I’m dreaming about signing autographs—and in the dream, my handwriting doesn’t look the way it does in real life but like it did when I was little and just learning how to write cursive letters—when the phone wakes me up.
I usually sleep through the phone, but I’m being devil-dialed—that is, someone is calling my home phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my cell phone, and when I don’t answer, they’re calling my home phone again. Eventually, I reach over and garble a hello.
“Oh, thank God you’re there.” It’s Tim, sounding more excited than I’ve ever heard him. “What’s your schedule like? Can you make it?”
“Make what?” I try to move my cat off me so I can sit up.
“Haven’t you gotten any of the messages from me or Nadine?”
“Who’s Nadine?”
“The publicist we hired to promote you.”
“Publicist?”
“Sweetheart, get yourself out of bed and to your computer. Nadine has proven herself to be worth every penny: according to Page Six, Gawker, Perez Hilton, and Liz Smith, you’re a sensation.”
“Me?!”
“We slipped advance issues to the gossips, not sure how they would react. And each of them went bloody crazy for your column.”
“My column’s out?” I hadn’t seen the photos of the shoot, let alone the actual magazine.
“Oh, dear. We didn’t send you a copy? Well, I’ll have one messengered 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 receiving 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 spectacular, 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 plastic 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 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 seeing it in Chat’s elegant font? I notice with surprise that Tim made almost 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 gathered 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.