Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (13 page)

“Um…?” I couldn’t help but laugh. She looked ridiculous.

“Fuck off. It’s ninety degrees in here! How can you sleep like this?” Chelsea asked.

“I dunno. I’m used to it.”

“Well, you’re going to have to start sleeping at my place.”

My seventy-five-year-old father is always freezing. In ninety-degree weather, he sports a long-sleeve shirt and pants. There’s no way he’d let me sleep with the air on. I tried it once. The minute he heard it, he shut it off immediately.

That night, I started sleeping at Chelsea’s apartment, which was a whole different experience. Air-conditioning on full blast, curtains as dark as a hotel room in Vegas, and eye shades. Regardless, the company was nice, and Chelsea was right—it would have sucked to go to bed and wake up alone. While promoting her first book, My Horizontal Life, she flew from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to San Francisco and then back to Los Angeles all in one day just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

I think what got me through the breakup was the fact that I had to be strong—for Chelsea. This brief period may have been the only time in our friendship when Chelsea didn’t fuck with me. But the moment she heard me talking about other boys and dating again, she was back at it.

Let me explain something before you think I’m just another one of those gullible idiots duped by Chelsea. As an only child, I didn’t grow up playing practical jokes on siblings. My biggest lies involved why I was late for curfew. I am an amateur; Chelsea is a professional. And what makes her so good is not only her commitment to the lie, but a deadly combination of speed and creativity. When you’re grilling her for the truth, she has already thought of the next answer before you even have the question. Plenty of times I’ve smelled such an answer coming from a mile away and called her out for being full of shit, but there has been a time or two when I’ve fallen prey to one of her lies.

I was on the phone with my psychic one morning when Chelsea called on the other line. I didn’t want to click over to her because I was getting good info on my love life, but Chelsea was relentless. She kept calling until I picked up.

“What’s your game plan?” she asked.

“I’m on the phone with Sydney.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Whatever. It’s not like you don’t call her.”

“Not every day. You have to stop taking advantage, Amber,” she said.

Chelsea and I have known Sydney for years. We have each driven over sixty miles outside of Los Angeles to see her, for the sole purpose of pumping her for information about our lives—as if she weren’t onto us. She knew exactly what we were doing. But I think she enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed the brain-picking sessions.

In fact, one day Chelsea even endured an hour-long lecture on birds from Sydney’s boyfriend, who is a falconer, just to get a kernel of information from Sydney. Who’s the asshole now?

Sydney once told Chelsea she would have a talk show one day, way before she had one. Chelsea didn’t believe her. Back then, she had no desire for a talk show. So, regardless of how Chelsea likes to poke fun at my friendship with Sydney, she’s still a true believer.

“See if Sydney tells you that I hooked up with P. Diddy last night,” Chelsea said.

“Oh, my God, did you really?”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“Wait, are you really sleeping with P. Diddy?”

This is a recurring problem with Chelsea. You can’t believe a word she says. She’s the girl who cried wolf.

“Hello?”

There was a dial tone, a Chelsea specialty. When she is done talking, she hangs up mid-sentence. This isn’t reserved for phone conversations, either. It is Chelsea’s MO for all forms of contact. When she is done with whatever it may be—a party, a date with a guy, dinner with a friend, a phone call—she’ll abort. She’s not very good with good-byes.

I called Chelsea back to pump her for the P. Diddy info, but she wasn’t biting. She just said, “This is going to be an interesting fall…” Then, clearly changing the subject: “What are you and the Persian doing for New Year’s?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

The Persian she was talking about was my fiancé, Zoughi. She’s never called him by name. I know, you’re probably thinking, Fiancé? Weren’t you just breaking up with someone? I don’t mess around.

“A bunch of us are going to the Bahamas for New Year’s,” Chelsea said. You guys should come.”

I have been all over the world with Chelsea—Australia, London, Mexico, Turks and Caicos. And the vacations have a lot in common: a beach, a boat ride, lots of Belvedere, late night dance parties, and chicken fingers at 4:00 AM. They’re really the perfect getaways. So I’ve always welcomed another Chelsea adventure, and at that point in my life, the Bahamas sounded great.

I think I was more excited about this trip because it would be my first with Chelsea and Zoughi, and Chelsea was finally accepting that I was in a relationship with the “Persian” and not her brother Roy, whom she had been trying to set me up with since their mother’s funeral. Literally, at the funeral. In fact, Chelsea continued to try to hook me up with Roy well into my engagement and at my bachelorette party. It got a little awkward a couple of times. But that might have been because I always did have a little crush on Roy. He’s the sarcastic, witty, loyal male version of Chelsea. What’s not to like?

Bahamas prep began. I waxed all the hair off my body. I tried to wax Zoughi’s back, so Chelsea wouldn’t take pictures of him and show them on national TV or Twitter, but no such luck. Ever since Zoughi had heard what a pansy my ex-fiancé was, he overexerted himself to be the polar opposite of him in every way. And this included the area of hair removal.

After an eighteen-hour travel day, Zoughi and I finally arrived at The Cove to find the usual suspects in the usual position: poolside with margaritas.

“Hi, Zoughi!” Chelsea yelled. “Hi, Amber!”

We approached the pool, said hello to friends, and met a few newbies to the group. There was always a newbie or two. Chelsea’s philosophy has always been “the more the merrier.” She gets bored with us at times and likes to spice up vacations with fresh meat she can prey on.

“Zoughi, meet Navid. He’s a fellow Persian like you,” Chelsea said.

Phew! Now it won’t be Zoughi getting the brunt of all the Persian jokes, I thought. And there would be someone in our party with a hairier back then Zoughi. I gave Chelsea a lot of credit. Two Persians on one vacation, in one pool. She must have been feeling charitable. I do find it funny, though, that Chelsea would make such fun of Persians when she dated one for quite a while.

“Jesus, Amber, put some fucking lotion on your feet,” Chelsea said.

“Take it easy. I just got here.”

Before I knew it, she was out of the pool, grabbing her Bath and Body Works lotion, and attacking my feet, rubbing lotion all over my toes, in my nail bed, up my leg. Lots of it. Two coats. I’m not going to lie: it felt good. Would you come all lubed up if you knew you were going to get a rubdown every time Chelsea saw you? I’m no dummy.

“It’s just dry skin,” I said. “I’ve been traveling for hours.”

“It’s disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Then she grabbed my hands and lathered them up as well.

My dry skin is the one thing about me that drives Chelsea crazy. Well, that and the fact that I’m always late to everything and she’s always early and waiting on me.

Our first night in the Bahamas we had sushi for dinner, because why should we do anything different from what we do every night in Los Angeles? Everyone was pretty tired from traveling. Everyone but Chelsea, who tried to keep the party going. Zoughi and I wanted to go to bed. We hadn’t unpacked, which is what I like to do first when I arrive someplace new, and we had been awake for over twenty-four hours. Knowing Chelsea wouldn’t take well to the “I’m tired” excuse, I decided to try her tactic: the Irish good-bye. I would feign interest just until I had enough, then I would abruptly leave without telling anyone and without explaining myself to anyone. Seemed simple enough. It worked like a charm for Chelsea.

Once we finished dinner, we walked out to the casino, where Chelsea and the gang wanted to play blackjack. Zoughi and I proceeded to the tables with everyone, and when we realized there was no room to sit at the blackjack table that Chelsea had chosen, we headed straight for the elevators. No one saw us. No one cared. It was a perfectly executed plan.

Right when I put that keycard in the door to our room, however, I got a text from Chelsea.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In my room.” I decided to try the honest approach first.

“Why?”

“My feet hurt. Changing shoes.” And that’s where my lie started.

“Hurry back down,” she replied. “A seat opened up next to me.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t make a move. Then, twenty minutes later, I got another text.

“Are you down here?” Chelsea asked.

I’m not sure what possessed me to pull a Chelsea, but my lie continued to escalate. “Yeah, I’m playing blackjack.”

“Where?”

“On the other side of the casino.”

“Come to us.”

“I couldn’t find you. And I found a lucky table.”

“Okay. We’ll come to you.”

Shit, now what? “Can’t text. Pit boss just yelled at me.”

No response.

I’m sure she knew I was full of shit when I decided to make the pit boss a part of my lie. What was I thinking? I don’t pay attention if a flight attendant, a cop, or Oprah says, “No cell phones,” so I would never listen to a pit boss in the Bahamas. Chelsea knew this. Her silent treatment meant she knew I was still up in my room.

“Crap. Chelsea knows I’m lying,” I said to Zoughi.

“She doesn’t care,” Zoughi assured me. “Everyone else is there with her.”

So, instead of going out, I did the one thing I’d wanted to do since I got to the Bahamas: unpack. Once my OCD was satiated and everything was neatly folded in drawers, I crawled under the fluffy comforter to go to bed. This was probably the only night I was going to go to bed sober, so I planned to take full advantage.

The next morning, I woke to my phone ringing. I figured Chelsea was calling to give me shit for ducking out early last night. Or she wanted to work out. Neither sounded appealing.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just woke up.”

“The hotel is being evacuated. You have to pack up your stuff.”

“Oh, shit. Really? Why?”

“There’s a flood.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a plumber. Don’t you see water seeping through?”

I looked around our room and up at the ceiling. “No.”

“Well, you’re lucky. It’s all over my bathroom. And Roy’s bedroom is flooded. The water ruined his phone.”

I looked out the window. People were carrying about their business, and no one seemed in a hurry. “People outside are going to the pool, though.”

“Amber, stop fucking around! The concierge says we have twenty-six minutes until we’re swimming out of here! Get to the boat. I’ve got to finish packing.” She yelled out, “Rico, you can take that one bag by the door.”

Click. Dial tone. And away she went.

Shit. “Zoughi, we need to pack everything back up. We’re being evacuated.”

“Huh?” He looked out the window. “Why?”

“There’s a flood in the hotel.”

I took my suitcase and feverishly began to stuff it with all my clothes and crap. This was so annoying, since just eight hours prior, I had unpacked everything so nice and neatly.

Zoughi couldn’t have cared less about packing anything but his iPad.

We gathered our stuff and booked it out of the room. Because of my fear of taking an elevator in an emergency, we proceeded to the stairs. Thanks to Chelsea, we’d gotten a penthouse, and now thanks to Chelsea, we had to walk down sixteen flights of stairs with our oversize luggage in tow.

My bags clanked down each step, but there was no way I was going to lift seventy pounds. By the time we got to the bottom, we were soaked in sweat and out of breath. Unfortunately for us, we still had to get to the marina, on the other side of the property. Outside, everything still looked calm, though the hotel did seem more desolate than yesterday. I wondered where the water was coming from.

When we got on the boat, everyone was talking about the flood. Most had actually seen water seeping through the ceiling of their rooms. I looked around as everyone was talking and I noticed that Zoughi and I were the only ones with luggage.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I asked Chelsea.

“It’s being shipped.”

“What about yours?” I asked Ivory.

“Front desk has it.”

“So what happens when the lobby floods?”

“They’ll ship it!” Chelsea snapped.

I noticed that Chelsea had her arm in a sling. “What happened to you?” I asked, pointing at her arm.

“I slipped.”

“On water? It was that bad?”

“Don’t you ever listen? It was really bad in my room. I slipped and landed on my arm. The hotel nurse said it’s sprained.”

Chelsea walked off to the front of the boat, holding onto her arm. I felt bad for her. What a crappy way to spend the rest of your beach vacation.

“Where are we gonna stay?” I asked Ivory. “Do we have another hotel?”

“Chelsea’s checking into it now.”

Just as I said that, Chelsea came back over with the captain in tow.

“Hey, the captain says we’ve exceeded the weight limit on the boat. You have to get rid of some things in your bags.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Chelsea looked up toward the captain for support.

“No, ma’am.”

I couldn’t believe this. Were our clothes really going to make a difference with all the weight on the boat? Sounded like we needed to eliminate a person or two. But I didn’t want to make a scene, so I quietly kneeled down and unzipped my first bag. Chelsea took my other suitcase and started to pull stuff out by the handful. My heart raced a little faster as I saw all my hard folding work go down the tubes.

“These have got to go!” she said as she picked up a pair of flip-flops.

“What? They weigh nothing!”