Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (12 page)

One day I was in the middle of trying on the most incredible Creamsicle-orange Sonia Rykiel cocoon shearling coat when I got this email:

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:22:56 AM EST

TO:
Babe Walker

Hi Babe,

It’s been a while. I’m sorry about Paul. Gina told me what happened, and says you’re in Paris now. Are you enjoying your trip?

xDonna

Gina and I had been in touch via text ever since I’d left Cirque, and I assumed she told Donna some of the stuff I told her, but this kind of threw me. I took a seat on the dressing room floor, lit a smoke, fluffed my hair, and formulated a response:

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:30:24 AM EST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Hey?

Paris is Paris. You know.

Babe

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Re: re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:41:59 AM EST

TO:
Babe Walker

The reason I asked is I’m going to be there for a week at the end of the month to do another shoot for Vogue Paris. I’d like to catch up if you’re free.

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:43:18 AM EST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Um, sure. Will Gina be here too?

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:49:37 AM EST

TO:
Babe Walker

No, she’s staying in New York. She just adopted two baby alpacas, so she’s taking care of them. Couldn’t make it out this time. Will be nice to see you.

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: re: re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 8:57:26 AM EST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Totally. My # is (310) ###-####. Text me when you’re here and we’ll figure something out. Tell Gina alpacas make better sweaters than pets.

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: re: re: re: Hi

DATE:
June 8th, 2012 9:00:31 AM EST

TO:
Babe Walker

Will do.

So that was that. Three weeks later Donna arrived in Paris. I’d been so busy shopping, drinking rosé, and making French friends (mostly fashion gays and one waify American girl from La Jolla) that I’d forgotten she was even coming until she texted me that she’d checked into her hotel, the Four Seasons Hotel George V. Her modeling thing was the next morning, so she was going to rest, shoot for a couple days, and we’d get dinner and have a night out when she’d wrapped. I was actually kind of nervous to see her. Yes, she was cool and modely for a forty-four-year-old, but we hadn’t
spent any time together since randomly meeting at rehab. What if she was crazy? I mean, I get that you have to be a little insane to still be modeling in your forties, but what if she was Sharon Stone crazy? I couldn’t decide whether I’d love that or not.

When it came time for us to go to dinner, I was a little on edge, so I decided to formulate an outfit that accurately displayed my emotions. A T-shirt by The Row, underneath a crocodile Givenchy blazer with a huge shark-tooth pendant, Chanel hot pants, and Céline platform Mary Janes. Restrained, yet whimsical. Powerful, yet independent.

I met Donna at Café de Flore. She looked really fresh but kind of scared, which made me feel less scared. Neither of us ate much (obviously), but I guess it was nice to have a chance to catch her up on everything I’d been up to since leaving Cirque. Even though she’d never really be my mom, she was still my mom, so I figured I should try to get used to her. I mean, she’d missed every milestone of my most exciting years on Earth (everything after twenty-five is boring bullshit), so I figured we could, at the very least, be acquaintances who texted every now and then. Who knows? Maybe we would grow to have the kind of relationship where I could talk to her about STD scares. Either way, I was open to exploring our mother/daughter relationship.

We texted Gina a selfie of the two of us sipping rosé (no one drinks cocktails in Paris). Once we finished dinner, Donna mentioned she had to swing by Silencio, members only, to show face at the wrap party for her photo shoot and asked me if I wanted to come with. Um, duh. Little did she know I’d been a member since forever, and was already on the guest list. Like mother like daughter, I guess.

We arrived at Silencio and were promptly seated at a banquette, a bottle of Dom Pérignon Brut Rosé on ice placed before us. The crowd was mostly Parisian fashion people who were too chic to care what was going on. People were smoking cigarettes, Blondie was playing. I was stuck in a black mirrored room with a bunch of stylish demons and I could not have been more obsessed. Yes, the French are rude, but they secretly love Americans—especially if they find out you’re from California. French people have it bad for California. There was this man seated in a corner booth whose silhouette reminded me of
Robert’s, but I was sure Robert wasn’t in Paris and it was probably just my mind playing tricks on me. I wondered if I’d ever stop having visions of him.

I was shoulder dancing with a fashion gay I knew and congratulating him on his enormous Yohji Yamamoto coat, when I suddenly got this weird feeling that someone was staring at me. I turned around and saw this tall, tan Greek god looking right through my eyes and into my vagina. He had to be at least 6'7", with longish golden-y brown hair that was kind of slicked back, but not in a gross way. He was wearing Hermès everything and it was working. I rolled my eyes at him because I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I gave a shit, and poured myself another glass of champagne. As I took a sip, I felt someone come up behind me, move my hair off my neck, and say in a low, husky voice:

“You are without a doubt the sexiest person in this club.”

It was the dumbest pickup line I’d ever heard, so dumb that it actually worked on me. He continued. “My name is Calisto, but everyone calls me Cal. Come have a drink with my friends.”

“I have my own friends, but thanks.”

“Then come have a drink with me.”

“No.”

Smash cut to Cal and me sitting in the banquette, so close to each other that our legs were touching and I could smell his cologne. Tom Ford Neroli Portofino. Chic. He was talking about his passion for Formula One racing when Donna walked brusquely over to me.

“We have to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“See that woman over there?” she said, pointing to a really upset and drunk-looking model type.

“Yeah . . . ohmigod, is that Kate Moss?”

“Yes, it is. Come on.” She motioned toward the exit.

“Wait, why?”

“Just get your purse. I’ll tell you when we’re outside.”

I turned to Cal.

“Gotta go.” I smiled. “Bye.”

I leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, and he turned his head at the last second so our lips touched briefly, sending an unexpected wave of chills through my body. His gaze on me felt so intense that I had no choice but to write my phone number on the nearest matchbook, thrust it into his hand, and leave immediately without saying another word. It was a bold move, but well played.

I pushed my way out of le club and onto rue Montmartre to find Donna basically hyperventilating in the street, cigarette in hand. I hailed a cab and got us the fuck out of there. Once Donna had calmed down, I pressed her for more info.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked. “Last I checked, everyone was having fun. You were talking to Nicolas Ghesquière, and I was being seduced by a Greek Clive Owen. Remember?”

“I threw a glass of champagne at Kate Moss.”

“Oh. Dark. You two know each other?”

“Not really. She and I had a thing years ago. It was nothing, but I just get so crazy when I see her. We came to blows at this gala in London. I ‘accidentally’ ripped the train of her dress.”

“I remember that! That was you? All the papers said it was Courtney Love.”

“No, that was me.”

“Genius!”

“I don’t know what it is, but she just makes me insane. I literally can’t control myself around her.”

“Whoa.”

“I’m sorry,” Donna said under her breath. She seemed genuinely embarrassed.

“It’s okay. Does Gina know about your Kate Hulk-outs?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s not the issue. Gina doesn’t care. It’s just—”

“Jesus, did you sleep with Kate Moss! Is she noisy?” Then I remembered that Donna was my mom, not a friend. “Oh God, is that totally inappropriate? I don’t really know how to talk to moms, much less my own mom. You don’t have to answer that.”

Donna laughed. “No, no. It’s fine. She’s a very sweet girl, actually.”

“Oh, well, that’s boring,” I said, disappointed. I’d always thought of Kate Moss as the girl who drinks all the booze, does all the drugs, and has all the fun.

“But . . . it’s almost as if she elicited this crazy fucking alter ego in me,” Donna said, shaking her head and looking out at the rainy Paris night. Although she said it in passing, it hit me like a Rick Owens boot to the skull. Alter ego?
Is Kate Moss my mom’s Robert?
I thought.
Is Babette genetic?

I grabbed Donna’s hand.

“I know what you— Whoa, Jesus, your hands are freezing!”

“Yeah, bad circulation. Guess you didn’t get that from me. Lucky.”

“No, I guess I didn’t inherit your weird, cold hands . . . but,
um, I think I may have gotten your split personality disorder.” And right as I said this, Donna turned her head to me and looked right into my eyes.

“When you fall for someone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Someone who actually fits into your life?”

“Yes,” I said, catatonically staring back at Donna. It felt like I was meeting myself for the first time.

“The second you fall in love, you become someone else. An archangel.”

“Babette.”

“Donatella.”

“Oh my God.”

Then the weirdest thing happened. Donna and I scooted up next to each other and hugged, almost involuntarily. After a split second, we broke away awkwardly and I gave her an abridged lecture in Babe Loves Robert 101, which was basically just me weeping and Donna telling me it was okay. She confided in me that when she first met Gina, she was exactly like that. Donatella was her Babette. It took her years of therapy and self-exploration to exorcise her inner beast, but she did it. Seeing Kate Moss must’ve triggered Donatella’s psycho habits. For the first time since we met at Cirque, I felt actually related to my mother.

Luckily the snotting, nose-blowing, and retelling of embarrassing anecdotes had ended by the time the taxi pulled up to the front of the Four Seasons.

“Hold on, you can keep the meter running,” Donna said to the driver, who didn’t understand a word she said.

“Babe”—she grabbed me—“you have more spirit inside of
you than you know what to do with. You are a beautiful woman and you have to trust me when I say this: You are stronger than Babette and you will find a way to accept love. You will believe in yourself. You must believe that you can find love.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“I mean it.”

“I believe you. This is just all so intense.”

“I know.”

As we held each other (for way too long) I wondered if Donna was right. Could I eventually exorcise Babette from my being? She seemed to have done it with Gina. But was it possible for me to do it with Robert? Maybe there was hope for me after all.

“Okay,” said Donna, wiping her nose. “I have to head up to my room and call Gina. I’m sure she’s waiting to hear from me. Thank you, Babe, thanks for talking. You know . . . I have some handbags that were gifted to me from the shoot today. Do you want one? You could come by in the morning and take a look at them. We could have coffee before I go.” I was glad to move on from the topic of “impossible love” to bags.

“What kind of handbags?” I asked.

“A couple Célines, and I think there’s a Proenza, and maybe a Jérôme Dreyfuss? Not sure though.”

“Okay. See you at ten.”

And that was that.

B
reakfast was whatever. We made some small talk and drank coffee. I didn’t take a purse from Donna. It felt weird for some reason. Getting on an emotional level with her in a taxi the
night before was one thing, but letting her give me a bag would have been way too intimate. Plus, they were all kind of ugly, and I already had the Célines.