Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [77]
By the time I shower, brush my teeth, and feed the cats, three copies of Chat have arrived at my front door in an enormous brown envelope. I bring them upstairs and place one in my lap. The magazine is spectacular, from its stunning cover shot of Jude Law through its table of contents—which lists an essay on literary salons by Dave Eggers, a humor piece by Augusten Burroughs, and an interview with Jude Law, done by Jay McInerney. How on Earth did I get included in this group? I wonder as I flip to my column.
And there I am, Missoni-encased and lying in the enormous plastic champagne glass, legs extended, wearing an enormous, toothy grin. Is that really me? I wonder as I examine the photo. It looks like a far more flawless and ecstatic version of me—me if I’d been born into a different family, era, and life. There’s no evidence of the discomfort I was feeling when the picture was taken.
The copy, too, looks and reads much better than it did when it was just a Microsoft Word document on my computer. Maybe it’s just seeing it in Chat’s elegant font? I notice with surprise that Tim made almost no changes to my text.
Then I log onto the gossip websites and read about this “stunning” “sexpot” whose debut in Chat “hints at what is surely to be a lengthy and notable career,” according to Liz Smith. “Forget Carrie Bradshaw and Candace Bushnell,” raves Perez Hilton. “Amelia Stone writes about what sex today is really like. Mr. Big? Try Mr. Bigs.” Page Six praises the column and wonders if Stone will delve into her lengthy love relationship with sexy singer-songwriter Kane (now married to an actress) in future columns. I always knew I was underappreciated, I think as I imagine Brian and the entire Absolutely Fabulous staff gathered around his computer reading these items.
My phone rings, and even though I haven’t had a chance to even listen to the morning’s messages yet, I answer it. “Amelia, how are you?” a voice booms. “This is Richard Johnson from the New York Post. Do you have a minute?”
I try, probably unsuccessfully, to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Richard, it’s great to hear from you,” I say. Remembering what Tim had instructed me, I add, “Would you mind if I referred you to my publicist?” I expect Richard to laugh, or at least act snippy, but instead he says, “Not at all.” I suddenly feel like I’m acting out a scene from one of those movies you’d watch and go, Hah—like all this would ever happen to someone.
21
“Oh, you’re adorable!” a brunette in a wraparound Diane Von Furstenberg dress shrieks as I make my way through JFK toward a driver carrying a sign with my name on it. Even though I managed to sleep a few hours on the flight, the red-eye has left me exhausted enough to not hear her very well or even imagine she’s speaking to me. She looks like the kind of person who would typically give me the once-up-once-down fashion disapproval look, but her voice is so much kinder and softer than it looks like it would be that I’m completely thrown off and for a second I think that she’s a random, well-dressed lunatic. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” she says, pumping my hand with enthusiasm, then adds, “I’m Nadine, your publicist. I hope you don’t mind my intruding on what would have been a peaceful ride into the city, but I wanted to be able to talk to you before you go on Today.”
I smile and shake her hand, and she grabs it so that she can pull me along as we follow the driver out to his car. It seems like such a girlish move for someone who looks so sophisticated, but I’m too busy trying to keep up with her Chipmunks-speed style of speaking that I barely have time to ponder it.
“Tim had told me you wouldn’t need any media coaching, but I just wanted to go over a couple of things,” she says as we get in the car. It lurches forward and she pulls out a notebook scrawled with lists and filled with Post-It