Art imitates life in Nicole Richie novel

In “The Truth About Diamonds,” Nicole Richie tells the story of Chloe Parker, the princess daughter of rock royalty and a card-carrying member of Hollywood's inner circle. Readers are given a no-holds-barred look at Hollywood's new elite, behind the velvet ropes, inside star-studded premieres and parties. Richie visited “Today” to discuss her new book. Here's an excerpt:

Chapter One
Reserved Seating
Chloe Parker would be a terrible role model if she were famous. Trouble is that she was about to be.

It started innocently enough, or as innocent as you can get on the dance floor of one of the hottest clubs in L.A.

The nightclubs of L.A. are like soap operas, except they're not Days of Our Lives; they're more like Passions — crazy stuff happens, and no one bats a fake eyelash. There's always some bizarre drama that plays out every night, and everyone in the cast — I mean, everyone — is great looking, stoned, and/or drunk. It's like a traveling freak show that stars the youngest and hottest in Hollywood. It's about fun, and sex, and pseudo-danger.

Chloe Parker was practically born in a club. It's like she spontaneously generated one night in 1981 during a fourteen-minute remix. As a child, she could dance before she could walk and sing before she could talk. Dressed in a tie-dyed onesie and a tutu, her head a tangle of golden curls, Chloe was destined to haunt the clubs of her adoptive city as soon as humanly possible.

Chloe had been going to the hottest clubs in Hollywood since she was this many, wearing L.A. Gear sneakers everywhere she went. Like me, Chloe has always been tiny, which meant we could both sneak into The Viper Room under the noses of the bouncers when we were thirteen. She was a kid partying with adults who treated her like a peer. Every important marker of her life had to do with clubbing. She wore her first bra to a club. She went out without a bra for the first time to a club. Her first kiss, her first crush on a gay guy, the first time she saw Jimmy Choo sandals, the first time someone passed her a joint — all happened in a club.

As a kid, Chloe would stand behind the DJ booth and dance, and the DJ could tell if he had the vibe right just by monitoring her movements. Like Holly Golightly in Madonna-wannabe rags, Chloe had the ability to not only be in the moment, but to create it.

It helped that she always gave herself little jobs to do to make everyone happier. She'd hand out Dixie cups of water if people were looking overheated, or she would fan them with the sleeve of one of the 12-inch records the DJ was playing. She was the Disco Granny reincarnated.

In those days, Chloe was like that — so pure, all heart and soul. To see her smile would have the same effect on a roomful of sweaty strangers as the DJ playing a classic, crowd-pleasing track. She could be like a little sliver of the sun — her glow lit them up.

Chloe's mailing address might have been her mom Peggy's place in Bel Air, but the place to find her — and more importantly the place where she was finding herself — was whatever party was hottest at the moment.

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