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I am reaching for my doorknob when panic hits, but I grit my teeth and push through it. I open the door, step out into the hallway.
By the time I reach the lobby, I am hyperventilating, but I refuse to rush back to the safety of my condo.
The doorman hails the Town Car and I collapse in the backseat.
Youcandothisyoucandothis.
I close my eyes and survive this panic one second at a time, but when the car pulls up in front of the theater, I feel light-headed enough to pass out.
“You getting out, lady?”
Yes. Of course.
I climb out. It feels as if I am wading through mud as I approach the red carpet. The klieg lights burn my eyes, make me blink.
It is raining, I notice. When did that start?
Eerie red light cascades down from the marquee, flashing in puddles of rainwater on the street. Beyond the roped-off area, a giant, jostling crowd of onlookers is waiting for a celebrity to arrive.
My hands are shaking now; my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I tilt my chin and force myself to walk the red carpet. A few flashbulbs go off—then they see it is me and the photographers turn away.
Inside the theater, I have the debilitating thought that I am the oldest woman here. I worry about having a hot flash, turning red suddenly and sweating. I should look for the network executives, but I can’t. Instead, I make my way into the theater and collapse into one of the velvet seats.
The house light dims, the movie begins. All around me people are breathing, moving quietly, their seats creaking.
I try to stay calm and pay attention, but I can’t do it. Anxiety is a living, breathing entity inside of me. I need to get out of here, just for a second.
I find a sign for the restroom and follow it. The bathroom is so bright it scalds my eyes. Ignoring the mirror, I stumble into a stall and sink down onto the closed seat, kicking the door shut. I slump back, trying to calm down, and close my eyes. Relax, Tully. Relax.
The next thing I know, I am waking up. How long have I been here, passed out in a toilet stall in a movie theater?
Pushing out of the stall so hard the door cracks against the next stall, I lurch out into a line of women. They stare at me, their mouths open. The movie must be over.
Downstairs, I see the way people look at me. They step out of my way, as if I am rigged with dynamite or carrying a contagious disease. My DUI mug shot is what they are seeing when they look at me. And suddenly I know: I can’t do it. I can’t meet the network brass and plead my case and get my job back. It’s too late. I have lost my chance. The realization is a pit of quicksand that pulls me under. I elbow my way through the crowd, muttering apologies I don’t mean, until I can breathe again. I end up in a quiet alleyway in the pouring rain.
* * *
Sometime later, a man tries to pick me up in a bar. I almost let him. I see him looking at me, smiling, saying something that makes me ache with longing—not for him, of course, for my lost life, but he is there and the life is gone. I hear myself begging—begging—him to kiss me and I cry when he does because it feels so good and not nearly good enough.
After the bar closes, I walk home (or take a cab or get a ride—who knows?—at least I arrive home). My condo is dark when I get there. No lights are on. I turn them all on as I stumble past, ricocheting off the walls and tables as I go.
I am so ashamed I could cry, but what is the point? I slump onto my sofa and close my eyes.
When I open my eyes again, I see the pile of mail on my coffee table. Bleary-eyed, I stare at the remnants of my former life. I am about to look away when a picture catches my attention. My picture.
I lean forward and push the stack of envelopes and catalogs aside; there, beneath the bills and junk mail, is a Star magazine with my mug shot in the upper left corner. Beneath it is a single, terrible word. Addict.
I pick up the magazine and open it to the article. It’s not the cover story, just a little tidbit on the side.
The words blur before my eyes, dance and jump, but I tackle them one by one.
THE REAL STORY BEHIND THE RUMORS
Aging isn’t easy for any woman in the public eye, but it may be proving especially difficult for Tully Hart, the ex-star of the once-phenom talk show The Girlfriend Hour. Ms. Hart’s goddaughter, Marah Ryan, contacted Star exclusively. Ms. Ryan, 20, confirms that the fifty-year-old Hart has been struggling lately with demons that she’s had all her life. In recent months, she has “gained an alarming amount of weight” and been abusing drugs and alcohol, according to Ms. Ryan.
Tully Hart once appeared to have it all, but the aging talk show host, who has openly spoken of the difficult childhood she survived, and who has never been married or had children, appears to be crumbling under the pressure of her recent failures.
Dr. Lorri Mull, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist, who hasn’t treated the star, says, “Miss Hart is exhibiting classic addict behavior. She’s clearly spiraling out of control. ”
