Party Girl

by Anna David Narrated by Anna David

Overview

Celebrity journalist Amelia Stone is the quintessential L.A. party girl. She goes to Hollywood's most exclusive, star-studded events, where she rubs shoulders (and occasionally more) with celebrities, stays out until all hours of the night, and indulges in the ultimate sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll existence. In short, she's got everything a party girl needs: the looks, the job, the lifestyle. And oh, yes, the out-of-control coke habit.

But it's hard to keep topping your own outrageous exploits, and after losing her job, her friends, and much of her mind (not to mention waking up in the hospital after combining five Ambien, four lines of Special K, and an inestimable amount of cocaine), Amelia makes the drastic decision to end her drug abuse. Sobriety, she finds, has its rewards: she starts seeing the man who could be her Mr. Right and gets hired by a big-name magazine to write a column detailing her wild adventures with the celebrity party crowd. And who could write it better? After all, she has plenty of experience to draw on.

There's just one little problem. Overnight, Amelia Stone has become the new face of Hollywood nightlife, and her editors-who don't know she's come clean-want her to play the part. As her popularity skyrockets and the film and TV agents start calling, the lure of her former fast-and-furious lifestyle begins to pull at her. Faced with the most exciting opportunity of her career, she must now decide to either save herself-or salvage her reputation as the ultimate party girl.

Acidly hilarious and achingly honest, Party Girl is a harrowing ride through the world of Hollywood excess with a heroine who's deliciously flawed. Whether snorting coke or crying in rehab, hooking up or breaking down, Amelia Stone makes her way across the treacherous grounds of addiction, self-destruction, and recovery without ever losing her sharp wit, unapologetic candor, or odds-defying optimism.

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews

Party girl journalist parties too hard, crashes, reassesses life and ponders the difficulties of staying fabulous and sober. For your consideration: Does a book count as chick lit if the heroine does blow and gets into ill-considered threesomes while utterly blotto? If nothing else, celebrity journalist and sex columnist David's first novel has navigated some of the genre's conventions; unfortunately, there's little else here that's new. David's heroine, Amelia, is a spoiled trust-fund kid with daddy issues and a prodigious coke habit who, when not out partying, scribbles celebrity gossip for an US Weekly-like rag called Absolutely Fabulous. Amelia has a habit of burning the candle at both ends, and, after throwing a couple of big stories, she is fired by her long-suffering boss. Coupled with losing her best friend over a guy, the unemployment news pushes Amelia into a full-fledged coke binge, eventually landing her in rehab. When a hot magazine asks her to write a "Party Girl" column, newly sober Amelia must decide whether she can maintain the "party girl" persona while remaining clean. It briefly seems possible that David is planning something fresh, but the monotonous language, undifferentiated characters and flat fringe-of-Hollywood setting quickly put the kibosh on that. Raunchier than average, but nothing special.

From the Publisher

"A hilarious tale of a madcap screwball heroine--Irene Dunn with a Sidekick and a Prada bag full of cocaine."--Richard Rushfield, author of On Spec: A Novel of Young Hollywood

"A rollercoaster read...The most accurate portrayal of addiction and the nuances of recovery that I have come across."--Dr. Drew Pinsky, addiction expert and host of Loveline

"A smart, hilarious, and poignant page-turner that takes you past the velvet ropes and into the Hollywood party scene."--Cindy Chupack, a writer/executive producer of Sex and the City and author of The Between Boyfriends Book

"Amelia Stone's struggle to transcend the booze and booty-calls makes Sex and the City look like Disneyland."--Ian Kerner, New York Times bestselling author of She Comes First and Be Honest--You're Not That Into Him, Either

"An inspirational story--a triumph over the red carpet, instant intimacy with celebs, and an open bar."--Liz Smith, The New York Post

"Anna David's Party Girl is acidly hilarious and thoroughly entertaining. A must-read!"--Melissa de la Cruz, co-author of The Fashionista Files and How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

"Bridget Jones with a byline, bigger IQ, and substance abuse issues...at once laugh-out-loud and Capote-elegant."--Jerry Stahl, bestselling author of Permanent Midnight and I, Fatty

"David's debut novel combines a candid picture of addiction and recovery with scandalously funny, only-in-LA adventures."--Redbook Magazine

"In Party Girl, readers are lucky to sign on as Anna David's plus-one."--Tom Dolby, author of Trouble Boy

"Let the prose paparazzo's flashbulbs explode on this stunning debut. Reality fiction never had it so good."--Rachel Resnick, LA Times bestselling author of Go West, Young F*cked up Chick

"This is your brain on Party Girl: Sizzle. Pop. Narrative-as-amyl-nitrate."--Samantha Dunn, author of Faith in Carlos Gomez

Redbook Magazine

David’s debut novel combines a candid picture of addiction and recovery with scandalously funny, only-in-LA adventures.

Tom Dolby

In Party Girl, readers are lucky to sign on as Anna David’s plus-one.

Samantha Dunn

This is your brain on Party Girl: Sizzle. Pop. Narrative-as-amyl-nitrate.

Richard Rushfield

A hilarious tale of a madcap screwball heroine—Irene Dunn with a Sidekick and a Prada bag full of cocaine.

Ian Kerner

Amelia Stone’s struggle to transcend the booze and booty-calls makes Sex and the City look like Disneyland.

Dr. Drew Pinsky

A rollercoaster read...The most accurate portrayal of addiction and the nuances of recovery that I have come across.

Melissa de la Cruz

Anna David’s Party Girl is acidly hilarious and thoroughly entertaining. A must-read!

Rachel Resnick

Let the prose paparazzo’s flashbulbs explode on this stunning debut. Reality fiction never had it so good.

Liz Smith

An inspirational story—a triumph over the red carpet, instant intimacy with celebs, and an open bar.

Cindy Chupack

A smart, hilarious, and poignant page-turner that takes you past the velvet ropes and into the Hollywood party scene.

Jerry Stahl

Bridget Jones with a byline, bigger IQ, and substance abuse issues...at once laugh-out-loud and Capote-elegant.

Doctor - Drew Pinsky

"A rollercoaster read...The most accurate portrayal of addiction and the nuances of recovery that I have come across."

Product Details

BN ID:	2940177419053
Publisher:	Launch Pad Publishing
Publication date:	11/01/2018
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Party Girl
A Novel

Chapter One

It is a truth universally acknowledged that crazy things happen at weddings. Or at least that's what I tell myself as my activities segue from outrageous to risqué to downright depraved.

There's the bathroom blow job incident, which I categorize as "outrageous" rather than "downright depraved," solely due to the fact that my eighty-two-year-old stepdad walks in while I'm going down on the cousin of the bride in the poolhouse bathroom. Because of his eighty-two-ness (the stepdad, not the cousin, thankfully), he was prone to more "senior moments" than nonsenior moments—and thus is easily convinced that what had just happened never in fact happened. By the time I'm done talking to him, I've actually managed to convince him that not only was there no blow job, but also there had been no cousin of the bride. I'm pretty sure if I'd kept going I could have gotten him to believe there was no wedding. But the point is, in convincing my stepdad, I'm pretty sure I convince myself. And thus: outrageous, not downright depraved.

Don't bother asking me how I go from sitting next to the cousin and finding him mildly attractive—not gorgeous, just mildly attractive, someone I might have gone out with had he asked me—to kneeling down in front of him while he sat on Mom's bidet. It wouldn't have been my style to have asked, "Care for a blow job in the bathroom?" At least I don't think so. It's possible that after a bottle or so of good wedding champagne, Amelia Stone is replaced by Paris Hilton minus the millions, plus a good twenty pounds, but since my exploits haven't been caught on tape—note toexes, not that I know of—I can only venture this as a guess. I'd like to imagine that I happened to visit the restroom just as he was leaving and that our sudden passion erupted spontaneously. But by the end of the night—well, morning—the whole cousin incident was so comparatively pristine, I may as well have been a virgin in white in that bathroom.

Later, I find myself in the sauna with the groomsmen. It had been my mom's idea, that all the "young people" from the wedding should sauna and swim, but somehow it got down to just two guys and me. By this point, I know that I'm way more than mildly intoxicated, but since technically I'm on vacation, aren't I supposed to be? If I were this drunk in L.A., someone would probably bring out the coke and I'd thus be able to alleviate my alcohol buzz a bit, but parties at Mom's house tend to be pretty short on drugs—at least non-SSRI ones. And since in some ways there's no better high than having two men vying for your attention, I figure it's just as well that I'm not holding.

"I'm going to be graduating in May," Mitch says, as he offers me a sip of his warm Amstel Light. "Medical school has been a bitch."

"Oh, but now you're going to have to do your residency," Mitch's alleged best friend Chris interjects, while interjecting his body into the minuscule space that exists between Mitch and me. "You'll be working, like, ninety-hour weeks for no money."

"Which is so much worse than 'doing your residency' at Paramount for a salary just above the poverty line?" Mitch lobs back, looking at me.

I swear I never get tired of the attention of boys. But I prefer direct attention, rather than transparent male dick-swinging contests. Do they honestly think that the one who gets the last dig in will win my affection? Don't they know that being an assistant and a student, even a medical student, aren't exactly lady-killer positions to be in, and that they should perhaps be digging into their personal arsenals for more compelling things to compete over?

I stand up and they're silenced. "Last one in has to do a shot," I say and before I've even finished the sentence, they're pushing each other aside in their zeal to jump into the pool. I stand at the sauna door, cold air rushing in, their wet towels at my feet. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the two of them just wanted to have sex with each other.

"Okay, we're going to sleep now," I instruct them, as I try to get as comfortable as I can while lodged between these two guys in a double bed. "Sleep."

I honestly think we're going to bed. Was anyone ever that naive?

I can't even sleep on two Ambien by myself, but the birds are dangerously close to chirping—a horrifyingly depressing time to still be partying, as I've recently learned—this is the only bed left in the house, and neither of these guys are in any condition to drive. I turn toward Chris, who's facing the wall. Mitch is on the other side, facing the other wall.

A few minutes pass and I hear Mitch breathing heavily in that way that means he could be asleep. I sigh and feel more relaxed. My insomnia always seems embarrassing, and I'm all too relieved to be able to suffer through it without witnesses. Miraculously, I drift off for a moment or two.

And am awakened by lips on mine—specifically, lips belonging to Chris. My eyes swing open just in time for me to realize that Chris's kissing skills aren't half bad. Some people pride themselves on their gaydars. I pride myself on my kissdar because I can usually tell on sight if a guy is going to be one of those drench-your-face-with-saliva kissers, too-tentative pecking kissers, or a possessor of one of those lizardlike tongues that darts into places it's not wanted. Most guys, unfortunately, fit into one of these categories. It's the ones that don't that drive us mad, in all the good ways. Unfortunately, their kissing skills always seem to accompany a tendency for unemployment, a lack of an IQ, or just a general asshole-ishness. If they could kiss well and also possess qualities that actually made them good boyfriend material, women would probably maim and kill one another to have them. I had assumed that Chris would be some combination of too-tentative and lizardlike—that he'd start out with inappropriate propriety and then swerve into too much without the required sensuality—and am startled to discover that he seems to know what he's doing. He even knows the take-my-face-in-his-hands move.

I kiss him back, enjoying the secretiveness of the act. Despite all their lame competitiveness, despite the fact that Chris is an assistant at Paramount and that he attacks his alleged best friend who's actually doing something useful with his life in a pathetic attempt to win a girl's affection, I'm more attracted to him than I am to Mitch.

Chris is kissing well enough that it's impossible to say how many times we kiss—one time just seems to mesh into another. And then I'm utterly shocked when I feel a hand creeping from behind into my nether region. Had Chris and Mitch, in some sort of a silent pact, targeted my two most manipulatable zones and decided to each work one of them? The thrill of kissing someone while another hand works me from behind is unbelievable. I'm completely getting off on the anonymity of the hand (even though I obviously know whose hand it is) and on this wise solution to all that petty male competitiveness that was going on earlier, until I come back to earth and remember where we are. Which is in the guest bedroom directly below my mom and stepdad's bedroom in their house, which I'm visiting for the weekend to see an old friend get married—not to blow his now-wife's cousin and have a ménage à trois with two of his groomsmen. "Wait—you have to stop!" I suddenly screech. I jump out of bed and the two of them look alarmed, if not altogether shocked. I grab a pillow off the bed. "I need to go somewhere where I can actually sleep," I say, as if they'd been talking and I was tired of shushing them. Without another word, I stomp off to the den, where I promptly pass out on the couch.

Party Girl
A Novel. Copyright © by Anna David. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Videos