mean, I really love coke. When I have it, I can’t seem to stop using until it’s all gone.” I pause, waiting for someone to congratulate me on my quick ability to use one of their ridiculous vocab words in a sentence, not to mention my obvious awareness of and honesty about my drug problem, but nobody says a word.
“When it comes to alcohol, though, I can take it or leave it,” I continue. “It usually just gives me a headache or makes me feel achy. I definitely don’t have a problem with it.” I give Tommy a decidedly un-alcoholic smile.
“So, you don’t drink at all?” Tommy asks with what I can swear is a look of bemusement.
“Well, I drink,” I say. “But just the regular amount. Or I would more drink to come down a little if I was too wired from coke. But I definitely don’t have a drinking problem. I don’t even like alcohol.”
The blonde girl nods at me like she understands. Maybe she’s in my situation, a person with a drug problem stuck in this room of people obsessed with calling themselves alcoholics.
“If that’s the case,” Tommy says, “I suggest you take some time—say, a year or two—off of drinking and see if you miss it.”
My mouth threatens to fall open, but I try to appear blasé as I assess whether or not Tommy is joking. “A year or two?” I ask with a slight smile.
“Sure,” he says, folding his arms. “If you can take a couple years off of drinking and not miss it, then I would say you’re probably not an alcoholic.” He smiles at me, and for the first time it occurs to me that Tommy may be an asshole dressed up like a nice guy. But I don’t want to give these people any more ammunition against me than they already have.
“Actually,” I say with a smile. “I was planning to stop with the coke—stop with drugs of all kinds, no problem—and cut down significantly on my drinking. In fact, I heard about a program…I think it’s called a ‘drinking cessation’ program.” I’d heard about this from someone who went there when his family was trying to get him to go to rehab. “Do you know about it?”
The entire room bursts into laughter and I feel myself blushing while also trying to pretend like I know what