Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (4 page)

Babe 10:13AM
Bye.

Genevieve 10:14AM
Ugh bye.

There’s no way Gen and my dad ever even did so much as run into each other at The Grove while I was away, much less copulate. He would never and she would never. So I knew she had to be lying. But that didn’t mean I was going to come clean about my lie anytime soon.

I fell back asleep and woke up at noon, feeling properly incubated and ready to grab life by the tits. I crawled out from under my igloo of pillows, flossed, brushed my teeth, and headed across the yard to the main house to pick up my hearty breakfast of green juice and an e-cigarette followed by a real cigarette. One of my post-rehab goals was to quit smoking. It’s a process.

As I approached the kitchen I heard two very British men talking about the stock market or cars, I can’t remember. One of the voices belonged to my dad, but the other was unidentifiable. I try not to enter rooms unless I know exactly who is inside, so I stood waiting for a bit, peering through the thin crack between the door and the wall.

My dad sat with Anonymous at the island, with a cup of tea and an empty cereal bowl in front of him. I could only catch glimpses of the other guy, but I could tell he was about my age and had good hair. I figured he was safe, so I opened the door and feigned surprise when I “saw” them sitting there.

“Oh, good morning,” I said, walking toward the fridge.

Not only did this guy have great hair, but his smile was warm and oddly familiar. He was hot, in the most British way. Dirty blond locks, blue eyes, a solid nose. Chris Martin meets Eddie Redmayne meets Prince William. I immediately felt attracted to him, so I ignored him.

“Glad to see you’re still getting your fiber, Dad.”

He smiled and put his arm out, roping me into a side hug. “If it weren’t for this one here, I’d probably have keeled over by now.”

“Dad, please! Don’t be dark.” I kissed him on the cheek and went back to the fridge, maintaining my silent treatment toward the boyfriend in my kitchen.

Then, “Babe, you remember Charles Dean,” my dad said. I had to make eye contact now, there was no way around it.

“Hiya, Babe,” said Charles. “It’s been a long time.”

“Charles Dean. Charles Dean? As in fourteen-year-old Charlie Dean from London?” I asked.

“Well, a bit more like twenty-seven-year-old Charlie Dean who now lives in New York. But yeah, same guy.”

I hadn’t seen Charlie since I was eleven years old, but a flood of memories came rushing back when I realized who he was. His dad grew up with my dad and we’ve known each other since we were babies. Not only was he one of my first friends, he was
my first kiss. I was eleven and there was no tongue, but it was still totally my first kiss.

“You’re so much hotter now!” Oh fuck, I really didn’t need to say that out loud.

“Well, thanks!” Charlie laughed. My dad was thankfully tuned out, looking at his BlackBerry. I could feel my face turning red. “Lest you forget, I was just thirteen years old when we had our fling,” he said with a wink. “I’ve grown into my teeth since then.”

“So random, you being here.” I tried to play it cool after my minor word-vomit mishap.

“My girlfriend’s here for work, she’s an actress and she’s doing a few episodes of
Californication
.”

“Oh . . . so are you cool with your girlfriend being naked in front of millions of people? I mean, I’m assuming she has to at least show her boobs to be on that show, but I’ve never seen it, so I wouldn’t really know.”

“Well-done. She’s playing a ‘high-class escort,’ ” Charlie said, making air quotes with his hands.

“That’s really cute,” I lied, putting some celery stems into the juicer. I had virtually no relationship with Charlie and yet the second he said he had a girlfriend, I was annoyed. I told myself to relax, New Babe doesn’t speak jealousy. “So, you’re in town for a while?” I asked.

“Just a few days. Figured I’d take meetings with some West Coast clients if I was going to be in LA anyhow.”

“Charlie’s a big hedge fund guy now, aren’t ya? Doing great for himself,” my dad said with a huge grin. He’d always loved Charlie, I remembered that. I even recall thinking
Charlie might’ve secretly been my brother, which was weird because we’d kissed that one time.

“I love the work, but it keeps me on a pretty strict schedule in New York, so just a short trip. And no offense, you all have a lovely house, but this town isn’t for me. There’s just so much—”

“Please,” my dad interjected, “I never wanted to live in the face-lift capital of the world, but after almost thirty years, I’ve grown to love this fucked-up city.”

“You have to be a truly open-minded person to live in a place like LA; I think that’s why I prosper here,” I said, pouring my juice into a glass and walking toward the door. “Hope your girlfriend becomes a big star. It was interesting seeing you, Charlie.”

“Likewise, Babe. Do let me know if you’re ever in New York. Get my number from your dad, I’d love to catch up properly.”

“You got it,” I said, almost out the door.

“Oh, I quite liked your book. I read the whole thing in one sitting on a flight to London.”

I paused and turned back toward Charlie.

“
White Girl Problems
.” Charlie smiled.

BTW: While in rehab, fueled by Adderall and Diet Coke, I’d penned a memoir over the course of forty-eight hours titled
White Girl Problems by Babe Walker.
It was basically my life’s struggles put down on paper. When I was finished writing it, I sent it to my dad as part of a “growth exercise” that Jackson recommended. Long story short, my dad (who is an entertainment attorney in Hollywood) loved the memoir, thought it could be a huge hit, and got my blessing to send it out to a few book agents and publishers. There was a bidding war for the manuscript, I got a book deal with a major publisher, it was a
New York Times
best seller, blah, blah, blah, the end, back to Charlie, juice, my kitchen.

“You read my book?”

“Yep. Loved it. I know I’m not your key demo, but I’d argue that we’ve had fairly similar upbringings. So, I’d like to think I get it,” Charlie said.

“Thanks. Most people read it and don’t think that I’m real, so it’s nice to hear that you loved it.”

With that, my green juice and I were on our way to the solarium, where I blessed my juice and had a quick meditation before heading to the Equinox on Sunset for a workout. Charlie’s smile lingered in my brain.

Old Babe would never be caught dead in a gym, but New Babe was all about putting herself out there and interacting with the incredible, positive people found in sacred places like mosques and group spin classes. While at Cirque, I’d gotten into a workout routine where I’d basically do an hour of yoga, followed by an hour to an hour and a half of cardio (depending on my mood). My yoga practice was getting so solid that I could almost do a pinky-stand, which is major. Google it if you don’t believe me. Endorphins were my cocaine and Lululemon pants were my rolled-up hundred-dollar bills.

I was on minute 173 of an 180-minute elliptical sesh, nearing the end of my meditation, when my mind started to wander . . .
Jackson told me to “let the universe deliver,” but what does that mean, exactly?
I thought to myself.
What does the universe have in store for me, besides mental clarity and spiritual fulfillment? Will I get a job? If so, where? Do I want a job? Not really. Probably best to wait on the whole job thing for now. Charlie
was cute. Will I ever fall in love again? Am I even ready to fall in love? The last person I loved made me insane. God, I miss Robert sometimes. He smelled so good and had the best teeth. And he was funny. I mean, not as funny as me, but I don’t really think I’d want to date someone funnier than me. I wonder what Robert’s doing right now? I wonder if he hates me. He definitely hates me. But I’m okay with that.
Ohm.

Just as I was pumping out the last few strides of my workout, I took three deep cleansing breaths, closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I saw one of the most shocking sights of my entire life: Robert was standing about ten feet away from me doing bicep curls. The same Robert who had broken my heart into a thousand pieces only two short years ago. Or had I broken his heart? Either way, I couldn’t believe it. These things don’t just happen, right? I took a sip of my oxidized, electrolyte-infused bottled water, wiped a layer of shine from my forehead, and casually walked over to where Robert was standing.

“I can’t remember, has the restraining order been lifted?” I smiled. “If not, then I think I have five seconds to move one hundred and fifty feet away from you. But if it has, then . . . hey.”

“Hi, Babe,” said Robert in a gravelly tone.

God, he was so fucking sexy. “Hello, Robert.”

“I thought you didn’t do gyms?” He smiled, putting down the thirty-five-pound weights he was holding and standing up to talk to me.

Jesus, his arms were beautiful.

“I’m trying to do more regular-people stuff these days,” I explained, adding, “Also, Fabio works out here, which I love.”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious.”

“You’re hilarious.” I gave him a coy smile, not flirtatious enough to seem like I was hitting on him and just solicitous enough to be fishing.

“You’re pretty funny yourself. Nice yoga pants—namaste.”

“Namaste, Robert. Namaste.”

I had no idea what else to say next. So I plastered a huge, confident smile on my face and started slowly backing away from him.

“Wait, where are you going? We should catch up. You want to get lunch later?”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

The universe delivers.

Last Season on
The Babe and Robert Chronicles

I
t was the winter of 2011. On a brisk and clear January morning, while at Barneys on Madison Avenue in New York City, Robert noticed Babe as she was buying herself a well-deserved little present (Céline purse). Robert was beautiful in all the ways a man should be. He was 6'4", a successful sports agent with a focus on the NBA, and he was immediately attracted to Babe’s energy. How could he not be? She’s a force of nature and her hair looked especially shiny that day.

After discovering that he had a great sense of humor, a passion for designer menswear (in a straight way), and a massive but manageable penis, Babe was smitten. These two love kittens were on the path to romance. They dated for a few months, fell
in love, and no one could stop them from the wedded bliss that awaited.

But that never happened, because Babe morphed into the worst possible version of herself, known only as “Babette,” and scared Robert away forever. Babette is a psycho who completely takes over Babe’s life/personality/iPhone when she falls in love with someone. She’s the kind of girl who will fake a pregnancy, text a guy ninety-seven times in one night, wear Uggs to dinner, make a bucket list, and put “eat at thirty different Olive Garden locations” as number three on said list. As soon as Babette reared her ugly little head, Robert panicked (rightfully so) and broke things off, but Babette couldn’t let go, hence the restraining order.

W
ithout question I had single-handedly fucked up the perfect, promising romance I’d had with Robert the first time around, but in the back of my mind I’d always maintained a sneaking suspicion that there was something driving me, cosmically, to him and to our inevitable happy ending. This was it. Rehab, my current body weight, the positive astrological climate, global warming, the lighting at Equinox—all of the stars were aligning.

I rushed home with one mission: putting together a masterpiece of an outfit to wear for my rendezvous with Robert. The hardest part about being in recovery from a shopping addiction is the “rule” that you’re not “supposed” to “buy new things.” My previous life was based around buying clothes and then finding events that were worthy of their exposure. I once outbid Anne Hathaway on a vintage Oscar de la Renta ball gown and wore
it to her engagement party the following week. Fashion used to be my raison d’être,
ma vie, ma mère
. But like all obsessions, it got dark, I lost control, and after hitting rock bottom at Barneys (my sanctuary), I had to be shown the light with some actual therapy—easier said than done. Yes, I’d gone through shopping withdrawals in Utah. I had nightmares about Kim Kardashian wearing Givenchy, and I may have attacked Jackson in a blackout rage when I discovered there was no Internet access, which meant no Net-A-Porter.

When I was at rehab, my look was very mountain-chic. Think Moncler, Michael Kors plaids,
Nanook of the North
furs, turtlenecks. But everyone else at rehab dressed like they were in an episode of
Dawson’s Creek,
so it was easy not to think about S/S ’13 Lanvin, and all the sample sales around the world that I was missing.

New Babe was resourceful. I’d promised myself that I would only go shopping in my closet for the next six months. Despite having at least seven hundred pieces of clothing that still had their tags and a vintage collection, putting together the perfect look was still going to be one of the more harrowing challenges I’d face post-rehab. I mean, I got out of Cirque right as Lagerfeld debuted Chanel’s Fall 2012 collection, which was conceptualized entirely around crystals, so you can imagine how hard it was going to be not to buy six pairs of the embellished Mary Janes.