Part of what you get when you Host Pursey Galore is a fictionalized version of the night’s festivities. However, Poppy almost didn’t need one according to the reporter from the Vancouver Voice who wrote this article about the night. Poppy turned up the heat for her Party Night fundraising while raising some eyebrows and heart rates.
Here’s the Made For TV version.
The limo arrived early. This show of punctuality was probably an effort to be thoughtful, but really, Poppy thought it a bit of a pain and bordering on pushy. Poppy didn’t care to be pushed by anyone, so instead of heading down to the stretch, she poured another round of the bubbly.
Poppy’s drinking companions, Jessica, of the New England Jessicas, Callie, heiress to the local tabloid news empire, Lisa, who inherited a fortune from her third husband, and Heather, who had money but no one really knew why, threw back the champagne like water. Jessica hollered down to the driver to keep his pants on, despite the fact that they were nowhere near off, and tossed a twenty out the window just to make herself seem more polite. She looked back at her partners in crime and said, “Damn, he looks just Bradley Cooper. I should have thrown a hundred.”
Once the glasses were good an empty, they made their way down the curved stairway and into the opened door of the limousine. Poppy gave the driver an affectionate slap on the cheek before climbing inside and popping the cork on the waiting bottle.
At the second stop on the night’s tour, Callie took a long look at Poppy’s backside. “Girl, you’ve got lines.”
Poppy craned her neck and tried to survey her own caboose. “Like hell I do.”
Jessica took a rear view and agreed with Callie. “Yep. There’s furrows in the field there, babe.” Lisa and Heather nodded sympathetically.
Poppy sighed and sauntered off to the ladies room, returning in few moments much smoother.
“Where’d you stash your knickers?”
Poppy held up her sequined bag and swung it around her head like a lasso. “C’mon, women, next stop.”
The night’s itinerary included several of the high-brow swanks with the $22 martinis. But after a few of these, even the entertaining names – “Area 51 On the Rocks” and “Cross-Dressing Elvis Impersonator” – didn’t hold the women’s interest.
After bidding Lisa and Heather good-night as they headed to an after-hours rave, Callie called to the driver, “Hey, Frank”…which was not his name, “Where do you go when YOU want to put a few away?”
“You don’t want to go where I go, miss.” Was Frank-whose-name-really-wasn’t-Frank’s reply.
Three eyebrows raised in unison.
“Take us there,” ordered Poppy.
Not-Frank’s choice was a dive that was only a handful of millibars away from needing oxygen tanks. Dark, crowded, lit only by neon beer signs hanging on the far wall. The patrons were rough, lively, and green from the glowing bar.
The women grinned and elbowed their way to the bar, foregoing drinks with catchy names in favor of drinks with higher proofs.
After a few rounds, the trio decided to wrap up their night of loud talk and liquor. Poppy reached into her bag to retrieve some cash and as she withdrew her hand, a whisper of lace floated to the floor.
“Damnit,” she announced, bending over to retrieve her lacy unmentionables before they were trod upon.
“Poppy!!” someone’s voice called loudly. She paused, mid-bend, and looked up. The flash of a camera immediately blinded her. As she tried to blink her eyesight back, she heard a man’s loud laughter and the bang of the bar door being slammed quickly open.
“Hey!” Shouted Jessica who took off after the photographer. Callie joined in the chase.
Poppy scooped up her undies, threw a wad of bills on the bar that settled their tab many times over and ran after her girls.
As she reached the sidewalk, she saw Jessica explaining what had happened to Frank-who-looked-like-Bradley-Cooper and nearly tripped over a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s abandoned on the street. Callie’s Manolo Blahnik’s. She picked them up.
Callie reappeared from around a corner a moment later shaking her head. “He’s gone. He had a car ready.”
Poppy handed Callie back her shoes and put a hand on one hip. “Bending over in a dive bar picking up my own underwear from the floor. Couldn’t have had a better shot if I’d staged it myself.”
“Do you want to try and find him, miss?” Asked Bradley/Frank.
Poppy exhaled hard. “No. We won’t catch him.” She turned back to the limo, not waiting for the door to be opened for her. “This time though, they damn well better get my age right. Last time they believed me when I said I was almost fifty.” She looked at the handsome chauffer. “Do I look anywhere near fifty?” She asked dangerously.
The chauffeur shook his head decisively. “Off by at least 30 years, miss.”
Poppy smiled and opened the last bottle of champagne. “Damned straight.”
