Party Girl Page 5

I glare. “Maybe I didn’t want to get her sick.”

  “Save it, Amelia,” he says. “And please don’t let that happen again.”

  I begin to feel thoroughly irritated with Brian. “Stop lecturing me,” I say, and then, probably too late, I add, “please.”

  Something about our conversation reminds me of interactions I’ve had with my dad.

  “You need a lecture,” Brian sneers, and I feel myself about to fly into a rage.

  “Enough!” I say. “Will you please leave me alone so I can try to feel better?”

  Brian just looks at me and shakes his head. “Get it together, Amelia,” he says as he walks away.

  7

  While I really did convince myself that Chad Milan could seem sexy and appealing over dinner, this possibility has completely evaporated before we’ve even ordered appetizers. I’m not sure if it’s the way he’s tasting the wine (swilling it around his mouth and closing his eyes pretentiously) or the fact that he’s declaring The Da Vinci Code the best book ever written, but I literally want to reach across the table, put my arms around his neck, and squeeze tight. I absolutely hate it when I feel like people, particularly men, aren’t acting like themselves but like someone they think you’d like. What’s further annoying me is his insistence on touching my arm or leg whenever he makes a point. As he tells me how thrilling it was the first time he saw his name in Variety, I realize that he’s not doing anything that terrible, that he’s just being exactly who he is.

  “Look, Chad, I wanted to make something clear,” I say, after taking a gulp of wine for liquid courage.

  He looks up expectantly: every guy knows this kind of introduction, and that it’s time to stop talking about the thrill of getting your name in the trades and pay attention.

  “I…I…” I want to be able to say, “I only think of you as a friend” but I can’t seem to get that sentence out. Because the truth is I don’t think of Chad as anything even close to a friend. And besides, I’m sitting here at The Little Door, a decidedly romantic restaurant, splitting probably a $75 bottle of wine with him. And, though I’m going to do the after-dinner wallet reach, I’m going to expect him to pay and be horrified if he has the audacity to accept my offer to go dutch. So what should I say to him—that I only said yes because I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, and besides, I’m so terribly lonely that at least this “date” would help me believe I’m not completely cut off from the human race?

  “I’m not really ready to get into anything now,” I manage.

  I expect Chad to have that disappointed-but-hiding-it look that most guys get when they understand that they’re out roughly $200 and probably aren’t getting laid. But something seems to have been lost in the translation, for Chad’s smile widens.

  “See, that’s what I love about you.”

  “What?” This is so not good.

  “You’re so straightforward, so direct,” he says. “Most women don’t ever say what they mean but you always do.”

  I’ve often been commended for this quality, which usually confuses the hell out of me, as I almost never say what I mean. If, comparatively speaking, I’m clearer than other women, I feel truly sorry for the male race.

  “I’m not sure if I’m being direct enough—” I start to say but Chad cuts me off.

  “You were perfectly direct. And the last thing I’d ever want to do to you, or any other woman, is rush her. We’re just here to get to know each other better.” He ends that ridiculously optimistic response to getting blown off by holding up his glass and motioning for me to pick up mine. “Cheers?” he says.

  I dated a guy in college who was obsessed with cheering. Coffee, glasses of water, milk—every liquid short of spittle was worthy of making a special moment out of. And, well, I’ve just never really been a “Cheers” type of person.

  But, what are you going to do? I tried to explain my feelings to Chad but his blinding insistence on his ability to agent me over to his side means my point hasn’t a hope of getting through. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my part and can now eat and drink guilt free. What’s another hour of my time? I lift my glass and clink his with a smile.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  As Chad pays the check—the-move-the-bill-to-his-side-and-shake-his-head-as-I-start-to-object move—I start worrying about how I’m going to get out of this night’s good-night kiss. No matter how many people tell you that just because a guy’s taken you to a nice dinner, he doesn’t think you owe him some tongue at the end of the night, those few moments of horribly awkward conversation about how delicious the chicken was or how early yoga starts tomorrow morning say otherwise. As I’m debating whether it might be less awkward to simply make out with him for a minute and get it over with, Chad suggests we go somewhere else for a drink.

  I shake my head, calculating that if I have to make small talk for another hour, I may peel all of my cuticles off my fingers out of anxiety and general unhappiness.

  “What about Guy’s?” Chad asks, hitting a soft spot. It’s the one bar in L.A. that I actually like and it’s so tough to get into that being a girl doesn’t even help. “I’m on the list.” I’m sort of surprised that Chad has the cachet to pull off Guy’s, but I shouldn’t be. The doorman probably dreams of being the next Johnny Depp, and is under the mistaken impression that Chad can help make that happen.

  During the car ride over, Chad gets on his cell phone, which would normally horrify me but I’m actually grateful to the person on the other end of the phone for saving me five more minutes of pretending to seem interested. It seems to be another agent on the phone, because I’m hearing Chad talk about Ashton and packaging fees and Orlando Bloom in a way that I can tell he thinks might impress me. And, truth be told, if it were a guy I was attracted to, it might well have.

  When we pull up at Guy’s, Chad hands the car over to the valet, and an enormous black burly doorman opens the velvet rope and waves us through. I spy my friend Bill Kirkpatrick at the bar, with an assortment of shot glasses filled with various and sundry liquids in front of him. Bill and I were good friends in college but for some reason we don’t ever hang out in L.A., which is unfortunate, seeing as he’s the only friend from college that I’m still in touch with. So Bill is a major breath of fresh air after two hours of Chad Milan. I poke Chad’s arm and point to the bar.

  “That’s my old friend Bill,” I say, starting to step through the throng and in Bill’s direction.

  “I know Bill Kirkpatrick,” he says. A pause, and then, “I hate Bill Kirkpatrick.” There’s always the chance of this with Bill, as he’s never afraid to piss people off.

  “A girl I dated was two-timing me with him,” Chad continues, glaring at Bill.

  “That sucks,” I say. “Oh, well.” I know this is a coldhearted response but the truth is, I need a break from Chad and this discovery seems to provide it. Particularly when a guy in a three-piece suit—clearly another agent—slaps Chad on the shoulder by way of greeting.

  “I’m just going to go say hi to Bill,” I tell Chad as he starts chatting with Three-Piece-Suit Guy. “I’ll be over there.” Chad nods as the other agent guy hands him a cocktail.

  Then I make my way over to Bill, who glances past me, toward Chad.

  “Oh, God. Please don’t tell me you’re here with Chad Milan,” he says. Bill likes to act protective of me, but the way he typically expresses this is by telling me that the guys I hang around with are complete idiots. “He’s such a tool.”

  I don’t refute the statement and Bill slides down a stool to make space for me at the bar, nodding his head in the direction of a guy whose back is to us. “I’m here with my friend Rick. We’re matching each other, shot for shot.” Bill gestures to the shot glasses, most of which are still full. Just then, Rick turns around and I realize with a jolt that Rick is Rick Wilson. As in Rick Wilson, the former child star who I’d been almost preternaturally obsessed with in eighth grade.

  “You’re Rick Wilson,” I say, before I
can help myself. With famous people, you’re supposed to act like you don’t know who they are or, if you happen to, that you’re not all that impressed by what they do but are quite interested in getting to know what they’re really like as a person. When it’s an extremely famous person, it’s easy to remember this. But if it’s someone decidedly less known, I get initially confused and think I actually know them. I once saw Gregory Hines walking down the street in New York and greeted him with a “Hey, how are you?” because I thought for that minute that he was, like, one of my grade school teachers.

  Rick, for his part, looks altogether thrilled to be recognized. It’s actually possible that he hasn’t worked since the mid-’80s. “I am,” he smiles, tiny but perfect teeth shining under his full lips. “And, though I don’t recognize you, I wish I did,” he says. He leans past Bill to brush my cheeks with his lips. Bill glances from Rick to me.

  “Shot?” he asks, but before even waiting for an answer, he slides one over to me and one over to Rick. Somehow when Rick says “Cheers,” it doesn’t bug me.

  And that’s around where everything starts to go slightly hazy. Or maybe it’s after the second round of shots, or the third. All I know for certain is that eventually we make our way through the glasses on the bar that had once been full. The bar gets extremely crowded and then it seems to thin out. I wonder why Chad hasn’t bothered to come over to where I’m standing and decide that he’s being really rude. Bill helps support this theory.

  “He brought you here and doesn’t even have the balls to suck it up and come over and have a drink with us?” he asked. “What a tool.”

  Rick nods, continuing to make heavy eye contact with me. And then I come up with the ideal solution for getting out of kissing Chad Milan and into kissing Rick Wilson.

  “Why don’t I tell Chad I looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him?” I ask Bill while Rick is in the bathroom. Guys isn’t exactly a massive nightclub—it is, essentially, one room—but Bill nods supportively.

  “You should,” he says. “Rick is definitely into you. Just call Chad when you get home and tell him that when you couldn’t find him, you got another ride home.”

  I’m not sure exactly how this plan is communicated to Rick but the next thing I know, I’m making my way toward the bathroom, being careful to make sure Chad isn’t looking in my direction, and then out the back exit, where I then crouch by the side of the building like I’m the female James Bond or something.

  “Let’s get you home.” Rick smiles as he walks outside. Grabbing my hand, he leads me to a black BMW parked in the back and opens the door for me. I slide in and unlock his side, remembering that some guy once told me that he knows a girl is going to sleep with him if she unlocks his door. Rick notes that his door’s unlocked with a wink at me as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car.

  “Are we all clear?” he asks. “Any sign of your guy?”

  I look around and see only valet parkers.

  “I think we’re good,” I say. “But just to be safe…” I slide down the seat, so that my legs and butt are on the floor of his car and my head is on the seat. From this angle, I can’t help but notice the bulge in Rick’s jeans. He glances down at me noticing, and winks. I laugh, and continue to when he looks around, jokingly furtive, as we pull in front of Guys and out onto Beverly.

  “I think we made it,” he says, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “It’s not always easy to escape from the claws of a smarmy agent.”

  I slide back onto the seat and sit up straight. “Well, this damsel formerly in distress is quite grateful for your help in the matter.”

  When we pull up in front of my building, he immediately starts looking around for a space. “Do you need a permit to park here at night?” he asks.

  I hadn’t had any intention of actually bringing him inside my apartment. Call me a tease—and believe me, many have—but if I like a guy and think we have a chance of actually having a relationship, I won’t do anything more than kiss him, unless I’m severely impaired to the point of near blackout.

  “You don’t need to park,” I say. He looks annoyed.

  “Should I leave the car running?” he asks, and I reach over and turn the ignition off as an answer before leaning in for another of those fantastic kisses. Fairly quickly, we’re making out passionately and, as I alternate between breathing into his ear and kissing his neck, it occurs to me that Rick could be the answer to all my dreams.

  Pulling away, I ask in a low, sexy voice, “Are you seeing anybody?”

  He looks so horrified, you’d think I’d just asked him if he masturbates about family members. “Whoa—mood killer,” he says, leaning back and immediately pushing the cigarette lighter in.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill the mood,” I say, kicking myself for my timing, and yet snuggling up next to him and grabbing another Marlboro Red from his pack. “I was just curious because I think you’re cool.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth and surrounded by nothing but silence, I realize how lame this sounds.

  Rick lights his smoke, takes a drag, and exhales. “I don’t have a girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I smile and drag on my cigarette, as Rick unleashes a torrent of non sequiturs about a girl he was seeing who was always ruining what they had by trying to make the relationship more serious. He says the word “serious” the way a vegetarian might say the word “steak.” I’m sitting there and smoking and regretting having launched him on this entire line of thinking, when I hear him muse, “Don’t you think it’s interesting that the word for someone being sent to an insane asylum—‘committed’—is the same as the word for being in a serious relationship?”

  I nod, for the first time wondering about the decision-making ability I’ve displayed in the past few hours. Though this anti-relationship rant has helped to make his feelings on the matter abundantly clear, I wonder if he still likes me, if we’re going to date, or if my Rick Wilson experience is going to prove to be as ephemeral as his successful Hollywood career. Glancing at my watch and discovering that it’s one thirty in the morning, I decide it’s time to cut my losses.

  I lean in quickly for a kiss and then I retreat, saying, “Ask Bill for my number if you want to reach me.” I open the passenger side door, get out, and steady myself on my Miu Miu pumps, just as Rick is saying—mostly, it seems, to himself—“Jesus, you’re just about the most abrupt chick I’ve ever met!” I smile as I slam the door shut. I like being called “the most” anything, even if it is something as unexciting as abrupt.

  The next morning, I wake up at about six and can’t fall back to sleep. I’m utterly useless on days like this. I know some people get tired but I get literally insane. My IQ probably drops a hundred points, I have trouble seeing clearly, and the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought that at some point all this torture will be over and I’ll be able to get in bed and sleep.

  Since I’m up and have a good two hours before I’d even think about leaving for work, I decide to hit the gym. Maybe I’ll sweat the exhaustion out of me—ridiculous logic, I know, but I told you I can’t think straight when I’m in this state.

  At the gym, I force myself onto the treadmill. The place is completely empty, which doesn’t ever happen to gyms in L.A., what with exercise addiction being so rampant. It must be a Jewish holiday or something. I’m so out of it that I barely notice when someone else comes into the gym. Then I look up, catch this person’s eyes, and immediately pray for a time machine and the opportunity to be anywhere else.

  “Hi, Chad!” I all but scream to Chad Milan in such a fake-cheerful voice that I’m immediately shocked it’s come out of me. My head races through some shadowy reflections of coming into my apartment this morning after Rick dropped me off and rubbing moisturizer on my chapped chin. Did I freaking call Chad the way I’d planned to, or did I pass out before getting to it? Suddenly, I’m positive I did. I remember almost fainting with relief when I got his voicemail. All of t
hese thoughts zip through my mind in the amount of time it takes me to smile winningly and ask, “Did you get my message?”

  Chad nods and stops beside my treadmill. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “And forgive me for not calling you back afterward.”

  I’m about to tell him that it’s okay when he walks over to the Stairmaster and adds, “It’s just that since I’d gone outside to find you and saw Rick holding your hand and leading you to his car, it somehow made your message about how you’d looked everywhere for me seem less convincing.” Then he gets on the Stairmaster and starts it up. And I say nothing. There is no retort. There is just Chad Milan, an empty gym, and my utter horror. Chad doesn’t say another word, and even in my state of complete and utter humiliation, I admire him for having the balls to put me in my place like that. Now I actually understand why a girl might be attracted to him, I think as I slink out of the gym moments later.

  8

  My first instinct when I see Stephanie standing at my front door, swigging from her flask with Jane in tow, is to tell her that I don’t feel like going out tonight. I just feel off—more so than usual—and could probably use a quiet night at home. But for some reason this thought doesn’t even make it out of my mouth.

  “Ready to pre-party before Steve’s?” she asks and I nod.

  Steve Rosenberg parties tend to be massive gatherings of successful studio executives, directors, and B-list actors at his enormous house complete with basketball and tennis courts. There’s no way tonight can happen without Alex.

  “Want some Mexican food?” I ask Jane, who knows that “Mexican” refers to Alex’s coke, whereas “Italian” means getting it from this wannabe former wise guy named Joey. “Breaking the fast” is code for scoring from Vera, this Jewish woman whom I met at a party. But since Alex is the only one of the three who delivers, he tends to get the bulk of our business. Jane nods, so after giving each of them an Amstel Light, I page Alex. My mouth literally starts watering after the beeper pause when I punch my digits into the phone and press pound and I think I can actually feel my serotonin levels rise as I hear the long beep that tells me my phone number has been read. People’s anticipation of coke can be so Pavlovian that I know a guy who says he has to go to the bathroom as soon as he calls his dealer since the coke he buys is always cut with baby laxatives.