Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [86]
“Look,” I say, cutting her off before she starts reciting poems written to, like, her dead grandmother. “I can’t help you get a writing job. The best thing I can tell you is go to college, then go get a job at a magazine. That’s what I did.”
Tube Top—Charlotte—laughs. “Oh, I’m not trying to get a job yet. I’m only eighteen. I just wanted to know if you’d read some of my work and…I don’t know…tell me if you think I have promise.”
I don’t know if it’s the shock of hearing “I’m only eighteen,” or my resentment over the fact that this chick manages to boogie her perfect body on top of bars and still be motivated enough to have written multiple novels before puberty. But her whole I’m-more-motivated-than-anyone-else shtick is really rubbing me the wrong way.
Of course I don’t say that. “Why don’t I give you my e-mail address and you can send me some of your stuff?” I say, figuring I can always delete it and then duck her calls if she ever bugs me again.
“Oh, that would be so great!” she yelps. I listen to her tell me how cool and great I am and how she wants to be just like me when she “grows up” until I can’t take it any longer.
“Charlotte, I really have to go—I have a column to write,” I say and hang up the phone before she can say anything else that makes me feel ancient, and then go back to staring at my computer and picking at my cuticles.
I stand up, sit down again, then stand up to go get the bag of Trader Joe’s Sweet, Savory & Tart Trek Mix, then plop down again at my desk. Tim and John responded so well to my story about going to Guy’s with Chad Milan and leaving with Rick Wilson that I figure that’s a good topic. And once I come up with a title, “The Obligatory Good-Night Kiss,” I just start typing.
If a guy shells out for your tiramisu, you’d better accept the fact that he’s going to expect some tongue. I realize that nine out of ten men surveyed wouldn’t admit this (and the tenth would only if he thought that confessing as much would get him some tongue) but I’m here to tell you that we women make an intrinsic promise every time we allow the check to be pulled to the other side of the table. Still, going to a bar afterward and leaving with someone else because you “can’t find” your dinner date will probably create more problems than it will solve.
For a second I worry about Chad Milan reading the column, but then I realize that the only person the incident really reflects negatively on is me. You’re a genius when it comes to self-deprecation, one of the Chat senior editors had said at dinner in New York. Besides, I tell myself as I continue to type, this material is too good not to use. I light a cigarette and think about the possibility of running into Chad at the gym and being confronted by him again. And then I think, I’ll switch to Equinox. It’s supposed to be a much nicer gym anyway.
24
When I walk in the door after a pre-Emmys party, the phone is ringing but I decide to hang a metaphorical “Do Not Disturb” sign and not answer. I feel the need to chain-smoke while unpacking the three shopping bags I’ve filled with thongs, conditioner, skirts I won’t ever wear, and cleansers that promise to deliver “face lift–like results.”
The fact that I’ve just been to a freebie Emmys event and have nothing to do with the Emmys—in fact, I couldn’t even begin to guess who’s been nominated—hardly seems relevant. I was invited by a publicist who sounded so thrilled I’d accepted her invitation that it was immediately obvious she thought getting me there would somehow generate coverage in Chat. Oh, well, I’d decided. I’d heard about these award show events where all the nominees and presenters are invited to some mansion to get all this free shit in exchange for allowing photographers to catch them clutching the newly acquired products, and figured there wouldn’t be any harm in attending.
Inhaling deeply on