Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [9]
We’re in the backyard of this completely grandiose $20 million Malibu mansion where Gus is staying for the time being. Words cannot describe how ostentatious this place is—there are about twelve bedrooms, a sauna, a freaking room for “wrapping presents,” no joke—and it’s right on the PCH. But it seems even more enormous than it actually is because of the fact that it has no furniture.
“Anthony’s parents were busted for embezzling,” Gus had explained as he showed us the infinity pool, which spills into a Jacuzzi big enough to fit a football team. “Honestly, I don’t know the entire story, but as far as I understand it, they went bankrupt, the bank took their furniture, and they’re planning to unload this to the highest bidder. Anthony was supposed to be showing the place but the whole thing bummed him out so much, he took off for New York.”
“So you’re house-sitting?” I’d asked him, inhaling on my cigarette. Gus is always lucking into the plushest situations. I swear, the people who live the best in Hollywood are the nonworking grifters, since they’re usually attractive enough to convince horny producers to loan them their Range Rovers or charming and calculating enough to befriend a guy whose parents need someone to show their $20 million Malibu spread. The worker bees, those watching their youth drift away as they do coverage, place calls, and write “Where Are They Now” stories on Doc from The Love Boat, are the ones who seem to live the grifter lifestyle.
Now that I’ve gotten a look at the place, I’m incredibly pissed that I haven’t called my ever-reliable Mexican coke dealer Alex. Stephanie has brought along her friends from college, Jane and Molly, both of whom do coke, but we’d been so rushed—wanting to get out here before the sun set—that we neglected to bring the evening’s most necessary ingredient. Maybe I’ve watched Less Than Zero too many times but as far as I’m concerned, the sole reason for palatial Malibu mansions to exist is so that coke can be snorted in them.
The tacky, probably embezzled extravagance surrounding us seems to be having the same decadent influence on Stephanie as it’s having on me. “Hey, Gus, do you have any Jägermeister?” she asks as he turns the Jacuzzi on.
Gus goes inside to check as Adam and two other guys I’ve never seen before walk out to the backyard.
I wave at Adam and he walks right up to me and leans over to give me a hug. “It’s good to see you, Amelia,” he says, and I smile. I’m a sucker for people saying my name. Call me an egomaniac, but no one ever says anyone’s names anymore and it makes me feel good to hear mine.
“Hey, thanks for the ride home that night, Adam,” I say. “Sorry I was a little out of it.”
“Are you kidding?” he asks. “I got to watch you ‘sleep sing.’ I should be thanking you for exposing me to something I’d never known was possible.”
I can’t help but laugh. Something about his tone—slightly nebbishy, mostly bemused—puts me oddly at ease, and I think about how much cooler he is than I realized as he introduces Steph and me to his two friends. When they go back inside, Stephanie turns to me.
“He’s oddly sexy,” she says and I nod. “And I think he likes you.”
I consider that, and then shrug. “Too bad I’d never date an out-of-work actor,” is all I say.
A good three hours later, we’re all draped on these ticking fabric–covered couches in the sitting room off the kitchen. Gus has thoroughly abandoned any notion of making us continue to go outside to smoke, and Amstel Light bottles are being transformed into ashtrays as the bottle of Jager gets passed around. I’m the good kind of drunk—definitely more than buzzed, but not slurring my words or being a fool—so when Stephanie’s friend Jane brings up the idea of us all playing “Truth or Dare,” I declare her a genius and personally convince everyone in the assembled group that they have to play. I always love games where I have to reveal something highly personal to a group of people, but then again,