The Trouble Boy

by Tom Dolby

Genres: Media Tie-In

Synopsis

In the tradition of Bright Lights, Big City and Less Than Zero, Tom Dolby has written a searing debut novel about going after what you really want without losing yourself in the process. Powerfully written, keenly felt, The Trouble Boy heralds an exciting new voice in fiction.



"This is about fame and celebrity and the lengths to which people will go to have a taste of it. . ."




At twenty-two, Toby Griffin wants it all--fame, fortune, an Oscar-winning screenplay and a good-looking boyfriend by his side. For now, what he's got is a freelance writing job at a tanking online magazine, a walk-up sublet in the East Village and "the boys," a young posse of preppy Upper East Siders with a taste for high fashion, top-shelf liquor and other men.




But for Toby, downing vodka cranberries and falling in and out of lust with a series of guys he knows as Subway Boy, Loft Boy and Goth Boy is getting old. That all changes when Toby gets the chance of a lifetime--working as a personal assistant to hip, ruthless film mogul, Cameron Cole. In this decadent, drug-fueled world of VIP lounges, endless networking and relentless hype, Toby discovers that nothing is what is seems and that anything and anyone can be spun into PR gold. Though he's making friends with all the right people. Toby realizes that succeeding in Manhattan isn't as easy as he thought--until the one tragic night that changes his future forever and puts him in a position of power he never could have imagined.




But with Toby's name suddenly becoming Page Six material, his life is coming unglued. And as his professional contacts betray him and his friends reveal troubling secrets, his choices become that much harder--and that much more important. Now, in his first year on his own, Toby Griffin is about to learn the price of getting everything he ever wanted.


"What really makes Toby's world so familiar--along with the author's lively, often-hilarious eye for even the most mundane social details--is the crisp prose and the snappy story."
--

The San Francisco Chronicle

Release date: July 2, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Two weeks after I moved to New York, I met Jamie Weissman at one of those parties where people don’t talk to anyone they don’t know already. The living room of the Chelsea apartment was packed with girls in headbands and guys with banker butt, a condition that afflicts first-year investment analysts who spend too much time at their desks and too little time at the gym. We were in the gayest neighborhood on earth, but it wasn’t that kind of party.

I knew I had worn the wrong thing when my plaid clam-diggers, perfect for the early September heat, were met with sneers from a group standing in the hallway. Most people were wearing khakis and I looked like I was ready for the beach.

In the kitchen, I poured myself several fingers of vodka and mixed in some off-brand cranberry juice. A guy in a pink Polo shirt and glasses with tortoise shell frames came up to me.

“Ever get the feeling you’re at the wrong party?”

I looked down at him quizzically. His curly chestnut hair was receding, more like a thirty-year-old’s than someone who was probably twenty-two, twenty-three tops.

“Oh, never mind,” he continued. “Sometimes I just say whatever comes into my head. I’m sort of A.D.D. that way. I take Ritalin for it.”

I never understood people who bragged about the meds they were on. I had been taking sixty milligrams of Paxil every day for the past four years to combat my depression, but I didn’t go around telling people about it.

“Hey, can you pour me some of that?” he asked.

I poured him some vodka, and he dropped in a few ice cubes.

“You want a mixer?” I held up a bottle of tonic water. I thought it was obnoxious when people drank booze straight to show off.

“Naw, it’s a taste I acquired at prep school. Gets you drunk faster.”

“Where’d you go?” I asked. I had gone to a small boarding school in Connecticut, the kind whose glossy catalogs were featured in The Preppy Handbook.

“Oh, it was in Jersey. I was a day student. Actually, most people were day students. But we played all the other prep schools.” He sipped his drink. “You’re not part of this Princeton crowd, are you? ’Cause I’ve never seen you before.”

“I went to Yale,” I admitted.

“Ecch, New Haven.”

New Haven was a place where your car would be broken into if you left change on the dashboard, but I still hated snobbery about my college town.

We gulped our drinks.

“This is so weird,” he said, “hanging out with so many 924 people. It’s like work.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, God.” He laughed and wiped a drop of sweat from his bony forehead. “Okay, like the digits on a phone, 429 is G-A-Y, so that backwards is 924, get it?”

“You’re gay?” I should have guessed by the pink shirt; no real men wore preppy pink anymore.

“Yeah. Aren’t you? ’Cause if you aren’t, then I’ve just made a big fucking idiot of myself.”

It could be fun, posing as straight. Should I hold out a little longer?

“No, I am,” I finally said. It must have been my pants that gave me away. “I just didn’t expect to meet anyone—”

“Neither did I! When we got here, I was like, fifteen minutes, that’s it! And then we get into this conversation with this guy, and before I know it, I’ve had four vodkas, and I’m like, shit, where did the night go? Come sit with us, we’re in the bedroom. You can smoke there.” He offered his hand. “I’m Jamie Weissman.”

“Toby Griffin,” I said, shaking his hand in an odd gesture of formality. I followed him through the living room into the bedroom.

I had spent the past four years in New Haven at that venerable university that promised light and truth to those who passed through its portals. What I had found instead was beer and boys. After a sexless four years at boarding school, I was ready to sleep with every available gay undergrad in the tristate area. It was at a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Co-op dance (a mouthful, to be sure—they figured if you could say it, you were really gay) that I got drunk on cheap rum punch and allowed myself to be seduced by Kent Simmons, a sophomore whose room in Davenport College was plastered with advertisements from fashion magazines. I learned from Kent the technique I would use for the next four years: attract, anesthetize, and go in for the kill. It served him well that night, and resulted in a six-week relationship, the first of many during my college years. I had never been able to break that six-week barrier; like divine intervention, something always came between me and the object of my affection.

Now that I was in New York, I was desperate to meet new people. Though a number of friends from college had landed in the city, I didn’t want random play dates, scattered through the city like birdseed. I wanted a package deal, a take-it-all-or-leave-it, one-phone-call-means-dinner-for-six. So when a distant acquaintance had invited me to his housewarming bash, I accepted the invitation, though I hated showing up at parties alone.

The bedroom of the apartment was filled with smoke.

“Here, sit on this side,” Jamie said, moving over on the couch.

“Why?”

“It’s my good side. I’m deaf in my right ear. I had meningitis when I was a baby.”

I sat down on his good side and lit a cigarette.

Jamie introduced me to his friend David. “We work at Pelham Robertson together. Investment banking. What do you do?”

“I’m a freelance writer,” I said. My last professional piece had been published over a year ago, when I interned at Flix, an indie film magazine. Currently, I was gainfully unemployed. That it was already September and I didn’t have a job made me feel like a loser.

“Who do you write for?” Jamie asked.

“Lots of places.” I named a few publications that I had written for in previous summers. I knew, though, that freelancing wasn’t going to keep me in vodka cranberries; a steady editorial position was in order.

“Are you looking for something permanent?” David asked. He had a slight Minnesota accent that reminded me of the hockey players from my high school.

“I know a site that’s hiring,” Jamie offered. “CityStyle.com. I think they’re looking for a nightlife editor.”

Even though I was getting career leads from a couple of investment bankers, I made a mental note to check out the site. The summer before last, while reporting for Downtown File, a glossy monthly, I had become quite adept at balancing a notebook, a drink, and a cigarette all at once. Unfortunately, Downtown File had folded after its publisher was arrested for dealing coke out of his loft.

Jamie launched into a story about his parents, two dermatologists who lived in Upper Montclair. (“The nice part of Jersey,” he explained. “Near where The Sopranos is filmed.”)

“My parents, they don’t understand 429 people. They always refer to it as that ‘disgusting lifestyle.’ I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell them.”

He spoke to me urgently, as if I were a long-lost soul mate he had recently rediscovered.

“This crowd is depressing,” David said. “Let’s get going.”

Jamie invited me to join them for a drink at G, a bar off Seventh Avenue. Before we left, I stopped by the bathroom to check my acne. Everything seemed under control. I always looked better after I’d had a few drinks.

I opened the bathroom door to find two jocks talking in the hall. “Can you believe Jamie Weissman is a fag?” one asked the other.

I stared the two down, disgusted, before leaving the party. Once we were on the street, Jamie looked ridiculously thin, like a rat that had been drenched in water, as he tried to keep pace with the buff David. I later learned that no matter how many protein shakes, late night food deliveries, or sessions he had with his trainer, Jamie was never able to gain any weight. It was like a reverse thyroid condition, one many guys would kill for, though it made Jamie miserable.

David, however, had definite potential. A hulking giant of a guy, he looked like someone who could take care of me. And an investment banker! Finance types had always bored me, but somehow the idea they could be gay had never crossed my mind. It made the prospect of number-crunching just a little more appealing. David, I was sure, was smart and sensitive. I would cook him dinner each night and he would entertain me with tales of adventure in high finance. I would iron his shirts—well, I would send them out to be ironed—and make sure a fresh latte and the paper were waiting for him in the morning....

We arrived at G. A lounge with pulsing disco remixes and sullen boys stirring their frozen Cosmopolitans, it was worlds away from the party around the corner.

“Hey, sexy boys!” shouted a young guy sitting on a leather banquette. He had a South American accent and was a dead ringer for Ricky Martin, if Ricky Martin were twenty and wore deconstructed jeans and Prada sneakers. He gave Jamie a peck on the cheek and David a kiss on the lips. “I was waiting for like two hours at the Big Cup!”

“You wouldn’t have liked the party anyway,” David said.

“I have to keep you out of trouble, you know!” Ricky Martin bounced up and down on the tips of his sneakers.

“There wasn’t any trouble for us to get into,” Jamie said. “But we did meet Toby.” He motioned to me. “Toby, this is David’s boyfriend Alejandro.”

I offered my hand, but Alejandro pulled me closer and kissed me on both cheeks. “I’m from Argentina,” he said. “That’s how we like to do it there.” He looked me over. “Oooh, I love your pants!”

Though my future wedding plans with David were ruined, I was still charmed by this little South American pixie, who explained to me that he was studying menswear design at Parsons. The four of us ordered drinks and sat down, Jamie once again arranging himself so I was on his good side.

“I had this boyfriend senior year,” Jamie said, leaning in towards me. “We met online, and it turned out he was the head of our debate team. Totally closeted. So was I. We used to meet in these random places to have sex—classrooms and whatnot—to keep the secret from our roommates. Now he’s working for a Republican congressman in D.C.”

“Are you still seeing each other?” I asked.

“He dumped me for a freshman who joined the squad.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. It was pathetic. “I’m sorry,” I offered.

“No, it was okay. I outed him the next day by writing anonymous emails to a few of his friends.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. This guy was the Joe McCarthy of Princeton. “How long had you been dating?”

“Quite a while, actually. Almost six weeks.” He sipped his martini. “How about you? Are you single?”

I nodded.

“This is so cool! You’re like the first person I’ve met in New York who really has my background, you know?” He grinned at me, a little drunk, as if certain I would say the same thing.

“I guess so.” I wasn’t interested in playing into his class-conscious act.

“So, do you want to go somewhere?” he asked me.

It was this easy, sometimes. But I didn’t think I wanted to do anything with Jamie. He wasn’t attractive enough to be a one-night stand, and he was too spastic to be a boyfriend. Though I hadn’t been with anyone in over a month, I thought Jamie could be a friend. Experience had always shown me the best way to meet cute guys was to get to know their less cute friends.

“I should be getting home,” I said.

He looked disappointed, but not surprised.

Jamie gave me his home, work, and cell numbers, along with his email. After considering it for a moment, I decided to risk it and give him my home number. He walked me out to the street and I hailed a cab. We hugged.

“Wow, it was really amazing meeting you,” he said. “I hope we can, you know, get together soon.” I was sure I saw the beginning of tears in his eyes.

“I’m sure,” I said, though I wasn’t. As I got into the cab, he stood there on the street watching me, forlorn, as if among New York’s entire twentysomething population, I was his only hope for a healthy relationship.

The next day, I checked out the CityStyle site. It was a hip online guide, the perfect next step in my career as a writer. I found the job listing for the position of nightlife editor and put together a package of clips, including several pieces from years past uncovering what I thought were major cultural trends, phenomena like drag kings and Japanese anime-inspired fashion.

At the end of the week, I was sitting in the office of Sonia Chang, editrix-in-chief of CityStyle.com. She wore a slim pants suit with a designer tank top and blue contact lenses that made her eyes appear unnaturally bright. She had on just enough eyeliner to look like she had stepped out of a Gucci ad. I had to admit, I was afraid of her.

“So you’re just out of college,” she said, her gaze cutting right through me. “What makes you think you’re right for this job?”

As she tapped her pen on the desk, my heart started racing.

“I’ve done my fair share of nightlife reporting.” There, that was good: confident, direct.

“But are you really in with the whole scene? I mean, the writers we have working for us live and breathe what they do. Fashion, food, nightlife, that’s their thing. I need to know what qualifies you above the other people I’ve got lined up here. Some of them have been doing this stuff for years.”

“I’ve been going out in the city since I was seventeen. Half the doormen in the city know me by name. Hell, I’ve even slept with some of them,” I said. I had actually only had a one-night stand with a club kid who occasionally promoted at Kurfew, but the doorman line seemed like it would get Sonia’s attention.

“That’s good. But you’ve got to be objective, you know. That’s the most important thing.” She lowered her voice. “We get a dozen press releases a day touting the hottest spot in town from these PR idiots, and they don’t know shit.” She waved her hand at the garbage heap of editorial samples that filled her office—gift bags, beauty products, party invitations, bulging press kits. “Like I’m going to let some bitch in a little black dress with a cell phone plastered to her ear tell me what’s cool.”

She paused to take a sip of her iced coffee. I smiled, and I was sure I caught the glimmer of a smile in her look back at me.

“I know editorial is pretty wary of the whole dot-com thing these days. Company doesn’t make it through its next round of financing and, poof! everyone’s laid off. I need to know that’s not a problem for you, that you can roll with the punches. I tell everyone, if you’re looking for security, this is the wrong business to be in.”

Sonia stood up and paced back and forth behind her desk. She was framed by an enormous poster from a book called The Illustrated Couple in America that featured a nude man and woman, both covered in tattoos. I was having trouble focusing on what she was saying. Was the man’s penis really tattooed or was that just a shadow?

“So what do you think?” Sonia said. “Oh, the poster gets everyone.”

I blushed. But wasn’t every writer a voyeur?

“You’re not afraid to look,” she continued. “That’s good if you’re going to be writing about nightlife.”

“What exactly is your revenue model for the site?” I asked. I could have a head for business, if I wanted to.

“We’ve got several potential buyers lined up. Large media conglomerates. We just need to make it through our next round of financing and then we’re golden. Most of our competition has already been wiped out. And we have some very high-profile investors that we can pull out as ammunition if we need to.” She paused to fix a strap on her Jimmy Choo heels. “Anyway, you would receive stock options, along with a benefits package. I would also need you to sign a confidentiality and noncompete agreement. If I pick you, I don’t want you moonlighting for Time Out or Paper.”

“What about on other topics?” Though the CityStyle offer was decent, I would still be able to use some supplementary income.

She pulled out a burgundy MAC lipstick and started applying it with the help of a small mirror. “Other topics are fine,” she said, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Just nothing on nightlife, fashion, restaurants—you know, nothing on what we do.”

She put down the lipstick and mirror. “But frankly, if I pick you for this job, you’re not going to have the time or the energy.”

After the interview, I headed back to the small one-bedroom on East Seventh Street that I was subletting from a German woman who had moved in down the block with her rocker boyfriend. It was a third-floor walkup, with enough room for a bed, my computer, and Gus, my overweight orange and white tabby. When I moved in, the walls of my apartment had been painted a sickly eggshell white that had seen too many years of dust, pets, cigarette smoke, and rough sex. My sublettor had given me permission to paint the living room an art gallery white and the bedroom a matte midnight blue.

That week, the entire apartment was covered in drop cloths, so every time the phone rang, I would bound over to it across the slippery plastic, leaping over sticky paint trays and cans, and check my caller ID. At least twice a day, it read “Pelham Robertson,” and at least twice a day, I let it go to voice mail. It was creepy the way Jamie kept calling and not leaving a message. I was grateful to him for suggesting the CityStyle job, but I was worried about how I was expected to return the favor. More specifically, I didn’t know what to say if he propositioned me again. I always had trouble saying no.

On Monday afternoon, I picked up the phone when it rang.

I heard someone crunching on what sounded like candy. “Hi,” he finally said.

“Why do you keep calling me and not leaving a message?”

“You’re never home.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Look, I wanted to get you in person, okay? We’re going to B Bar tomorrow night. Do you want to meet up?”

“I could do that,” I said. I hated coming off like an asshole, but Jamie seemed to encourage that kind of behavior, like a person wearing the proverbial “kick me” sign. He was a cautionary tale about the perils of appearing too eager.

“David and Alejandro and a few other people will be there,” he said, as if to sweeten the deal. “We’ll be sitting in a booth in the back room.”

My call waiting beeped. “I have to go,” I said.

It was Sonia from CityStyle.

“I hope you’re still available,” she said. I heard her take a slurp of her iced coffee.

I said I was. I couldn’t have been any more available.

“Good,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the other chick—you know, one of those types who has her own Web site and posts everything she’s ever written on it?—didn’t show, and the guy with all the experience turned out to be pushing fifty. So, Toby—”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t disappoint me.”

I knew working at CityStyle wasn’t what my parents had in mind when they said they would support my living in New York. Since writing and editing were not the most lucrative of careers, they had agreed to cover my rent for a year. If I could sustain myself after that, I could stay in the city. If not, I would have to move back to San Francisco, live with my parents, and join my dad’s firm or find other suitable work. After living under their roof for the first fourteen years of my life, I knew that moving to San Francisco would be an enormous step backwards. I had to make it in New York.

My ultimate goal was to finish one of the four screenplays I had in progress, but that was an avocation far too dark and embarrassing to admit to anyone. These days, everyone was working on a screenplay. I had briefly considered getting into the film industry full-time—my major had been film studies—but I didn’t want to spend my time reading other people’s screenplays. I wanted to write my own. And I wanted them to be New York stories, not Hollywood fantasies.

My mother and father had viewed my goal of screenwriting as if I had announced that I wanted to become a professional potter or sell organic vegetables in Union Square. My mother was a fashion designer who owned a small couture house in San Francisco that catered to the society crowd, and her dresses were sold at Saks and Bendel’s in New York. My father owned a venture capital firm that specialized in biotechnology.

My mother’s first boutique had been written up in the New York Times when she was twenty-five; my father had made his first million just one year out of business school, after he had invested in a few choice tech stocks. Since both of my parents had prospered in their twenties, I had always been expected to as well. Their success had ingrained in me a fear of growing old too quickly, a fear of not putting my mark on the world at an early age. I wanted them to be proud of me, to respect me for the path I was choosing. Instead, I feared that they considered me a dilettante. I recognized that they were hard acts to follow, but acknowledging that didn’t make it any easier knowing that I might never reach their level of success.

It wasn’t that they were infallible, either. Though my parents had enough money, it was never as much as people thought. My father had been floating the couture house for years with the revenue from his own company. My mother refused to expand her offerings to include ready-to-wear, fragrances, or a bridge collection, and so she was both blessed and cursed with a brand that was worth more than its bottom line. A certain kind of woman would kill to own an Isabella Griffin original, but selling dresses one by one would never put us among the ranks of the Very Rich. My mother once said that if she were paid every time her dresses appeared in Vogue or W, she’d be running a New York-based fashion house by now and we’d be living on Fifth Avenue. Sometimes I wished that had happened.

CityStyle rented its small suite of offices from Ariana Richards Public Relations, a firm that had experienced a meteoric rise in the past few years. The ARPR loft was located on the fifth floor of a former sewing machine factory in Chelsea; the space had a bank of windows that looked out on a sea of fire escapes and faded advertisements from the early 1900s. We were the new sweatshop workers, the remaining dot-commers who had come to the city in hopes of a few press clips and a steady paycheck.

Though we shared the same vantage point, the employees of ARPR had different goals than we did. They lived in a world of movie premieres, nightclub openings, and dinners held in honor of bold-faced names who had been flown in for the occasion. Their leader, Ariana Richards, arrived at the office no earlier than eleven each morning, fresh from her personal trainer and blow-out, though she demanded that her employees show up promptly at nine. Our workday didn’t start until ten, but under the steely gaze of Sunny Diebenstahl, Ariana’s Teutonic office manager, we always felt late.

Though the offices made our operation look slick, the truth was that we were second-class citizens. Visitors to the CityStyle offices were directed by Ariana’s receptionist with a weary “They’re back there,” and a wave of her manicured nails. Since Ariana didn’t allow us any signage of our own, the writers, photographers, and illustrators who passed through our offices often assumed we were simply a division of the ARPR empire, a thought that would have horrified her and her legions of Manolo Blahnik-heeled minions.

When I arrived on Tuesday morning, Sonia set me up at a terminal next to Donovan Tripp, the site’s restaurant editor. Though Donovan was my age and had only been working at the site for three months, he already gave off the appearance of having Made It. Next to his monitor was a Rolodex overflowing with business cards and scribbled phone numbers; his file trays were carefully organized with notes on upcoming pieces. Over his desk, he had tacked up a paraphrase of that old Woody Allen joke about the food being terrible and the portions too small. His sandy blond hair was styled with i. . .