Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [88]
My phone rings and it makes me half jump out of my skin. It’s a private number but I will myself to do “contrary action” and answer.
“Hel-lo.” I sound a bit singsongy and, I notice, almost shockingly normal.
“Party Girl?” I immediately recognize the voice but pretend I don’t.
“Yes?”
“Jeremy Barrenbaum. What are you doing there? Why aren’t we out tearing the town up?”
I feel immediately self-conscious about having been caught at home with no plans on a Thursday evening. “Oh, I’m on my way out,” I say, glancing at the clock: 7:30 P.M. Sounds reasonable.
“Cool, where to? Maybe I’ll join you.”
Momentary panic, and then: “Just to a friend’s. Private party, sorry.”
“That’s cool,” he says. “How about tomorrow? Nobu in Malibu?”
I’ve never liked fish so I certainly don’t eat raw fish, which has long made me a complete anomaly in Los Angeles. But, most of all, I don’t like the idea of being out with Jeremy Barrenbaum and having to continue to perpetuate this notion that I’m wild when I’m not. What am I going to do, have the waitress crack open a bottle of Martinelli’s apple cider and pretend it’s champagne?
I take a breath. “You know, Jeremy, I should have told you something the other night.”
“Oh, I read that Page Six thing about how you’re not into guys. I don’t buy it for a second.”
I stifle the urge to hang up on him. “Oh, I’m straight. But I am actually seeing someone. A guy.”
A slight pause and then: “Look, I don’t care. I’m seeing someone, too.”
Oh my God, no wonder he has so many movie credits, I think. What a pushy bastard. “Yeah, well, I only want to be with the person I’m seeing,” I say. I picture Adam and for a second believe he and I really are dating.
“Oh, okay.” He doesn’t sound put out in the slightest. “Want to take my number? Things may not work out with this guy.”
“Sure,” I say, knowing I’m being spineless. He recites a few numbers—home, office, cell, and a place in Palm Springs—and I pretend to be writing them down while I lie on my back not moving. Then I say, “I’ll talk to you soon.” I immediately know I shouldn’t have said that because I don’t want to but it just automatically comes out of my mouth when I’m trying to get off the phone. He says good-bye and I sit there holding the phone for only what seems like a second when it rings again. A 212 number on caller ID. I figure it might be a Chat editor trying to close my column so I answer.
“Hello.” I’m not as singsongy but my voice still sounds misleadingly cheery.
“Sweetie, it’s Nadine. What on earth are you doing home?”
Oh, God. Nadine seems to be under the mistaken impression that I spend every waking minute going to A-list parties, and to be fair to her, I haven’t done anything to correct that impression. “Just stopping home for a minute,” I manage. “I had to change my purse.”
“Oh, of course.” I’d known that excuse would work; people like Nadine changed their purses a lot, while I tend to carry the same one for months or years at a time. “Where are you off to?”
“Just a friend’s private party.” By now, I was definitely beginning to believe myself. “A movie producer.” I plan to give her Jeremy Barrenbaum’s name if she presses further.
“Oh, fabulous! And I’m calling with even more fabulous news! Ryan Duran’s people called. Apparently, he read your column and wants to go out with you.”
Now I’ve heard of this kind of thing happening. Supposedly, Tom Cruise saw Nicole Kidman’s first movie, Dead Calm, then called her agent and set up a date. But it still shocks me to hear that it’s possible to look at life like it’s a Pottery Barn catalog or Pink Dot menu, and order people—even if you happened