Bling Addiction (7 page)

Keiko beamed a mischievous smile. “I think we could get into a lot of trouble together.”

Now Christina was frightened. Because she liked the sound of that. She liked the sound of that very much indeed.

W
hatever happened to Vanity St. John?

Vanity read the text and mulled over half a dozen bitchy responses, ultimately tapping out none of them. Did it even matter anymore?

Three months had passed since the accident. And in the world of celebrity PR where one is famous for being famous and not famous for possessing any demonstrative talent, three months might as well be three years.

Whatever happened to Vanity St. John?

Did the fawning public really want to know the gory details of her miserable life? No. Would the hacks for
People, Us Weekly,
and
Star
actually scribble down a story that had nothing to do with designer clothes, dating, or the alleged ongoing feuds with Lindsay Lohan and Katee K? Hell no.

Mimi Blair might be a clever pitch-and-spin girl, but she was hardly Zatanna, Mistress of Magic. There was no sexy hook to the purgatory that had become Vanity’s isolated existence.

When her Mercedes crashed into the fuel tanker, the difference between serious injury and certain death had been inches apart. She narrowly avoided going out in an explosive fireball blaze. Instead, she got crushed like a soda can, cracking several ribs and shattering her tibia in what the doctors called a triple displaced spiral.

You’re lucky to be alive.

That’s what the first responders on the scene had told her. But she didn’t feel lucky then. And she didn’t feel lucky now.

There was a metal plate in her leg. There were eight screws holding it down. Usually, one surgery was enough to get the job done. But in her case, complications had required four.

The doctors ordered twelve weeks of bed rest, clearing her only to use the bathroom. So she just lay there day after day, crying uncontrollably from the agony, the muscle cramps, and the spasms.

Her reliance on painkillers became a concern early into her so-called recovery. They said she was displaying classic symptoms of addiction and took away her precious Vicodin, immediately switching her to Ultram, an arthritis medication. It helped with the pain, so she endured the ugly side effects—swelling, skin rashes, and constant dry mouth.

It was slow torture. She suffered diarrhea from the strong antibiotics prescribed to prevent bone infection, and beyond that she suffered constipation from the calcium tabs that they told her to chew like candy.

The endless hours stretched to endless days, the endless weeks to endless months. Her depression seemed bottomless, and Vanity plunged deeper and deeper into it, refusing visits from friends and ignoring their calls. Yet when the odd moment of wanting company materialized, she bitterly resented them for not being there. Soon she grew to hate Max, Christina, Pippa, and Dante more than she grew to miss them. She knew this was irrational and unfair. But these were her feelings.

Vanity’s life became a cocoon of sleep, television, and more sleep, the monotony broken only by regular visits from Walter “Steak” Williams, the physical therapist who pushed her through a brutal regimen of painful exercises designed to accelerate her recovery.

Steak was big, black, loud, and unrelenting. Vanity loathed the therapy but adored him. He made her laugh with stories about his crazy romantic life, encouraged her to push harder, declared “Stickwitu” by the Pussycat Dolls as their special song, and assured her that one day soon she would be vamping around like a contestant on
America’s Next Top Model.

But that was Steak being an eternal optimist. Regular X-rays and radiographs indicated slow healing to the bone. That meant another surgery to undo one of the screws on the internal fixator. It also meant a round of low-frequency ultrasound treatments and another month of no weight-bearing movement on the leg. At this rate, walking on her own by New Year’s Eve would be a medical miracle.

Simon St. John pretended to be a father. When he was in town, he always checked on her before leaving for the office and then again as soon as he returned home. Vanity could usually predict his appearances and feigned sleep to avoid interaction.

Isis St. John pretended to be a mother. She called once and tried to relate to her daughter by telling a rambling story about the time she sprained her ankle at a disco in Ibiza. Then she announced her “conversion to Kaballahism” and promised to send a gift. A few weeks later, a red string bracelet arrived via airmail from Nice, France. The attached note said that wearing it would protect her from the evil eye. Vanity tossed the stupid thing into the garbage.

If there was any light to the darkness at all, then it was Vanity’s growing affection for Mercedes and Gunnar, her younger siblings. The twins staged elaborate shows and performed them in the doorway of Vanity’s bedroom, then ran away squealing with laughter. Their antics were a welcome respite from the idiots on
Laguna Beach,
which Vanity watched with religious fervor.

Another pleasant surprise had been Vanity’s sudden tolerance for Lala. The twins’ nanny brooked no argument about her extra duties as nursemaid. She nagged Vanity to keep herself properly hydrated and ferried her back and forth to the hospital for tests and checkups.

Today she was taking her to see Dr. Parker. In the aftermath of the accident, the surgeries and strict bed rest had dimmed Vanity’s session frequency to once a month at best, so she looked forward to these hours with something close to desperation. Lala would wheel her into the waiting room, then disappear to the Lincoln Road Mall until Vanity called to say she was ready.

Even with the awkwardness of being restricted to a wheelchair, Dr. Parker’s customary hug felt so nurturing as to be medicinal. Vanity didn’t want it to end, and when the embrace was broken, she started to cry.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Dr. Parker asked softly, offering Vanity a few tissues.

She nodded and dabbed at the tears in her eyes. God, she felt so dumb. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Of course not.” Dr. Parker allowed Vanity a moment to settle down. “How are you?”

Vanity went through the last few weeks of leg trauma in great detail. This made her feel like the old woman down the street who holds neighbors hostage as she discusses every ache and pain. It was all that Vanity knew, though. Her world had become that small.

At first, Dr. Parker listened patiently. But finally, she chose to break in. “Is this really helping, Vanity?”

“Why? Am I boring you?”

“No. You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“It’s not enough to just show up. You have to be present and willing to do the emotional work.”

Vanity inspected her nails, purposefully avoiding Dr. Parker’s stare. There were no free passes in this room, even when you arrived in a wheelchair.

“Let’s move beyond the physical. The doctors anticipate a full recovery. Frankly, that’s all the information I need about your leg. I’m more concerned about what’s going on inside of you.”

Vanity decided to come out with it. “I secretly dread the idea of walking again.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel like I’ve changed. I’m the same person who was driving too fast with her eyes closed three months ago. It scares me that coming so close to death and going through all of this hasn’t made any difference. I’m still stuck. The only change is that I now know that I really don’t want to kill myself.” She shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t necessarily want to live, either.”

Dr. Parker leaned forward. “That’s a very brave thing to admit. I’m glad to hear you say it.”

Vanity gave her a quizzical look. “You’re glad that I’m a zombie?”

Dr. Parker smiled. “No. I’m glad that you have the depth of self-awareness to recognize these feelings. Some people go through their entire lives with that kind of ambivalence, but they have no idea how to articulate it. You just did.” She reached out and clasped Vanity’s hand. “This is a huge breakthrough.” And then she released it, settling back into her chair. “Let’s keep going. I want to hear more about your reluctance to get back to your routine.”

Vanity sighed deeply. “I don’t know…maybe it’s because I don’t know what I’m getting back to exactly. All of my friends have something. Dante has his music, Christina’s an artist, Pippa’s a dancer, and Max…well, he just plays poker and plans parties, but at least it’s
something.”

“An engrossing passion,” Dr. Parker clarified.

“Yeah.” Vanity nodded.
“I don’t have that.
I complain about being famous. I hate the way people only seem to be interested in what I’m wearing, how much weight I’ve gained or lost, or whatever. But then I have to think, you know…is there anything else to me?”

“Only you have the power to determine that.”

Vanity shook her head vigorously. “I don’t think I’m hardwired that way. My first instinct is to worry about my looks. It’s been that way all of my life. Nobody has ever told me that I’m smart or funny or good at anything other than…
this.”
She swept both hands down her torso. “The package—my face, my hair, my body.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts. “Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the sex video that J.J. had. When I first heard about it, I was so upset. You know? I was
mad.
All I could think about was how humiliating it would be. But now part of me
wishes
it would come out.” She managed half a laugh. “Isn’t that crazy?”

Dr. Parker didn’t answer.

“You see, I know that I was hot then,” Vanity went on. “I wasn’t puffy like I am now from this goddamn Ultram. I was tan. You could bounce a quarter off my abs
and
my ass. I realize that makes me an object…but that’s the only attention I know.” She let out a long frustrated breath. “Am I making any sense?”

“Does it make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re doing good work here.” Dr. Parker tilted her head curiously. “Tell me what you
don’t
want. If you could say no to one thing, what would it be?”

Vanity considered the question carefully. “Sex.”

Dr. Parker revealed nothing. “Go on.”

“I’ve had a lot of it, but I’ve never wanted it. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been the victim of a rape. I always went along
voluntarily
…but it never had anything to do with what I wanted or desired or fantasized about. It was just a performance. You know, a way to get attention. Even with Dante, I can’t say that I actually wanted it. I was performing. I rescued him on the beach, and I took him for a ride on my boat, and I gave him a blow job in the middle of the ocean. The whole time I was thinking,
This is so hot for him that he’s going to keep coming back.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been fully aroused. I mean, I don’t even see the point in masturbating. I get the idea of doing it in front of a guy, because he would be turned on. But I never think about doing it for myself. You know, just to feel good.”

Dr. Parker nodded intently. “Female desire is very complicated, and just because you’re having sex doesn’t mean that you’re expressing your sexuality.”

Vanity grinned. “So does that mean I’m still a virgin?”

Dr. Parker laughed. “Oh, I’d say that ship has sailed. At least in the traditional sense.” She gave Vanity a long, penetrating look. “Let’s talk about your friends. Do you miss them?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure that I know how to relate to them anymore. That’s why I don’t answer the phone. That’s why I tell Lala to tell them I’m sleeping if they happen to drop by.”

“But how will you know for sure if all you do is shut them out?”

“I used to be the It girl, Dr. Parker. Everything about me was larger than life. Now I’m just this…depressed girl. My life barely extends beyond my bedroom.”

“But their lives are still rich and active. That’s the real problem, isn’t it?”

Vanity cast a downward glance, shamefully avoiding eye contact. “I resent them, Dr. Parker. I resent them for everything—for walking, for being happy, for trying too hard to reach out, for not trying hard enough. At one point I felt indebted to Max because he negotiated with J.J. to get rid of the sex tape. But now I feel like he cheated me out of something.”

“In what way?”

“That video is an example of the girl that I was. I want to be her again. I just don’t know how.”