Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [73]
I decide to write about Mark’s wedding, and start by titling the piece “Here Come the Groomsmen.” And then it just flows.
It’s not every day that a wedding takes place in the house where yougrew up. And it’s certainly not every day that a wedding takes place in the house where you grew up, and you end the evening in bed with two of the groomsmen. Then again, everyday experiences have never really been my thing.
I keep going from there, describing the competitiveness of my ménage partners in the sauna, the triangular dance we did all night, and finally the bedroom antics, adding, as almost an afterthought, the cousin-of-the-bride incident earlier in the evening. I decide to leave nothing out, except for the alcohol. It’s obvious that Tim thinks of my partying as the frosting to my fabulous life, not understanding that without the drugs and alcohol, all of these so-called exciting things would never have happened. And since Tim wants this column to be funny and sexy, and there’s nothing funny or sexy about drug addiction, rehab, and sobriety, I opt not to mention the succession of Amstel Lights we were drinking or the bottle of champagne I’d had at dinner. If people wanted to believe I could be this wild without any chemicals in my system, they were welcome to.
When I finish the column and print it up, I try to read it the way a stranger would. And, I have to say, I’m impressed: it’s amusing, self-deprecating, and somewhat titillating. Then I start to second-guess myself, deciding that since I wasn’t pulling my hair out over it, it couldn’t be good. How could I possibly be making the equivalent of a month’s salary at Absolutely Fabulous, I think, to write something funny off the top of my head? And then I hear Rachel’s voice telling me that sometimes things are easy. People in recovery call it the “easier, softer way,” and as I think about that, I realize how so much of what Rachel and Tommy and Justin and everyone else has told me just flows naturally through my brain now.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I e-mail the piece to Tim and try not to obsess over what his reaction is going to be. So then I switch over to my other newfound obsession, Adam. I decide to Google him and discover that there’s all this information out there about this “unknown Norm’s waiter” who just landed a major part on the hottest new TV show. I’m getting fully into fantasy mode now, imagining the two of us on the red carpet at a premiere and having picnics at the top of Runyon when I realize what I’m doing. One of the reasons it’s not a good idea to get into a relationship in your first year, Tommy always said, is that alcoholics and addicts can do anything alcoholically. Books, movies, Pop-Tarts, Cosabella thong-buying, dating—whatever it is, if you can lose yourself in an obsession with it, we will.
So I force myself to step away from the computer and set about cleaning my apartment, which always seems coated in a thin or thick layer of cat fur, and the activity feels good. I don’t recall actually enjoying the act of cleaning before. I know I’ve liked it when things have been clean, but having fun while Dust Bustering and scrubbing is altogether new to me. I start blasting Eminem and singing along as I clean the living room floor and the music is so loud that I almost don’t hear the phone ring. But I see the red light on my cordless flashing so I turn down Eminem and answer.
“Hello,” I say, as I plop down on the couch.
“Amelia, darling,” says Tim, “John and I were just sitting here discussing how we have to do big, glamorous, sexy shots of you to accompany each of your columns. We were thinking of using Jean-Paul Blanc unless you have a photographer you prefer.”
I try to slow my heart, which seems to be racing like Lance Armstrong in his last mile. Jean-Paul Blanc does all the Vanity Fair cover shoots and his photos are constantly being exhibited.
“Pictures of me by him—really?” I manage. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he laughs. “In fact, it turns out that he has a hole in his schedule—meaning,