The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (20 page)

Since Josh and I performed Thanksgiving evening, it wasn’t practical to have a huge turkey dinner before getting onstage. After doing that our first year, we decided never to make that mistake again! Instead, we created a new tradition: Thanksgiving would be the night before (which was our dark day).

I decided to make use of my new house by inviting a group of friends over for a day-before-Thanksgiving feast. Angel, Roman, and the rest of my little family of friends gathered around the table for our turkey dinner. We ate, laughed, and passed our phones around the table, going over the year’s most outrageous pictures.

After dinner, we decided to go see a family movie and chose
Tangled
. Little Roman fell asleep as I became captivated by the cartoon. When I saw the animated baby Rapunzel, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of
longing. Trying to wipe the tears away from the corners of my eyes, I wondered why I was getting so choked up over a cartoon?

Out of nowhere, baby fever was hitting me pretty hard—triggered by an animated movie of all things.
Damn,
I thought,
if that’s what’s getting me emotional, I’m in trouble!
At this point I was thirty-one years old, so it wasn’t abnormal to be thinking about kids. While I might feel as if I were barely twenty-one, my biological clock was ticking.

I’ve got a few more years in me,
I thought, and tried my best to forget that intense longing I was now feeling.

At first it was easy to brush the feelings away. I was too busy retreating into my fantasy world with Mark. It wasn’t long before he decided to move in with a friend in L.A., so it was becoming easier for us to find time to be together.

“I probably should be out in L.A. full-time anyway after the show wraps,” he said. “It’s where I need to be if I want to get more roles, ya know?”

Deep down I suspected that L.A. living wasn’t really the most practical thing for him financially, and that I was probably a big factor in his motivation to relocate to the West Coast.

Most Monday nights Mark would fly to Vegas, and on Tuesday nights we would drive to L.A. for my Wednesdays off together. On our first drive, we left at 11:30
P.M.
, after that night’s
Peepshow
.

I knew that all of the Starbucks past the state line would be closed after midnight, so we stopped for gas and coffee at Primm, the town on the border of Nevada and California. Since it’s the first place to gamble when coming from California via the I-15, two massive casinos welcome visitors on either side of the freeway. The I-15 largely replaced Highway 91, the original route to Vegas. When the highway was paved in 1937, the road was open for drivers, leading to thousands and later hundreds of thousands of visitors flooding Las Vegas from Los Angeles every year.

“I always wonder about the people who used to do this drive back in the fifties, before cars had air conditioning,” I said. “How miserable.”

“That sounds terrible,” Mark agreed with a laugh. “It must have been pretty desolate. I wonder if they had many gas stations along the way.”

“Well, supposedly there was one right here run by a guy named Whiskey Pete,” I said, nodding toward the other side of the freeway, where a giant casino called Whiskey Pete’s stood. There was a mascot sitting atop the Whiskey Pete’s sign, a cartoon drawing of an old miner based on Pete MacIntyre, the man who owned the land the casino sat on in the early part of the last century. He ran a gas station on the property and supplemented his income by bootlegging (hence the name), cooking up his wares in the caves surrounding the area.

Before he passed away from miner’s lung in 1933, Pete asked to be buried standing up so he could “watch over” his land. When the bridge connecting Buffalo Bill’s and Whiskey Pete’s casinos was built in the eighties, Pete’s body was unintentionally exhumed. He still held a bottle of whiskey in his (now skeletal) hand.

“Supposedly he haunts the casino’s hotel and customers will find their gas gauges mysteriously moved up to full after parking on the property.”

“You love your ghosts and shit,” Mark said with a smile.

“I know. Now it’s your turn to tell me a ghost story,” I said as we got back in the car. I loved being able to talk to Mark for the whole four-and-a-half-hour drive. The drive can be deathly boring, but we never ran out of things to discuss during those trips, which was one of my favorite aspects of our relationship. He could keep me totally entertained with whatever he was saying all the way from Las Vegas to L.A.

As December rolled around, I began the business of planning my birthday soiree. I couldn’t help feeling anxious. Sure, there would be press photographers there, as there were at all of my bookings, but it wasn’t just a typical club appearance. It was a really personal event—my birthday. While I wasn’t into exploiting my love life for the press, I
did
want my significant other to be part of my big day. Things were so amazing with Mark, but how would he react to being linked publicly with me? It was about to be the moment of truth. Would the idea of being photographed
with me send Mark running in the opposite direction? It seemed to have done the trick for every other guy I dated. After all, he did consider himself a serious actor. Let’s face it, with reality TV and Las Vegas, my brand was about as cheesy as it gets. I was happy with who I was, but would he be?

Mark didn’t seem like a fame whore, but I was petrified that he would end up being just like the rest of them: happy to slink in and out of my spotlight only as it was convenient for him.

When we arrived at the nightclub, I told him I was going to do the carpet with the cast of the show and that I would meet him at my table. After we were reunited inside, the ball would be in his court.

To my relief, he was completely supportive and normal, like a real boyfriend should be. He didn’t jockey to get press attention or creep around like he was too cool to be photographed with me. His willingness to be present in my life and to accept me on my own terms, unlike the other guys I had dated, meant more to me than he could possibly know. He fit so perfectly and effortlessly into my world while still being his own amazing person.

This is easily the best birthday I’ve ever had,
I thought.

The next day was unseasonably warm as Mark and I took a helicopter trip to the Grand Canyon for my birthday. As the aircraft rose above the city, we took in the beautiful sites, but the heat was so intense that I nodded off on his shoulder during the flight. We landed deep in the canyon with an amazing picnic lunch that we barely touched. The beauty of the canyon demanded our full attention. It was such a stunning backdrop, but I was more in awe of the realization that we didn’t even need this amazing a sight. Anywhere we went, whether it was spectacular or mundane, seemed to come alive when we were with each other. I couldn’t believe how at ease I felt with this person. I knew he would be back for the weekend of New Year’s Eve, just a week away, but I couldn’t help wishing that he wasn’t leaving.

The previous New Year’s Eve, I was single, hosting at the nightclub
at Planet Hollywood. I hung out with Laura and Kent, who was back in town for the weekend, but something was missing: a boy to share a romantic first kiss of the New Year with. The night ended with me alone in my suite. There were no fireworks for me that night, literally or figuratively. I hadn’t seen them on the Strip because I had been holed up in the club all night, and there certainly hadn’t been any romantic fireworks, either.

This New Year’s Eve fell on a Friday, which meant it would be a three-day extravaganza. Every year, visitors from all over the world flocked to Las Vegas to ring in the New Year. The city was a sort of mecca for the decadent champagne-swirling bashes that most people sought out to celebrate the festive holiday, with more options than there are hours in the day.

To welcome in 2011, the choice was a no-brainer: the grand opening of the Cosmopolitan hotel. With Jay-Z and Coldplay headlining a private, invitation-only concert, it was, without a doubt, the most exclusive ticket in town. Cost was very clearly not a concern for the owners (the hotel itself had a $3.9 billion price tag), as they planned to host an eclectic, intimate mix of celebrities and high rollers for the entire weekend, offering all of them their own accommodations.

Yet despite the lavish festivities happening around the hotel, Mark and I spent most of the weekend holed up in our luxurious suite, lounging on our balcony (an unusual Vegas amenity), which offered a picture-perfect view of the Bellagio’s fountains. While we were invited, along with the rest of the hotel’s VIP guests, to the grand ballroom for the formal New Year’s Eve dinner, we opted to host our own little party for two on our velvet pin-tucked marine-blue couch and ordered in pizza from the unnamed joint in the hotel that locals had taken to calling “Secret Pizza” (aka the worst-kept secret in town) and one of the hotel’s signature offerings: a giant steamer trunk full of booze. Even though we decided to be hermits—despite having arguably the most desirable New Year’s ticket that year—we could still feel the energy rushing upward from the
concert directly below (Beyoncé, Kanye West, and John Mayer all made appearances on stage with Jay-Z and Chris Martin). What’s more? My standard fear of missing out wasn’t a factor—even though on this occasion most people would have agreed that we were crazy for forfeiting our access to the world’s best New Year’s party. But for once I didn’t care.

Apparently Jay-Z called the weekend a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I couldn’t have agreed more, but for different reasons. Mark and I shared our first kiss of the New Year, and the night was absolutely perfect. Part of me could have stayed in the moment forever, but we were moving forward into 2011 and I was certain that it was going to be the best year of my life so far!

“As a matter of fact, we are none of us above criticism; so let us bear with each other’s faults.”

—L. Frank Baum,
The Marvelous Land of Oz

M
y self-proclaimed “best year ever” was already off to an eventful start. After the holiday break, cameras were up and rolling for season two of
Holly’s World
. . . and just in time to capture me getting a few bits of New Year’s news.

The first was that my most infamous ex, Hugh Hefner, was now engaged to the leader of his live-in Lollipop Guild, Crystal Harris. While that part of my life was ancient history, not to mention the fact that the news didn’t surprise me that much, everyone assumed I must be devastated about it and was watching me, waiting for a reaction. It was clear that people took it for granted that I would be mad or upset, expecting me to be caught crying in public or ranting on Twitter. My reaction was silence, while inside I was glad I dodged that bullet. That wasn’t the reaction anyone expected or wanted, though.

Suddenly, my social media was exploding and my publicist was being inundated with requests for interviews and comments. I was irritated,
but the engagement wasn’t what bothered me. This assumption about how I felt was. I felt like I had come so far to reinvent myself and to build my own world that for me it was a huge setback to once again be labeled as Hef’s lovelorn ex-girlfriend when I really didn’t give much thought to what was going on up on Charing Cross Road anymore.

The second piece of news that greeted me was from
Peepshow
: I was instructed to lose weight. There was no “or else” tied to this, just the request itself. Despite my own discontent with the photos I had shot less than a year earlier, this news totally blindsided me.

While word of Hef getting engaged rolled off my back, being told that I was fat (at least that’s how I interpreted it) launched me into a full-on spiral of grief. It’s no exaggeration—I began going through the textbook five stages.

Stage one: Denial.

“I do not need to lose weight,” I huffed to Nancy, who shook her head vigorously in solidarity. “I happen to think I look good!”

“You look better than good,” she said enthusiastically. “You look fucking great!”

“I’ve never been a stick figure, anyway!” I whined. “That’s not me. This is ridiculous!”

Upon hearing the news, I immediately decided that I would
not
be losing any weight. It was
my
body and I was incredibly happy with it.

Stage two: Anger.

Who are they to tell me I need to lose weight?
I fumed.
Tickets are selling better than ever!

I’d seen my fair share of nasty tweets or comments, but I hadn’t noticed one online hater ever criticizing me for being “fat.” I thought I had broken free from a world where how I looked was dictated down to the pound, so my rebellious streak rose up when anyone dared to make a suggestion in that direction.

Stage three: Bargaining.

Because the news came to me through my manager, I thought if
I vented to him, perhaps he would take my concerns right back to the producers.

“I have a really full schedule and it all ties into promoting the show,” I complained, “I barely have time to sleep, let alone work out! When do they expect me to find the time?”

The truth of the matter was that when I wasn’t onstage, I was filming, doing press, or doing promotional events—all things I thought contributed greatly to the success of the show. Just when I thought I was doing everything I could for the production, it was pointed out that I didn’t even look the part anymore. Being told that something that I was doing (or in this case
wasn’t
doing) might be adversely affecting the show was a major blow. I know that’s not what they were implying, but it’s how I felt. I lived and breathed my career, and the suggestion made me feel like a failure.

“Isn’t this show supposed to have some diversity in it?” I finally added, pulling out every stop I could think of. I knew damn well that my arguments were going to fall on deaf ears, but the embarrassment of being called out for being “overweight” made me scramble to defend myself.

Stage four: Depression.

I’m not talking about major depression, mind you, I’d been through that before. What I was experiencing was more a cocktail of shame, embarrassment, and sadness.

Have I really been prancing around onstage looking completely out of shape?
I wondered
. Have I been making a fool of myself all this time?

I began wondering if I was surrounded by yes people who just said what they thought I wanted to hear. Maybe the
Peepshow
executives were finally telling me what everyone else had been thinking all along?

Where were you two when I started to pudge out?
I thought, staring at a picture of me with Hannah and Lindsay.

I felt like I had let myself down. After finally regaining control of my own life and achieving all my goals, how was it that I couldn’t even control my own body?

How can I continue to hold my life together if I can’t even control five
to ten extra pounds?
I thought. I was feeling particularly defeated. When Mark came to town for a visit, I was too embarrassed to share with him what I had been told. I was afraid that if I told him that I had been designated “Fatty of the Month,” the curtain would fall and he would think less of me.

Stage five: Acceptance.

After expressing myself in every way that I needed to, I finally decided that I should at least try to lose the weight (
How much do I even need to lose?
I asked myself.
Five pounds? Ten pounds
?), but only because I knew I wasn’t at
my
ideal weight, anyway. After all, hadn’t I been unhappy with the last set of performance photos? Hadn’t I been sucking in my stomach like crazy, feeling self-conscious at photo shoots? In the end, the show did expect their star to be in top physical form. They were certainly paying me enough money for it.

Just because I had accepted that getting in shape wouldn’t be a bad idea didn’t mean the feelings from the earlier stages were completely wiped out. What made me most anxious about this request was that I knew healthy weight loss took time. And time was something I had less and less of these days. I now had a complex bundle of emotions tied to my weight, but I tried my best to forget about them for now and instead to devise a plan to make lemonade out of this newest batch of lemons that had been dumped in my lap. I decided that my weight journey should be documented on my TV show, which had been renewed for a second season a few months earlier.

Production agreed, but they also wanted my reaction to Hef’s engagement covered on the show. Initially I balked at the idea. Even on my own show I couldn’t get away from people wanting to hear about my relationship with Hef, and the last thing I wanted to do was give that part of my past any weight in my present.

But after talking this over with production and giving it more thought, I figured,
Why not?
This would be a good chance to show people just how
much I
didn’t
care about the engagement. In fact, I was happy everyone was moving on! I could use it as a platform to show viewers and the press that I was thrilled in my own life and not pining away, as people erroneously assumed I was. After taping
Extra
one morning, I flew into L.A. to film the “congratulations” scene.

Walking into the mansion for the first time since I had moved out was a bit surreal, to say the least. I couldn’t get over how quiet the place seemed.
Had it always been this quiet?
I asked myself. Sure, there had never been parties going on 24/7, but I didn’t remember the quiet times being
this
quiet. The great hall was like a morgue. A giant dollhouse I had commissioned as a gift for Hef two years earlier (a replica of the home he had grown up in in Chicago) was placed on a table in the middle of the hall, taking center stage.

If there was anywhere on the mansion property that could make me feel comfortable, it was Mary’s office, the location of the first scene we shot. I welcomed the chance to catch up with my old friend, but as we were on a shooting schedule, we had to concentrate on a few specific topics in a short period of time, so the producers could get the content they wanted.

We were on our best behavior. Mary said nice things about Crystal and I said nice things about Hef. It was funny, because Mary made a comment about my leaving being hard on them and said, “You know, there wasn’t really a fight or anything . . .” as if to imply that Hef was confused as to why I left.

There were plenty of fights,
I thought. But now wasn’t the time, in front of the cameras, to remind Mary of my laundry list of grievances. If Hef truly was confused as to why I left and forgot there was any fighting, he either had the world’s most selective memory or thought talking down to his girlfriends and making them cry on a regular basis was normal.

After my scene with Mary, I strolled around the zoo and said hello to the monkeys and birds I used to spend so much time with. It was won
derful to see these little creatures, but I couldn’t help but see the parallels between the animals in the cages and what my life there had been like. It reminded me of the young woman I used to be, who wanted so much but spent her days tiptoeing around the grounds, talking to the animals.

“Are you ready?” the producer asked. I smiled and nodded, a pit growing in my stomach. Filming with Hef was beyond awkward. For so many of the years that I had lived with him, I had forced myself to look at him through rose-colored glasses. Now that I saw the real person, though, it was like interacting with a stranger. Thank God we had the dollhouse to talk about; otherwise I have no idea what I would have said.

Did Hef seem more frail than he had two and a half years ago? Or was I just seeing him through different eyes?
He seemed a different man, dramatically changed from the person I knew just a few years ago. It made me wonder if there were stresses behind the scenes that I wasn’t aware of causing him to seem less robust than usual. The economy had crashed since I left, and even before that, the company had been walking a financial tightrope.

Crystal finally came down to say hello. She too seemed different from the few times I had met her. Reed-thin and wearing little makeup, she was dressed in basic jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She seemed tired and mellow, gracious and not snotty as she had come across to me in the past. I congratulated them both on the engagement, and the scene wrapped. Overall, I was happy that we had decided to do the segment. I felt like it was a dignified way to leave that part of my past behind.

Naturally, all of that was counteracted when, in the finished version, producers added a gag-worthy montage of Hef and me to the end of the scene (similar to one they had used at the end of
GND
season five, which they knew I had hated). But, montage aside, I was happy with the scene and thought it was a nice opportunity to show the public how I really felt about the situation.

I jumped back on a flight to Vegas from Burbank and landed with just enough time to get backstage and get ready for the show. After dis
embarking, I walked through the airport with my head down, continuing the text conversations I’d been having with Nancy all day. I made my way to the escalator that I knew would deposit me on the baggage-claim level right in front of Starbucks, since I needed fuel for this evening.

I had no more than stepped on the escalator when I got a text from Eric.

Look up,
it read.

I scrunched up my face.
What the hell does he mean by that?
I thought.

When I actually did look up from my phone, I saw him standing at the base of the escalator, looking as suave as always, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.

Damn, he looks handsome,
was my first thought.
Maybe I should try and set him up with one of my friends,
was the second, reminding myself that I was taken.

“Hey!” I exclaimed as I hopped off the escalator. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m not headed anywhere,” he stated. “I’m here to pick you up.”

“Really?” I asked, incredulously. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Because I felt like it. You are too big to be taking flights on Southwest and taxis to film things.”

I nervously laughed off what he said. I didn’t know how to respond to him. Was he making fun of me? I certainly didn’t think of myself as “too big” for anything. It’s not like I was a movie star.
Nancy must have put him up to this,
I thought.

He led me to valet, where his Bentley was waiting for us. As he drove me to Planet Hollywood, I tried as best I could to make conversation, though there were a lot of awkward silences. It was the first time I had been alone with him since the night at the Double Down.

Is he as socially inept and quiet as I am or is he just trying to be mysterious?
I wondered.
There’s no way someone as popular as he is, is this nonverbal
.

“We should go on a trip together sometime,” he offered woodenly as
we pulled up to the VIP entrance. “Have you been to London? It’s one of my favorite cities.”