Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [89]
Ryan Duran, a well-respected movie star who had first become well known as a teenager in the ’80s and somehow managed to avoid the inevitable backlash that should have followed his initial success, has a fairly well publicized reputation as both a troubled soul and a ladies’ man—which means, of course, that I’ve had a crush on him for as long as I can remember. I’d actually just read a piece on him in Premiere where he’d talked about how all he wanted to do was run with his dog on the beach near Zuma, and I’d fantasized about being the one waiting at the Malibu house for him to come home to after said run. All I can manage to say is, “What?”
“‘He thinks she’s hot,’ his manager said. ‘Can he call her?’ I told him I thought so, but I’d have to check with you.”
I feel a bizarre internal tug-of-war—I don’t really care but this latent adolescent part of me is beyond thrilled. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Say yes! It could be fabulous publicity for the column!”
I’m slightly surprised by Nadine’s response, even though I probably shouldn’t be. What did I think, she was suddenly going to transform into a spiritual giant and talk to me about something besides publicity?
“In that case,” I say, fantasizing that news of my date with Ryan will get out and Adam will be fantastically jealous, “pass my number along.”
“Hooray! I’m so glad you said that—because, actually, I already did.”
“Nadine!”
“He actually should be calling any minute.”
“But you called to ask if it was okay with me.”
“I pretty much assumed you were going to say yes. I mean, who says no to Ryan Duran?”
Just then, my call waiting bleeps in. Private number. “Oh, Nadine. That’s my other line.”
“It’s probably him!”
I can’t imagine Ryan Duran making the effort to do something like call a person when surely everything is always delivered to him before he can even realize he wants it. I’m about to tell Nadine not to worry, that I’ll just call whoever it is back, but she shrieks, “You’re answering it!” and hangs up the phone.
I click down and clear my throat. “Hello?”
“Amelia?” I immediately know it’s him. His voice seems more familiar to me than my mother’s, or even the AOL Moviefone guy’s. Of course, I’m not remotely willing to let this on. “Yes?”
“It’s Duran. How are you?” I’m simultaneously repelled and charmed by his last-name-only introduction—turned off by the potential cheesiness of someone doing that to a person they’ve never met while also touched by the bizarre sense of intimacy our interaction already has.
“I’m well. And you?”
“It’s all good. Except for one thing. I’m sitting here on my deck, having watched an insanely beautiful sunset. And I’m wondering why I’m doing it alone.”
Was this really how he introduced himself to people? Was he not even going to bother with the whole Hey, I know this is a bit out of left field but I was reading your column and I thought, why not ask my manager to try to get in touch with her? If you were a household name, were you simply allowed to skip over the small talk the rest of us believe is absolutely imperative?
All I say is, “Is that so?”
“Mmmm hmmm,” he says, and I can picture him on the other side of the phone, sitting on an expansive deck talking on a cordless phone, wearing the close-lipped smile I’ve witnessed in at least half a dozen of his movies. “What are you doing?”
“On my way to a friend’s house for a party.” I’ve said it so much that at this point, it may as well be true.
“What do you say you blow that off, drive over to the beach, and hang out with me? I’ve got my kid tonight.”
Ah yes, I’d forgotten. Ryan had been briefly married to a Spanish aspiring actress/singer in the mid-’90s and he sometimes talked about his kid in interviews. Even though all I’d wanted for the night was to go into a TIVO coma and everyone knows that you don’t go over to a guy’s house the first time he calls, I feel hopeful that hanging out with Ryan could potentially take my mind off Adam.
“I can be there in half an hour” is all I say.
“Come on in,” Ryan says as he opens the door