Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [76]
And sitting in the champagne glass, with the scent of Dom Perignon wafting up my nostrils, I become more convinced than ever that my problem never has been with alcohol. The glass is so close that I could easily tip the flute into my mouth and sip—a slew of assistants would surely spring to attention at the opportunity to re-fill it—but I really have no desire. All these wonderful things in my life—this new gig, my friendship with Justin, the reconnection with Stephanie and potential romance with Adam, not to mention the overall sense of peace that seems to have replaced all those self-absorbed feelings of misery that I’d come to accept as normal—are, I feel, completely related to my having gotten sober. And I’m not interested in screwing any of that up, even if it means having to go along with this notion of being an “alcoholic” without actually believing it.
I seem to be shooting okay pictures during the entire time I’m zoning out and thinking of the proximity of the glass to my lips, because Jean-Paul is looking genuinely thrilled and Tim and John are smiling as they whisper to each other and point at me. And I think, Screw what the people at Pledges are going to think if they see this picture of me that’s essentially an ode to champagne. I’m wearing a Missoni gown in the Chateau Marmont’s penthouse suite being fawned over by a photographer who’s a household name. Why the hell should I care what anyone thinks?
20
I’m dreaming about signing autographs—and in the dream, my handwriting doesn’t look the way it does in real life but like it did when I was little and just learning how to write cursive letters—when the phone wakes me up.
I usually sleep through the phone, but I’m being devil-dialed—that is, someone is calling my home phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my cell phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my home phone again. Eventually, I reach over and garble a hello.
“Oh, thank God you’re there.” It’s Tim, sounding more excited than I’ve ever heard him. “What’s your schedule like? Can you make it?”
“Make what?” I try to move my cat off me so I can sit up.
“Haven’t you gotten any of the messages from me or Nadine?”
“Who’s Nadine?”
“The publicist we hired to promote you.”
“Publicist?”
“Sweetheart, get yourself out of bed and to your computer. Nadine has proven herself to be worth every penny: according to Page Six, Gawker, Perez Hilton, and Liz Smith, you’re a sensation.”
“Me?!”
“We slipped advance issues to the gossips, not sure how they would react. And each of them went bloody crazy for your column.”
“My column’s out?” I hadn’t seen the photos of the shoot, let alone the actual magazine.
“Oh, dear. We didn’t send you a copy? Well, I’ll have one messengered over right away. In the meantime, the Today show wants to do a segment on you ASAP and if you won’t be too knackered, we’d love to put you on the red-eye tonight—in fact, I’d come along but I have a damn dinner with the Ford people here. Regardless, The View wanted you, too, but Nadine thinks it makes more sense to wait and put you on there once a few more columns have come out.”
For some reason, my heart isn’t going a mile a minute and I don’t feel like I’m out of my body observing a girl named Amelia Stone receiving this absurdly good news. I guess I’m getting better at handling surreality. But glancing around my paint-splattered bedroom, I’m highly aware of the ridiculous dichotomy between my world and the one I’m hearing about on the phone.
Tim continues to talk excitedly, about how I’ll probably want to join AFTRA so I can get paid for my TV appearances, about how we might want to try to sell a book of my columns now even though only one of them has been written, and about how we should set me up with