Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David

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