Drinking and Tweeting (19 page)

“Okay,” I conceded. “Where should I meet him?”

Michael asked to meet me at Dan Tana’s, in West Hollywood—an iconic Italian eatery that I had always been dying to try. I must have asked Eddie more than a dozen times to take me to Dan Tana’s, but he never wanted to leave the Valley (he was probably terrified we’d run into one of his girlfriends). I decided to meet a girlfriend beforehand for a drink at the Four Seasons
Beverly Hills. This was my first real date in thirteen years, and I was in need of some liquid courage, even to meet a guy I was certainly not going to be interested in. Before I knew it, I was already twenty minutes late for my date! My friend and I got so caught up with gossiping that I completely lost track of time. When I finally found my way to the restaurant, I immediately noticed the commanding-looking, handsome man in his early fifties, who was approximately two inches shorter than me. My friend was right: he was definitely not my usual type, but to be gracious, I decided to check “my type” at the door and be open-minded about this guy.

We sat there for three hours laughing, drinking, eating, and having the loveliest evening. I quickly realized that Michael wasn’t just any old chump; he was one of the most powerful real estate developers in the country, and he had a Rolodex that would impress most studio executives. Plus, he had a wicked sense of humor and was exceptionally bright, which is hard to find and would normally have intimidated me, but he was easy to have a conversation with. When he finally walked me to the valet, he gave me a long hug and we said good-bye. Despite our having a great time, I never expected to hear
from him again. He was fantastic, but he just wasn’t my type—even with the homes around the world and the celebrity friends—and I thought I made that clear. I wasn’t looking for a payday; I was looking for the butterflies again.

Over the next few weeks, I heard from Michael nearly every day asking me on some extravagant date or another. He was definitely interested, and he was going to pull out all the stops—and for a guy with endless means, they can be quite tempting. First, he asked me to join him for an LA Lakers home game, because, of course, he has impossible-to-get floor seats next to super-producer Jerry Weintraub, just a few seats away from Jack Nicholson. Then it was a weekend at his private residence in the luxurious El Dorado resort community in Cabo San Lucas (which, of course, he’d developed) or his waterfront home in Kauai. I politely declined all his invitations for weeks, but he was relentless, and that was a little intoxicating. I hadn’t been pursued like that in years. One day, I got an e-mail from him asking me to go down to the Bahamas to visit the community and golf course he was developing there. My gut instinct was to decline again, but I thought, “Hey, I don’t have the
kids this weekend and could use a vacation.” I decided to finally take him up on his generous offer, but I made it clear I would need my own room. He was a little taken aback by my directness, so I told him, “Look, I would love to go, but if you want to ask me, call me.” We had a lovely phone conversation—one of our few, as he was the king of e-mails—in which I told him that I would be happy to go along for the ride, but I would need my own room. He told me that he would have to change some stuff around, but that it was totally fine. (I later found out that no woman had ever asked for her own room before—making me exponentially hotter in his eyes.) Then he told me his driver, Lucas, would follow up later that week with the details.

Lucas let me know that he would be fetching me at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and taking me out to Van Nuys Airport for a 10:00 a.m. wheels-up departure time on Mr. Meldman’s private plane. “Ugh,” I thought. “Of course he has a private plane.” In LA it always feels as if the more expensive someone’s toys are, the more that person is overcompensating for something else. I didn’t know Mike well at the time, but confidence didn’t seem to be something he was lacking.

The idea of being trapped on a tiny jet for hours feeling every bump and change of direction was a paralyzing fear of mine. Over the next few days, I worked myself up over the flight and actually prepared to cancel on him more than once. By the time Saturday came along, I was prepared with a Xanax bottle the size of Texas.

When we finally got to the airport, I was fucking gob-smacked. This wasn’t some tiny little propeller plane. This was a huge, beautiful airplane—a real-deal jetliner. I was still nervous about flying, but was comforted because this was a much bigger plane than I had imagined, and it was Mike’s personal jet (not some NetJets fractional rental), with a pilot and a flight attendant who worked solely for him. Once I boarded the plane, I realized it wasn’t just the two of us headed down to paradise; we were also flying with Mary Hart and her husband, Burt Sugarman.

Okay, I have been around some A-list celebrities and Hollywood power players, but Mary Hart? I was officially starstruck. I know it sounds superlame, but my mom absolutely adored Mary Hart, and I grew up watching her every day on
Entertainment Tonight
. I immediately sat down and started chatting with her.
I was determined to make her my pal, and we immediately became such good friends that by the time we took off, she was holding my hand to help get me through my mini panic attack.

After I finally calmed down, Mike alerted the flight attendant that we were ready for breakfast and, of course, some of the finest rosé champagne money could buy. “Hmm,” I thought. “He’s getting cuter by the minute!” We landed in the Bahamas in just five short hours because, naturally, we didn’t have to stop for fuel and received permission to fly straight onto the island and into the resort—which was simply breathtaking.

We were shown to our luxurious five-star “tents” (translation: the most gorgeous rooms I’d ever seen) directly on the beach. It felt magical, perhaps even romantic. Once we settled in, Michael took us on a tour of “his” property, including million-dollar beachfront homes. Since I live in Los Angeles and have traveled the world, it takes a lot to impress me. I was thoroughly impressed, especially watching all the staff scurrying around to wait on Michael hand and foot. It was totally intoxicating, and I was starting to become attracted to this man. (Ladies and gays, power is sexy!)

That evening at our group dinner and three glasses of rosé later (yes, I broke my own rule), I realized I might not need that separate room after all, but I would resist temptation that first night. After the meal, he walked me to my “tent” and I invited him inside for a drink. We started making out like teenagers and kissed for a good hour before I finally sent him back to his own room. #PlayingHardToGet. By the time the next evening rolled around, let’s just say I didn’t need my own accommodations anymore. It was on . . . like Donkey Kong.

That’s how our relationship continued for the next few months. Over time, I grew to depend on him as my voice of reason. He would advise me on career decisions and give me the confidence I needed throughout my divorce (he had already been through two of his own), and I was beyond grateful for his help. Finally, a man I could rely on. For about eight months, it was absolute perfection. Every day he lifted me up, telling me how young and beautiful I was. It had been a long time since a man I cared about had offered me that kind of validation; it was exactly what I needed to get my swagger back. He took me to swanky, glitzy events, where I could
dress up in glamorous gowns and rub elbows with Cindy Crawford. (After a few glasses of wine, I might have gushed to Cindy about the picture we took together during our modeling days in Europe and asked for a fresh one, because the other one is twenty years old. #Just Sayin.)

For Michael, it was perfect, too: I was still legally married, spent half of my time with my children, and wasn’t looking for a full-blown commitment from him. As time went on, my insecurities got the better of me, though, and I started to become . . . clingy. I started asking that he refer to me as his “girlfriend” and began demanding more of his time.

Despite the straining of our relationship, Michael took me to see his breathtaking private ski resort, the Yellowstone Club, in Big Sky, Montana. (Yes, ladies and gays, the man owns a mountain that the residents—aka movie stars and producers with gazillion-dollar mountainside cabins—call Private Powder.) One night during a group dinner, I started hinting to my new BFFs (in my head) Mary and Cindy that I was considering introducing Michael to my boys. We had been together for a
while, and Michael was an important part of my life, so perhaps it was the right time.

“No, don’t do that,” Cindy quickly blurted out. Her response took me by surprise, and I immediately understood that she was privy to some information I hadn’t known until now: I wasn’t the only woman in Michael’s life. He appeared to be noodling just about every good-looking girl in town. This guy whom I was so dismissive of when we’d first met was apparently an incredible ladies’ man.

I was hurt, but I didn’t blame him; we never discussed the exclusivity of our relationship. When we returned home, I could feel him start to pull away. He became increasingly unavailable, and our relationship started to dissolve. I learned about another model he was dating who had a reputation for being, well, batshit crazy, and it drove me nuts.

“Well, two can play this game,” I thought. It was time for me to see other people, too. I burned quickly through a handful of actors and a few hot hockey players, while still spending time with Michael. I never told him I was dating other people, but he wasn’t stupid. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t seem to bother him. There was no more
wining or dining, and eventually, I was reduced to being purely his sex slave and late-night booty call, when he found himself alone.

Michael took me on lavish vacations and took me out for decadent meals, but when it came to gifts . . . cheap! For Valentine’s Day, I had bought him an extremely expensive Chrome Hearts belt (what do you get the man who has everything?), so he turned around and bought me a beautiful Bottega Veneta purse, but that was the only time he ever gave me anything (not that I’m not thankful for the amazing trips), and mostly because he felt obligated. Listen, I don’t need a man to shower me with gifts, but I did want to feel that I was being wooed—at least a little bit. After nearly a year together, we officially broke up on my thirty-eighth birthday, in November 2010. We spent the evening together, but he didn’t bother to get me any sort of gift or even a card and wanted to be in bed by 9:00 p.m. Way to make a girl feel special! I finally had enough and called it quits. I will always have love for him.

Around the same time, my divorce was becoming increasingly painful, and I was completely heartsick. Only this time, it wasn’t about Eddie. Before Michael,
I wondered if I could ever love somebody again. My ex-husband had done such damage to my heart that I was sure I was scarred forever. It was strange: I was actually happy to feel that kind of pain. It made me feel alive again. Hurting over another man taught me that it was possible for me to find happiness again after my divorce. Michael was never meant to be the next great love of my life or the man I would one day grow old with, but he served an important purpose. He got me over Eddie.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A New Housewife

M
y first thought was, “Could I really be a ‘Housewife’ without a husband . . . or a house?”

When Evolution Media (the production company behind
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
and
The Real Housewives of Orange County
—and a trillion other hit shows) came to me in July 2010 to discuss the idea of my joining the
Beverly Hills
cast, I was over the moon about the possibility, but doubtful that anything would actually come of it. My luck wasn’t the best during those days.

Despite its size, Los Angeles can be a small city. Rumors had been circulating for a few months that the show was looking to cast new members, and everyone wanted in. Adrienne Maloof and I had a handful of
friends in common, but had never actually met until we were both on the red carpet of a charity event in Hidden Hills. Photographers asked us to pose for a few shots together, during which she asked me to hold her new puppy, Jackpot. For some reason, the photos went viral, and every blog was speculating that I was going to be joining the
Housewives
cast. A few days later, I got the call from Jennifer Redinger at Evolution asking if I would be interested in coming in for a camera test.

On a hotter-than-normal day in the Valley, I headed toward a production office near the Burbank Airport to meet with the casting team. Being absolutely awful with directions and still unable to program the navigation system in my car (#TechnologicallyChallenged), I had no idea where I was. Already late, I frantically dialed the casting producer to tell her I was lost and asked if she could help me with directions. I was actually there, only one parking lot over. I don’t think I could have been more embarrassed.

It was early in the day, but I was dressed to the nines in a sexy Burberry dress (that I’d had shortened, naturally), five-inch Christian Louboutin heels, and every fancy piece of jewelry I owned. After all, I was supposed
to be representing the 90210. Over the years, I had been on countless model castings and met some of the bitchiest fashionistas of all time. They’d treated me completely like shit, so I was prepared for the worst when I walked into that room. You can imagine my surprise when everyone was as nice as could be. I guess in those days, I was constantly preparing myself for the worst.

Jennifer asked me to take a seat in front of a camera and started asking me questions. I was petrified, but I did my best. If I came across particularly nervous during an answer, she would stop me and ask me to do it over. Maybe she was this nice to everyone, but I felt that she was rooting for me. To this day, I credit the producers of that show for changing my life—one in particular, Alex Baskin. I jokingly refer to him as the “housewife whisperer” for all the bullshit and drama he has to deal with. Between
Orange County
,
Beverly Hills
, and all of his other shows, he’s got a lot of diva personalities to handle, and if any of us have a problem or a complaint, we run immediately to him. In that regard, I do not envy his job. I could tell from the first time we met that he felt sorry for me. He saw that I had been broken, and I could tell he wanted to fix it. And he did.