Kane has one of those video camera doorbell things that everyone who makes more than half a million dollars a year in L.A. has, where you look into this black box—which surely distorts your face completely, like a rearview mirror—and the person decides whether or not to let you in. I’m a potential appetizer being displayed before actually being served, I think as I smile self-consciously into the camera.
“Hello, there!” Kane’s exceedingly recognizable voice booms as he buzzes the door. I push it open and see Kane standing on a porch at the top of a flight of white stairs overlooking a tree-filled garden. A man sits strumming—or maybe tuning—a guitar on the couch on the porch and Kane casually introduces me as I walk up the stairs.
“Greg, Amelia. Amelia, Greg.” Greg gives me a simultaneous nod and smile, managing to wordlessly communicate the fact that he thinks I’m Kane’s plaything for the night and thus not worth shaking hands with, or even acknowledging for more than about half a second. The fact that Kane doesn’t introduce me as “Amelia from Absolutely Fabulous” is also duly noted. Whether Greg is an assistant, guitar tuner, band mate, or roommate is likewise not addressed.
“Would you like tea?” Kane asks as he leads me into his gadget-filled kitchen. He opens a drawer that seems to contain every type of tea known to man, and even some that probably aren’t. People from England are way too damn obsessed with tea.
“Do you have anything a little…stronger?” I ask, feeling corny and like I’m reciting dialogue out of a made-for-TV movie starring Tori Spelling. “A beer? Or a drink-drink?” It hadn’t even crossed my mind that he wouldn’t offer me a real drink, even though this was a follow-up interview and all. Of course, I interview people when I’m stone cold sober—most of the time, anyway—but this situation was already feeling like it was veering into decidedly un-interview-like territory and I was thus feeling like a drink was sounding mighty appealing, if not downright necessary.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Sweetheart,” he says. “But I can make you a strong tea.”
Kane whistles as he throws a tea bag in a ceramic mug and holds it under a boiling water faucet, motioning for me to sit down on the couch in this sort of sitting room off the kitchen. The whole place is loftlike and open, so I can hear Greg playing chords like he’s sitting on the same couch.
“So, we didn’t really get into too much detail about your childhood,” I say, as Kane sits down next to me. He sighs and I don’t really blame him. What he had said had sounded intensely depressing—Dad abandoning the family, Mom drinking heavily, the usual ingredients of a tragic childhood—and I’d been so uncomfortable about having to make him pontificate about these things yesterday that I’d changed the subject altogether. But such details are Absolutely Fabulous’s bread and butter so I know there’s no avoiding them now.
I notice that Kane is glancing at the tape recorder rather incredulously, like he hadn’t actually expected for me to bust it out. Am I the stupidest person alive? Does everyone know that “follow-up interview at my house” is actually code for “come to my fancy house and fuck me”?
Don’t get me wrong. I really don’t have any problem with sleeping with him, at least in theory. But there would be plenty of time for that later, after I’m able to get him to reveal personal, painful secrets in what would go down in history as the preeminent Kane interview.
“Look, Kane, as I told you before, I’m going to need to talk to some of your friends—famous friends, if possible—about you for the story,” I say. Most celebrities are usually fairly quick to offer up the phone number for their sister or Bruce Willis or Andy Dick or some other random celebrity they consider a friend. But Kane had kind of ignored the question when I’d asked him about this yesterday. Now, though, he smiles and says he can get me in touch with Joni Mitchell and some backup musician.
“But you’re being so businesslike now,” he smiles. “I’ll get you those numbers. Call me tomorrow or the next day and I’ll make sure you get in touch with everyone you need to.”
I realize that no digits are going to be forthcoming now, so I get busy asking some of my questions, and Kane answers them—the same sort of stock, unspecific, guarded responses he’d given me the day before—while at the same time distracting me from what I’m trying to do.
“You know, you’re one of those girls that gets more beautiful the more I look at you,” he says, just after I’ve asked him if he ever speaks to either of his parents anymore.
I put the tape recorder down. “Thank you. That’s very sweet,” I say, silently begging my ego not to take over and start gunning for more. “But I’m curious…when was the last time you talked to them?”
Kane smiles at me, somewhat dreamily, moving so close that his face is right next to mine. “I’m serious, Sweetheart. Some girls look spectacular at first but then their features start to look rather plain after you’ve gazed at them for a while. Yours are the opposite. You look more stunning every second.”
I glance down, officially distracted now, and the next thing I know, Kane’s big, wet lips are brushing up against mine. I look up, shocked, even though I’ve been half expecting this the whole time.
“Kane!” I say, moving away from him. It’s the only word I can think of.
He reaches out to massage my shoulder. “I’m sorry, darling. It was terribly rude to do that without asking. I simply couldn’t help myself.”
“Look,” I say, shifting uncomfortably so that I can take a swig of cold tea for placebo-like liquid courage. “I’m attracted to you, but I also have a story to do, and I really need to deal with the former before I can even address the latter.” I like the way that comes out. Official, yet alluring.
Maybe at another time, or with another guy, I could toss the tape recorder to the ground, not caring if it busted wide open, and let him seduce me right there on this very couch, but my desire to really turn things around for myself at work is looming so heavily on my mind and I know I can’t afford to fuck this up.
Whether or not I’m actually attracted to Kane isn’t something I’ve examined much. He’s bright and shiny, like all celebrities, and so I can’t quite be myself—whoever that is—in front of him. I feel the same way I did when I met Oliver Anderson at a party and then drove to another one with him, making out in his Porsche at every red light: I could basically hear myself talking, like I was an invisible person in the car who was listening to the interaction and quite impressed with how Amelia Stone managed to attract the attention of someone so sought after while simultaneously concerned that she was going to say something any moment to screw it up and make him realize that inviting her into his orb was a mistake.
Kane seems satisfied with what I’ve said and pats my hand platonically, almost condescendingly. But he’s still smiling. Then he glances at the clock and mentions that it’s getting late.
“I should probably be going,” I say.
He nods, stands up, and walks me out of the house, onto the front porch, past the still-tuning Greg who doesn’t bother to say good-bye and to my car that’s parked at the curb outside his front door. Giving me a kiss on each cheek, he smiles.
“Good night, darling,” he says. “Drive safe.”
I smile back. “So I’ll call tomorrow to get those numbers from you?” I say, more as a question than a statement.
He takes a step back and it’s so dark that I can barely see him anymore. “Yes, darling,” he says. “Good night now.”
Linda Lewis’s publicist calls me on my cell the next morning and asks if I can do the interview that day at noon. Since she lives near me and the office is across town, I call Brian to let him know that I’m going to prep for my interview at home and come into the office later.
“That’s fine,” he says, sounding completely distracted.
“I did my follow-up with Kane,” I say, wondering why I’m bringing up something I don’t even want to talk about.
“Good, good,” he says, and I can tell there’s someone in his office that he wants to talk to more than he wants to chat with me.
I don’t want to let him go without some guarantee that he’s back on my side again. “By the way, I ran into Tim Bromley yesterday,” I say.
This fails to captivate Brian. “Did you? Tell him hello,” he says. Bastard’s not even listening to me.
I decide to give him a test to see if he’s paying even the slightest bit of attention. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say, even though I’d said I was coming in this afternoon.
“See you tomorrow,” he says and hangs up the phone.
Staring at the phone, I think about how much I’d like to call Stephanie and tell her about the Kane experience, and about Linda Lewis and inadvertently getting the day off work, and then I feel myself starting to get sad.
Whatever, I think, as I put on Linda Lewis’s CD and blast “Sinner” as loud as I can. Maybe Linda Lewis can be my new best friend.
It was tragic,” Linda says, her features scrunched together as a tear falls out of one of her eyes and hits her lap. “I was devastated.”
And so there it is—my first interview subject to cry in my presence. I had just innocently asked her about the cat she references on the fourth song on her CD; it turns out Daisy was run over by a car, and next thing I know she’s crying. It’s not like I’m angling to be the next Barbara Walters, or that making people cry has been some kind of a career goal, but you have to admit that you’re probably doing something right if a subject’s tear ducts are activated when you simply ask a question. I kind of want to hug her, but after last night’s brush with Kane’s lips, I feel distinctly aware of that reporter-subject line and how much I don’t want to cross it.
I gently lead Linda back to happier subjects, like the moment she got signed by her record label, when she first heard “Sinner” on the radio, and how it feels to be getting the acclaim she so clearly deserves. She cheers up and regales me with anecdotes and thoughts that I completely relate to—like her take on authority (that she doesn’t have the instinct that other people do to respect the people in charge, and it’s always getting her in trouble), feelings about her sexuality (just because she embraces it doesn’t mean she’s not a feminist) and San Francisco (“overrated”). I feel like most of what she says could have come directly from my mouth. Jesus, I’m developing a platonic crush on this woman, I think as she tells me that she so likes the taste of salty and sweet together that when she’s feeling particularly indulgent, she’ll throw Milk Duds into her buttered popcorn at the movies—something I’ve been doing since about the age of ten.
“Me, too!” I shriek for about the thirty-ninth time during the interview.
“Amazing,” Linda smiles. “We’re very connected.”
She actually cares about what I have to say, I think, unlike other people I’ve interviewed who pretend like they do but are just planning when they can stick a tongue in my mouth.
And I’m so enamored with everything she’s telling me that I let some other things slide, like the fact that she’s closed off most of the rooms in the house and won’t say whether or not she’s married. I figure I’m getting such amazingly descriptive answers from her on all kinds of other topics that it will more than make up for some of the other odds and ends the story may lack.
I save the whole age question until the very end, starting it off the way I always do when I suspect it might be a sensitive topic.
“So Absolutely Fabulous is completely obsessed with putting people’s ages in every piece,” I say.
Linda’s lids fly open and she looks at me with wild eyes. “I never say my age,” she says.
“Oh, so Tina didn’t say anything to you about this?” I ask, even though I know the answer. Damn publicists. Linda shakes her head.
“Well, I told her on the phone that this was pretty important.”
Linda seems really cold suddenly, not at all the evolved and loving being she’d been a few moments earlier. “I never say my age,” she says again. “Just tell your editor I wouldn’t tell you.”
I take a deep breath. “That’s the thing about Absolutely Fabulous,” I say. “They don’t accept answers like that. We’re not allowed to let people not answer questions.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she snaps, and then, realizing how harsh that must have sounded, she smiles. “Fine. Just tell them I’m thirty-something.”
“If I don’t get an exact number, they’ll just look it up from DMV records.” I say this in a really low voice that some might label a whisper. But the woman has the aural capabilities of a trained dog.
“DMV records?!” she shrieks. “Is that even legal?”
Smiling at her, I think how much I hope that this ridiculous age issue isn’t going to cause a permanent fissure in what I’d imagined would be our lifelong friendship. “Look, I’m on your side about it,” I say. “I think it’s ridiculous. But Absolutely Fabulous has all these policies that people just end up adhering to.” I smile again. “You look amazing,” I say, but not in a way that might make her think I’m coming on to her. “And really, age is just a number.”
Glancing down at the ground, I think about how much this situation calls for a cigarette. When I look up again, I see that Linda has tears in her eyes again. This time, I’m a lot less thrilled.
“You can’t let this happen, Amelia,” she says, suddenly reaching over and grabbing my hand. “I can’t have people knowing my age. I’d rather have the piece not run than have it say my age.”
While I’m interviewing Linda, Brian leaves me a message informing me that my Kane piece has been moved up in the rotation schedule, and that I need to be able to turn it in in the next twenty-four hours. His voice is distant, which definitely doesn’t help cushion the news that I’m going to have to stay up all night if I’m going to be able to make this happen.
Luckily, Alex is as available and ready as usual. And, also as usual, he’s a stickler about his two-gram policy. If I’m alone, I usually only want to do one gram—and yet, if I have two, I will do two. Surely Alex has all this figured out. But since, for a drug dealer, he’s extremely reliable, I always buy the two grams and then try to hide the second one from myself so that I don’t do them both in the same night. But I can never think of a hiding place that’s good enough for me to be able to forget about it, which is probably because my apartment is about the size of a postage stamp.
Alex makes his delivery, and I give him the crisp bills still warm from the ATM, slide the folded-up Lotto tickets into my pocket, go upstairs, and lay the coke out on a Jay Z CD. I don’t have the butter-flies and sense of anticipation I usually have before doing coke because the night doesn’t hold the intrigue and promise of a typical night out. It’s just, I decide, a necessary work enhancer. Sure, I could just drink coffee, but the problem with coffee is that it doesn’t keep me interested in what I’m doing. Somewhere into transcribing the second hour of the Kane tape, I’d probably find myself too bored to keep going. But coke has a way of making whatever I’m doing seem infinitely more interesting than it actually is. I’m doing this to save my career, I say to myself as I roll up a dollar bill—I’d tossed out all my straws in a moment of remorseful horror at the state of my life during the depression that hit after the Steve Rosenberg party night—and do my first few lines.
I type so much that my neck starts to ache from sitting at my computer for so long and I know that I should take a break and at least stretch a little bit, but I get into this compulsive cycle where I’m playing the tape and typing, taking breaks only to snort more lines and light the occasional cigarette. And then, just when I’m nearing the end of the second side of the tape, I realize I’m a little too wired. My heart is racing like I’ve just finished a one-mile sprint and my mind feels jumbled and a bit unsafe.
Knowing that the coke could capture and hold onto this mood, the way it did when I had to ditch out of the NBC event before dinner, I take a deep breath. I’m not willing to surrender to the too-wired-feel-a-little-nervous-wonder-if-I’m-going-to-have-a-heart-attack state, which can basically only be handled with a handful of Ambien and several shots of vodka to move the unwinding process along before the Ambien starts to take effect, and sleep. I can’t let this happen, I pep talk myself . I have a story to write, and it’s going to be the best fucking story Absolutely Fabulous will ever see.
I get up to chug some Absolut, and at the last minute decide to chase it with a Diet Coke. All goes down smoothly, but for a tiny gag at the end. I burp, loud. I feel better, calmer—like I just sneezed or had an orgasm.
Which makes me remember that the best way to come down just a little is to masturbate. I mean, I hate to be overly graphic or make anyone uncomfortable here but if your heart was racing and you were feeling like you were maybe teetering on the edge of a mountain and could fall off, wouldn’t you think about masturbating?
I retreat to the bedroom and plug in my Magic Wand. The thing is mammoth and manages to penetrate my potentially coke-dulled nether region, making me come in under a minute. And the vodka-and-Wand combination actually works—I feel immediately better. I charge back to the living room, leaving the still-plugged-in Wand on my bed because I know I might need it again later.
The birds have already been through their incessant chirping routine and my next-door neighbor has long since left for work when I’m putting the finishing touches on my Kane piece. It has parts I’ll need to fill in later—like the tertiary comments from his friends—but I’ve done everything I can for the time being. This tiny part of my brain is in complete hysteria about having to call Kane and act like a professional journalist—that is, someone he didn’t kiss the other night—but I’m so wired that this anxiety manages to sort of stay on the periphery of my thoughts.
See, the thing about a coke all-nighter is that you partially feel amazing, like you could conquer the world, while on the other hand you know that what’s going on is incredibly fucked up and you should just acknowledge what you’re doing and start sleeping it off. Since duty calls, however, I make an effort to stay with the first feeling.
A couple of lines get me through the car ride, and once I’m at work I know that I have to call Kane sooner rather than later and also know I need some powder encouragement to do it. Waiting until I’m sure that no one is about to go into or out of the bathroom, I storm in there, enter a stall, sit on the toilet, and lock the door. Not sure if I want a bump or an actual line, I sit there for about half a second but then panic and decide that it’s less risky to do a few lines because that means I won’t have to duck into the bathroom as often. I tap some coke out of my vial onto my left hand, pull out an already-rolled bill and snort it down. That goes well, so I do another.
When I leave the bathroom and make my way back to my cubicle, I see Brian approaching. Even though I know there’s no way any white powder could be lodged under my nose, I can’t help but panic and imagine that some has appeared in the three seconds since I left the bathroom.
“Problem, Amelia,” he says. I’m so fucking busted, I think. “Kane told you he was single, right?”
I nod. He’d offered this fact up literally seventeen times.
Brian tosses a photo on my desk—a picture of Kane making out with a skinny blonde. “This was taken at the American Music Awards last week,” he says. Pointing to the blonde, he asks, “Who is she?”
“I don’t know, Brian. He told me he wasn’t dating anyone. And just because they’re kissing doesn’t mean they’re, you know, dating.” All-too-familiar shame courses through my veins. Kane is obviously a complete player. How could I have thought for a second that he was interested in anything more than just sleeping with me?
“Look, if the camera got it, we have to address it,” he says. “You told me how well you got along with him. Just call him up and ask him.”
I nod. “Sure. No problem,” I say as Brian walks away. Before I lose my courage, I start dialing Kane’s cell number. Relief floods me as I realize that I’m getting his voicemail, and I struggle to make my voice sound singsongy and light. “Hey, Kane. It’s Amelia from Absolutely Fabulous here. I just wanted to say thanks so much for the other night. Oh, and I have a few follow-up questions for you. Also, if you could get me the numbers of those people I can interview about you, that would be great.” I hang up the receiver, hating the fact that I’m now covered in a cold, clammy sweat. But the message was perfectly appropriate, I decide. If the blonde from the picture hears it, she’d never suspect that his lips had touched mine.
Of course he’ll call me back, I say to myself. How could he not?
The afternoon isn’t a soothing one. A few more trips to the bathroom have made me so jumpy that every time my phone rings, I quite literally spring about five feet into the air before picking up the phone and trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. Of course, today it’s only the second-and third-rate publicists who have called—benign, sycophantic ones offering me opportunities to write about products and people the magazine wouldn’t even consider.
Sometime after lunch, I start to accept the fact that Kane may not call back, so I dial his manager. To my surprise, Janet is nice. When I explain that I have some follow-up questions and also need to interview a few of Kane’s well-known friends about him, she tells me she’ll get right back to me. I debate running to the bathroom for a quick bump but decide against it, and less than a minute later, she calls back. But she doesn’t sound quite as agreeable now.
“Look, I just got off the phone with Kane and he told me to tell you he’s done answering questions for you,” she says.
“I’m sorry?” I say and even though I am, I’m using it here to act like I’m surprised by what she’s saying, even though I’m not.
“He also told me you came to his house?” This is more an accusation than a question, and I want to reach through the phone wires and slap the bitch. You’d think I bought a star map and showed up there like a stalker from her tone.
“I did go there,” I say. “But—”
“Please don’t go to his house or call him anymore,” she says. “We don’t want you interviewing anyone about him. And, as for the woman in the picture, she’s just a friend.”
Janet hangs up before I even have a chance to respond and I sit there for a moment—stunned and yet determined not to give this British cheeseball singer who makes elevator music any of my tears.
An hour and a few more bathroom trips later, I decide that I can’t handle a face-to-face interaction with Brian so I e-mail him and explain that I can’t get the Kane questions answered or terts. No excuses, no explanation. And then I just sit there. Despite all the PR about coke making you energetic as hell, sometimes it can be completely immobilizing. As I continue to stare at my computer screen, Brian e-mails back.
So we’ll kill the piece, the e-mail reads. Not I know you tried or How could you let this happen? Although it seems like Brian has given up on me, I feel inordinately grateful, like I just talked my way out of a speeding ticket I clearly deserved, and all the more determined to win my way back into Brian’s good graces by saving my Linda Lewis story. I haven’t even been given a deadline for the piece yet, but if I finish it as quickly as possible and then turn it in early, he’ll have to be impressed.
First, of course, I have to deal with this ridiculous age issue. Glancing at the original assignment sheet, I see that Bruce Young, a New York senior editor, is going to be editing the piece so I decide to call him directly. Brian and Robert always tell us not to bother the New York staff with inane questions, but since my question isn’t inane and I haven’t called a New York editor in the year and a half that I’ve worked here—I’ve only talked to them when they’ve called me to go over my articles—I tell myself that this time it’s okay as I dial Bruce’s number.
“Bruce Young,” he says into the phone, sounding harried.
“Bruce, hey. It’s Amelia Stone in L.A.”
“Who?” He sounds frenzied and annoyed.
“From the L.A. office. A staff writer.”
“Oh. And?” Christ. I know editors aren’t renowned for their interpersonal skills but can’t he make more of an effort to be gregarious?
“Look, I’m doing the reporting on the Linda Lewis piece and—”
“Are we doing a story on her?” he asks, cutting me off.
“Yes, it’s on the schedule,” I say, marveling at his incompetence. “You’re listed as the editor.”
“Oh, okay. So what about it?”
Something inside warns me not to continue with what I’m about to do but I feel strangely powerless over my ability to stop now.
“Look, here’s the thing. Linda won’t say her age—”
“She has to say her age. It’s company policy.” The guy clearly has no issue with repeatedly cutting me off.
“I know, but here’s the thing. The interview was amazing. I mean, she cried. She talked about stuff she swore she’d never tell anyone. I really think it could be an outstanding story.” I’d normally never use the word “outstanding,” but Bruce seems like the kind of guy who might respond well to it.
“So go find out her age. Call the DMV.”
“Well, she said she’d rather have the story killed than have her age run, and I just—”
“So let’s kill the story. Or, if we’ve already photographed her, let’s not waste valuable film and a photographer’s time. Just find out her age and print it. Screw what she wants. Personally, I think she sucks, anyway. I mean, ‘Sinner’? Are you kidding me?”
Even though Bruce is insulting Linda, I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. For a brief second, I want to be outraged by his ridiculous lack of empathy for the human race but the truth is, my outrage seems, like most things, to be all about me.
“Well, it’s a ridiculous policy,” I snap after a stray tear manages to escape from each eye.
“Excuse me?” For the first time in the conversation, I seem to have inspired something more than an indifferent response from him. I’m about to respond with a snippy explanation for exactly why I feel the policy is insane when suddenly Brian appears at my cubicle.
“You need to come to Robert’s office,” he says. He has this look on his face that I’ve never seen before, like he’s somewhere between scared and furious.
I nod at him that I’ll be there in a second, hoping he’ll walk away so I can finish my conversation with Bruce.
“Now!” Brian yells so loudly that I jump out of my seat and about three feet in the air.
“I have to go,” I say to Bruce and hang up, not even waiting to hear if he says good-bye. I suddenly know exactly what’s about to happen and start passionately wishing for that mammoth earthquake everyone says is going to come and wipe out all of California.
“Follow me, please, Amelia,” Brian says. The word “please” sounds formal and uncomfortable coming from him.
As I follow Brian down the hall, heads poke out of office doors and then back inside. Nosy motherfuckers. Brian bypasses his own office, me just a step behind, and walks straight into Robert’s. It’s only my second time in Robert’s office and I’d forgotten just how austere and uncomfortable it was. I sit down on the corner of a brown couch while Brian sits opposite me in a cushioned seat that’s the same color. Robert leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Nobody says a word and for one brief, horrific second, I think I’m actually going to have to be the one to start this conversation.
“We know what you’ve been doing today,” Robert finally says, staring at the ground.
“In the bathroom,” Brian, who now looks pink with anger, adds.
“Apparently you weren’t very subtle,” Robert says, his gaze still fixated on some small stain in his carpet. I’m about to defend myself, to tell them that what I’ve been doing today is practically de rigueur in Hollywood, but I seem to have lost the ability to speak.
“And do you know how much trouble you’ve gotten us in lately, Amelia?” Brian continues, looking like he literally might cry. “This thing with Amy Baker. What the hell did you say to her?”
I should have known that anorexic, soulless wench would call someone above me to complain, I think. I’m about to defend myself and explain that she was the one who falsely accused me of misquoting people, but I seem to have lost the ability to speak or even, for that matter, focus. I try to keep my mind on what’s going on in this room but my head seems to have other ideas.
“And this ridiculous drama with Kane—telling me you’re going there during the day for a follow-up interview when really you were going to his house at night!”
Janet is a scum-sucking whore for telling on me, I think. I don’t say anything.
“What were you thinking?” Brian asks but it’s the very definition of a rhetorical question because it’s perfectly obvious he’s made up his mind about me and nothing I have to say will make a damn bit of difference. I’m feeling light-headed and sort of confused. Am I being fired? I wonder but then tell myself, I can’t be fired because this job is the only thing I have. I have no friends. No boyfriend. No family here. Nothing. And this is a town that forgets about people who have nothing.
This is just a warning, my head tells me. If I was going to be fired, they would be really nice and apologetic and tell me they were sorry things didn’t work out. People feel bad when they fire you.
I force myself to tune into what Brian is saying.
“—one thing if it was just a drug problem—”
A drug problem? I think. Christ. I need a pick-me-up one damn day and suddenly I have a “drug problem”?
“—but we’ve given you, frankly, more chances than you deserve—”
More chances than I deserve? I think. How the hell should they know what I deserve?
“—attitude problem—”
Now that was something I’d been told since I could remember. Whenever I got upset when I was little and cried, my dad would laugh and call me his “little actress.” He’d call me a petulant princess, and Mom, thrilled to see her always-depressed husband actually smiling, would laugh, too. There were entire car trips to Tahoe where I’d be crying and my parents would be laughing at me. Later, Dad would summarize the incident by saying that it all started because I had an attitude problem.
Focus on what Brian is saying, I tell myself, before it’s too late.
I look up and concentrate very hard on not crying. Brian seems to have stopped talking. I notice that Robert’s lips are moving but it’s very hard for my brain to comprehend the fact that he’s talking to me because of his utter focus on a piece of lint on the ground. But when I tune in completely, there’s no mistaking his words and what they mean.
“We’d like you out of here within the hour.”
I nod, and somehow make it out of his office without allowing even one droplet to leave my eye.
The next thing I know, I’m at my desk, packing my files into a box someone had placed next to my chair. Christ, had the entire office been told I was going to be fired before I even knew?
As I copy all my files, delete everything else on the hard drive, and take pictures and notes off the cubicle walls, I marvel at the fact that not one of the spineless assholes I work with is going to come over and tell me they’re sorry and what’s happening isn’t fair, the way they did when this nerdy guy, Raoul, was fired a few months ago. It’s true that I wasn’t exactly friends with any of them—Brian was actually the only person I really talked to here—but you’d think that an iota of human compassion might penetrate one of their superficial hearts. What do they think, that getting fired is contagious? I wonder as I grab unused notebooks, packs of Post-it notes, and packets of Uniball pens, and toss them in my to-go box. Consider this my severance package, I silently tell the halls of Absolutely Fabulous as I pick up the box. The coke I’ve been ingesting over the past twenty-four hours has definitely drained from my system, leaving me depleted and dry, but my desire to get the fuck out of this building somehow overrides my comedown. I make my way to the elevator, pray not to run into Stephanie, and eventually make it to my car, where I collapse in hysterical sobs.
Then I remember that Brian and Robert or anyone else from Absolutely Fabulous could come down to the garage and see me like this, so I force myself to get it together enough to drive. Somehow I make it home, where I walk inside and straight to bed.