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 Oh, dear. We didn t send you a copy? Well, I ll have one messen-
gered over right away. In the meantime, the Today show wants to do a
segment on you ASAP and if you won t be too knackered, we d love
to put you on the red-eye tonight in fact, I d come along but I have a
damn dinner with the Ford people here. Regardless, The View wanted
you, too, but Nadine thinks it makes more sense to wait and put you
on there once a few more columns have come out.
For some reason, my heart isn t going a mile a minute and I don t
feel like I m out of my body observing a girl named Amelia Stone re-
ceiving this absurdly good news. I guess I m getting better at handling
surreality. But glancing around my paint-splattered bedroom, I m
highly aware of the ridiculous dichotomy between my world and the
one I m hearing about on the phone.
Tim continues to talk excitedly, about how I ll probably want to
join AFTRA so I can get paid for my TV appearances, about how we
might want to try to sell a book of my columns now even though only
one of them has been written, and about how we should set me up
with a film and TV agent in order to try to sell the rights, and yet all I
seem to be focusing on is the fact that I m going to be in New York,
where Adam is. Focus, I tell myself, on being fabulous.
By the time I shower, brush my teeth, and feed the cats, three copies of
Chat have arrived at my front door in an enormous brown envelope.
I bring them upstairs and place one in my lap. The magazine is spec-
tacular, from its stunning cover shot of Jude Law through its table of
contents which lists an essay on literary salons by Dave Eggers, a
humor piece by Augusten Burroughs, and an interview with Jude Law,
done by Jay McInerney. How on Earth did I get included in this group? I
wonder as I flip to my column.
And there I am, Missoni-encased and lying in the enormous plas-
tic champagne glass, legs extended, wearing an enormous, toothy grin.
Is that really me? I wonder as I examine the photo. It looks like a far
P A R T Y G I R L 181
more flawless and ecstatic version of me me if I d been born into a
different family, era, and life. There s no evidence of the discomfort I
was feeling when the picture was taken.
The copy, too, looks and reads much better than it did when it was
just a Microsoft Word document on my computer. Maybe it s just see-
ing it in Chat s elegant font? I notice with surprise that Tim made al-
most no changes to my text.
Then I log onto the gossip websites and read about this  stunning
 sexpot whose debut in Chat  hints at what is surely to be a lengthy
and notable career, according to Liz Smith.  Forget Carrie Bradshaw
and Candace Bushnell, raves Perez Hilton.  Amelia Stone writes
about what sex today is really like. Mr. Big? Try Mr. Bigs. Page Six
praises the column and wonders if Stone will delve into her lengthy
love relationship with sexy singer-songwriter Kane (now married to
an actress) in future columns. I always knew I was underappreciated, I
think as I imagine Brian and the entire Absolutely Fabulous staff gath-
ered around his computer reading these items.
My phone rings, and even though I haven t had a chance to even
listen to the morning s messages yet, I answer it.  Amelia, how are
you? a voice booms.  This is Richard Johnson from the New York
Post. Do you have a minute?
I try, probably unsuccessfully, to keep the excitement out of my
voice.  Richard, it s great to hear from you, I say. Remembering what
Tim had instructed me, I add,  Would you mind if I referred you to my
publicist? I expect Richard to laugh, or at least act snippy, but instead
he says,  Not at all. I suddenly feel like I m acting out a scene from
one of those movies you d watch and go, Hah like all this would ever
happen to someone.
 Oh, you re adorable! a brunette in a wraparound Diane Von
Furstenberg dress shrieks as I make my way through JFK toward a
driver carrying a sign with my name on it. Even though I managed to
sleep a few hours on the flight, the red-eye has left me exhausted
enough to not hear her very well or even imagine she s speaking to
me. She looks like the kind of person who would typically give me the
once-up-once-down fashion disapproval look, but her voice is so
much kinder and softer than it looks like it would be that I m com-
pletely thrown off and for a second I think that she s a random, well-
dressed lunatic.  It s great to finally meet you in person, she says,
pumping my hand with enthusiasm, then adds,  I m Nadine, your
publicist. I hope you don t mind my intruding on what would have
been a peaceful ride into the city, but I wanted to be able to talk to you
before you go on Today.
I smile and shake her hand, and she grabs it so that she can pull me
along as we follow the driver out to his car. It seems like such a girlish
move for someone who looks so sophisticated, but I m too busy trying
to keep up with her Chipmunks-speed style of speaking that I barely
have time to ponder it.
 Tim had told me you wouldn t need any media coaching, but I
just wanted to go over a couple of things, she says as we get in the car.
It lurches forward and she pulls out a notebook scrawled with lists and
filled with Post-It notes of more lists.  Now, I ve been pitching you
as the embodiment of the modern-day, sexually evolved, intelligent
184 A N N A D A V I D
woman. A Marilyn Monroe for the twenty-first century, but not so out
of it or self-destructive. Carrie Fisher with sex appeal. The woman
who really lives Sex and the City. Capische? She has a sex drive and
she s not afraid of it. If she goes to a wedding and can t decide between
two groomsmen, she takes them both to bed. Am I right?
I nod, finding myself so caught up in the notion of this perfectly
evolved and confident-sounding creature that I forget we re even talk- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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