Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [85]
“Amelia Stone on a natural high.” Steph laughs. “Who could have ever predicted it?” She smiles and sips her coffee.
I light a smoke, careful to blow it out the window, and think about how grateful I am that she feels comfortable talking to me about my sobriety. Other people who’ve heard about me going to rehab have been so awkward that it’s unnerving. “We should meet for a drink,” this publicist said to me at a premiere last week. And then, as if my sobriety had rendered the word “drink” sinful, she added nervously, “I mean, a water or soda?”
“I’m just worried that Tim’s going to find out,” I say, grabbing a bag of Trader Joe’s Sweet, Savory & Tart Trek Mix from the kitchen and scooping a handful into my mouth.
Stephanie motions for the bag, which I hand her, as she leans back on the couch. “Please—it doesn’t matter. If you look the part and hand in great copy, why should he give a rat’s ass if you’re sober as can be or on 12 hits of E?”
“Good point,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll sell Page Six that story,” Stephanie says as she brushes peanuts that have fallen onto her lap into her hand and tosses them into the garbage can. “‘Amelia Stone Not Really a Party Girl!’” We both laugh. My phone starts ringing, so I walk over to it and see Tim’s cell phone number on my caller ID.
“Tim,” I say, deciding not to pick up. “I’m sure he just wants to know when I’m sending him copy.”
“When’s the column due?”
“Tomorrow.” I peel a bit of my right thumb cuticle off.
“Jesus! Why do you always wait until the last minute? You’re insane.”
I shrug. I noticed when I did the first column that something in me really got off on the adrenaline that started flowing through me when my deadline was imminent. I almost feel like I’m setting myself up for some impossible sprint and my fear of not making it to the finish line motivates me all the more. Or maybe I’m just a martyr. But I suddenly feel incredibly stressed, like the first column was a fluke and everyone has gotten overly excited about me when I really can’t deliver. Stephanie must see the look of panic that crosses my face because she walks over to the couch as she picks up her bag. The idea of a line of cocaine floats through my mind and that terrifies me, but I don’t say anything. I’m sure it’s perfectly normal.
“You’ll be fine, Party Girl,” she says as she walks toward the door. “And if you’re not, look at it this way: you can always start writing a Sober Girl column.”
“Ha ha.”
As soon as Stephanie leaves, I turn on the computer, open a new Word document, and stare at it, thinking, Okay, here’s where the writer’s block happens. I’ve never actually had writer’s block, but people are always talking about it, so I figure that it’s only a matter of time for me.
Then the phone rings and I jump at it eagerly without even glancing at caller ID, grateful for the procrastination tool.
“Amelia?” It’s a young girl’s voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Charlotte. We met the other night? We, um, danced?”
Oh my God. Tube Top. I’d just sort of assumed she would disappear into the ether.
“Hey, Charlotte. What can I do for you?” At first I think, Christ, is she going to ask me out on a date? Then: That would make a really great column.
“I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you. You were listed, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.” I make a mental note to get myself unlisted. “It’s just…well, I really love your column. When I read it, I thought, ‘Oh my God, this woman is describing my life,’ except, to be honest, my world is a bit crazier.”
“Hmmm,” I say, still not remotely clear on where she’s trying to go with this.
“And, well, I was just curious how you got started? I ask because I want more than anything to be a writer. I actually wrote my first novel when I was twelve. And I’ve been doing poetry since eighth grade, and journaling for as long as I can remember.”
I think it’s around the time