Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [63]
“Amelia, it’s Stephanie,” I hear, and I prepare for a verbal assault. But she continues, “I heard about what happened with Absolutely Fabulous, and…God, this is stupid. I’m an asshole for e-mailing you that ice princess note. Will you call me? Also, someone is spreading these crazy rumors about you going to rehab!” She punctuates that with an enormous laugh. “Please call and let me know you’re okay. Are you up north with your family?”
I push “2” to save the message and wonder what the hell I’m going to say to her. She said the word “rehab” like someone would say “mime school” or “prison”—like it was basically inconceivable. I remember feeling the same way before I got here.
The rest of the messages are from random acquaintances, some who’d heard that I’d been fired, some just checking in. It seemed shocking to realize that I actually do have people who care about me when I’ve spent so much time alone, convinced that the whole world hated me. I guess this is the “alcoholic mind” Tommy’s always talking about. In one of the first groups I went to, someone had shared about how alcoholics and addicts see things as black or white—either everything’s terrible or it’s wonderful, we’re in love or we’re in hate—and that accepting that life is full of gray areas, of days and people that are just okay, is challenging because we can’t get high off that, or create martyrlike drama around it. I suddenly understand that share completely, as well as the ones I’d heard about how our minds are out to convince us of things that aren’t true in order to make us feel bad. Tommy likes to call this “the beast,” and Justin is always saying, “Your mind is a dangerous place—don’t go in there alone!” Standing there and listening to the messages from my former life with the ears of my new life, all the small comments and shares I’ve heard over the past four weeks start piling up and making even more sense than when I first heard them.
When I finish listening to the messages on my home voicemail, I check my BlackBerry, which Kimberly unceremoniously returned to me this morning. And that’s when I almost pass out.
“Amelia, darling, this is Tim Bromley—I trust you remember me,” says a voice I could never forget.
I can’t believe this is actually happening. Tommy talked a lot about how our dreams would all come true if we stayed sober, but he’d also given a lot of lip service to the fact that we should try not to get into serious relationships during our first year of sobriety. I feel certain that an exception could be made for a perfect British man I’d been pining for, but I try to stay calm as I listen to the rest of his message.
“Well, I wasn’t going to leave this on an answering machine but, you see, I heard what happened with you at Absolutely Fabulous.”
My heart sinks as quickly as it lifted before when I realize he’s just calling to console me over getting fired. For a second, I hate him—there’s nothing more horrifying than being pitied.
He continues, “And I say their loss can be my gain. You live a wild life and tell fabulous stories about it. Come write a column documenting your exciting, crazy adventures for Chat. I can surely pay you better than whatever you were getting to do those naff celebrity stories. And, well, I hope you don’t think I’m incredibly pompous for telling you this but, well, the job would surely launch you into the cultural stratosphere and possibly make you a household name. Call me when you get this, can you? Oh, and by the way, I already have the perfect name for the column.” He pauses, possibly for dramatic effect, even though the moment has plenty of drama already. “Party Girl. What do you think? I