Glamorama (31 page)

“She looks displeased,” Lauren says, glancing over at Chloe.

“My fault.” I shrug. “Forget about it.”

“Everyone here is just … so … dead.”

“Alicia Silverstone doesn’t look so dead. Noel Gallagher doesn’t look so dead. JFK Jr. doesn’t look so dead—”

“JFK Jr. never showed up, Victor.”

“Would you like some more dessert?”

“I suppose it’s all relative,” she sighs, then starts drawing on a large cocktail napkin with purple Hard Candy nail polish.

“Are you dating Baxter Priestly?” I finally ask.

She looks up from the napkin briefly, smiles a private smile, continues drawing with the nail polish. “Rumor has it that
you
are,” she murmurs.

“Rumor has it that Naomi Campbell’s shortlisted for the Nobel Prize but really, what are the odds?” I ask, annoyed.

Lauren’s looking at Alison, considering her, while Alison pitches forward in her chair, drunkenly grabbing onto Calvin Klein for support, everyone knocking back shots of Patrón tequila, a small gold bottle sitting half-empty in the middle of Damien’s plate.

“She’s like a tarantula,” Lauren whispers.

Alfonse starts pouring San Pellegrino into extra glasses scattered around our table. “Could you please bring her another Diet Dr Pepper?” I ask him, pointing at Lauren.

“Why?” Lauren asks, overhearing me.

“Because everything needs to be redefined right now,” I say. “Because things need to be redefined for me. People need to sober up, that’s why, and—”

Something crawls up my neck and I whirl around to slap it away but it’s just one of Robert Isabell’s floral arrangements going limp. Lauren looks at me like I’m insane and I pretend to study the point where
Mark Vanderloo’s eyebrows don’t meet. Someone says “Pass the chips,” someone else says “Those aren’t chips.” I finally turn back to Lauren, who’s still writing on the cocktail napkin, concentrating, her eyes slits. I notice the letters
W, Q, J
, maybe an
R. We’ll slide down the surface of things
. Damien slowly disengages himself from his table and starts moving toward me, cigar in hand.

“Lauren—” I start.

“You’re high,” she says somewhat menacingly.

“I was high. I’m not high anymore. I am no longer high.” I pause. “You said that somewhat menacingly.”

I pause, testing the situation. “But do you have any coke?” and then, “Are you, like, carrying?”

She shakes her head then reaches down into my lap and still smiling sweetly squeezes my balls then picks up the napkin, kisses me on the cheek, whispers “I’m still in love with you” and glides away, floating past Damien, who tries to reach out for her but she’s gliding away, floating past him, the expression on her face saying
don’t touch
.

Damien just stands there, mutters something, closes and opens his eyes, then takes Lauren’s seat next to mine as Lauren walks over to Timothy Hutton and gently turns to him in an exceedingly intimate way, and Damien’s puffing on his cigar, staring at the two of them, and I’m waving smoke away, slouching in my seat, my cigar unlit.

Damien’s saying things like “Have you ever felt like crawling under a table and living there for a week?”

“I’ve spent most of this night gasping,” I’m conceding. “And I’m exhausted.”

“I think this place is actually great,” Damien says, gesturing at the room. “I just wish it wasn’t such an awful night.”

My eyes are still watering from the squeeze Lauren gave me but through the tears I notice she’s not terribly far from the seat Damien vacated next to Alison’s, and my heart speeds up, something tightens in my stomach, my armpits start tingling and Lauren’s swaying her hips exaggeratedly and Alison’s totally wired, sucking on a joint, greedily chatting away with Ian Schrager and Kelly Klein, then Damien looks away from me and watches too as Lauren says something that causes Tim Hutton to raise his eyebrows and cough while Uma’s talking to David Geffen. Her eyes gleaming, Lauren brings the cocktail napkin
to her lips, kissing it,
wetting
it, and I’m holding my breath watching everything and Alison whispers something to Kelly Klein and Lauren leans away from Tim and with the hand holding the cocktail napkin pats Alison on the back and the napkin sticks and Damien makes a strangled noise.

On the napkin is one word in giant garish purple letters: CUNT.

Alison glances up briefly. She pushes Lauren’s hand away.

Next to me, Chloe’s watching too and she lets out a little whimper.

Damien lurches from the table.

Lauren’s laughing gaily, walking away from Tim Hutton in mid-sentence. And then he notices the napkin on Alison’s back.

Before Damien can get to Alison she’s already reaching behind her neck and she feels the napkin and pulls it off and slowly brings it in front of her face and her eyes go wide and she lets out a giant mama of a scream.

She spots Lauren making her way out of the dining room and hurls a glass at her, which misses Lauren and explodes against the wall.

Alison leaps up from her chair and races toward Lauren but Lauren’s out the door, heading up the stairs to the private VIP lounge that hasn’t opened yet.

Damien gets to Alison and while he wrestles with her she starts sobbing hysterically and the napkin falls out of Alison’s hand and somebody takes it for a souvenir and then I’m standing and about to run after Lauren when Chloe grabs my arm.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I’m going to try to, um, deal with this,” I say, gesturing helplessly at the door Lauren just breezed through.

“Victor—”

“What, baby?”

“Victor—” she says again.

“Honey, I’ll be back in twenty”—I check my wrist but there’s no watch and then I look back at her—“in like ten minutes.”

“Victor—”

“Honey, she needs some
air—”

“In the VIP lounge?” Chloe asks. “In the VIP lounge, Victor? She needs some air in
the VIP lounge
?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Victor—”

“What?” I say, loosening my arm from her grasp.

“Victor—”

“Honey, we’re having a fly time,” I say, pulling away. “Talk to Baxter. Spin some damage control. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

“I don’t care,” she says, letting go. “I don’t care if you come back,” Chloe says. “I don’t care anymore,” she says. “Do you understand?”

Dazed, I can only nod my head and rush out of the room.

“Victor—”

We’ll slide down the surface of things …

I find Lauren in the private VIP room on the top floor where earlier today I interviewed prospective DJs but now it’s empty except for the bartender setting up behind a stainless-steel slab. Holly just points over to a banquette, where Lauren’s feet are sticking out from beneath a tablecloth, one high heel on, one high heel hanging off a totally delectable foot, and a just-opened bottle of Stoli Cristall is standing on the table and when a hand reaches up the bottle disappears, then reappears noticeably less full. The high heel falls off.

I wave my hand, dismissing Holly, and he shrugs and slouches out and I close the doors behind him as mellow music plays somewhere around us, maybe the Cranberries singing “Linger,” and I’m passing the antique pool table in the center of the room, running my hands along the soft green felt, moving over to the booth where Lauren’s splayed out. Except for candles and the very dim, very hip lighting and the chilly hues coming from the steel bar it’s almost pitch black in the lounge, but then one of the spotlights outside on the street beams through the windows, scanning the room before disappearing again, only to beam back moments later, again bathing everything around us in a harsh, metallic glow.

“My psychiatrist wears a tiara,” Lauren says from beneath the patterned tablecloth. “Her name is Dr. Egan and she wears a giant diamond tiara.”

I’m silent for a minute before I can say, “That’s … so depressing, baby.”

Lauren struggles up out of the booth and, standing unsteadily, grabs the edge of the table for support, shakes her head to clear it and then dances slowly, gracelessly with herself across the raw concrete floor
over to the pool table and I reach out and touch the strand of pearls I suddenly notice draped around her neck, trying to move with her.

“What are you doing, Victor?” she asks, dreamily. “Dancing? Is that dancing?”

“Squirming. It’s called squirming, baby.”

“Oh, don’t squirm, lovebutton,” she pouts.

“I think there’s quite a bit to squirm about tonight,” I say tiredly. “In fact, I think lovebutton’s squirming is totally justified.”

“Oh god, Victor,” she groans, still swaying to the music. “You were such a cute, sweet, normal guy when I first met you.” A long pause. “You were so sweet.”

After a minute without moving, I clear my throat. “Um, baby, I don’t think I was ever any of those things.” A realization. “Except for, um, cute, of course.”

She stops dancing, considers this, then admits, “That’s probably the first honest thing you’ve probably ever said.”

And then I ask, “Did you mean what you said down there?” Pause, darkness again. “I mean about us.” Pause. “And all that,” I add.

I hand her the bottle of vodka. She takes it, starts to drink, stops, puts it on the pool table. The rays from the spotlight cross her face, illuminating it for seconds, her eyes closed, tearing, her head slightly turned; a hand is brought up to her mouth, and it’s curled.

“What?” I carefully move the icy bottle of vodka off the pool table so it won’t leave a damp ring on the felt. “Is this all too bummerish?”

She nods slowly and then moves her face next to mine and the sounds of horns from limos in gridlock and the relentless roar of the massive crowd outside is carried up in waves to where we’re stumbling around clutching each other and I’m muttering “Dump Damien, baby” into her ear as she pushes me away when she feels how hard I am.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, her back to me.

“Hey babe, I get it,” I say casually. “Lust never sleeps, right?”

“No, Victor.” She clears her throat, walks slowly around the pool table. I follow her. “It’s not that. It’s just not that simple.”

“You have … star quality, baby,” I’m saying, grasping, sending out a vibe.

She suddenly rushes up to me and holds on, shivering.

“Don’t you think everything happens for a reason?” she’s asking, breathing hard, moving against me. “Don’t you think everything happens for a reason, Victor?” And then, “Victor, I’m so scared. I’m so scared for you.”

“The time to hesitate is through,” I whisper into her hair, pushing against her, easing her slowly against the pool table. “Okay, baby?” I’m whispering while kissing her mouth, my hands reaching down below her waist, and she’s whispering back “Don’t” and I’m reaching underneath her dress, unable to stop myself, not caring who sees us, who walks in through the door, immediately getting lost in the moment, my fingers grazing her panties, one finger slipping inside, touching first the hair there and then a crease and beyond that an entrance that I can actually feel dampen as my finger runs over it gently at first and then more insistently until another slips inside and Lauren’s pressing herself against me, her mouth locked onto mine, but I push her back because I want to see the expression her face is making and now she’s sitting on the pool table with both legs spread and raised up, her hands on the back of my neck grasping me closer, her mouth on my mouth again, making desperate noises that I’m making too but suddenly she pulls back, looking past me, and when I turn around, visible in the darkness of the VIP room is a silhouette of a man standing backlit against the windows that look over Union Square.

Lauren quickly disengages herself from me.

“Damien?” I ask.

The silhouette starts moving closer.

“Hey Damien?” I’m whispering, backing away.

As the silhouette moves closer it raises a hand, holding what looks like a rolled-up newspaper.

“Damien?” I’m whispering over and over.

The spotlight beam moves across the room, scanning it again, slowly catching everything in its glare, and as it passes over the silhouette’s face, illuminating it, my mouth opens in confusion and then Hurley Thompson rushes at me, shouting,
“You fucker!”

His fist slams against the side of my face before I can raise my arm up and in the background Lauren’s crying out for me and after I manage to raise up my arms to block his blows Hurley changes position and starts lifting me up when each thrust of his fists reaches my stomach
and chest and then I’m falling, gasping for help, and Hurley’s leaning down, pausing before he slaps my head with the rolled-up newspaper, hissing into my ear, “I know what you did, you fuck, I know what you said, you dumb fuck,” and then he steps on my face and when he’s gone I finally lift my head and through totally blurry vision I can make out Lauren standing by the exit and she flicks a switch and the room explodes with light and I’m shielding my eyes, calling out for her, but she doesn’t answer.

Pages of the newspaper are scattered around me—it’s tomorrow’s
News
and on the page I’m looking down at, the blood drooling from my mouth staining the paper, is Buddy Seagull’s column, the headline reading
HURLEY THOMPSON FLEES SC3 AMID RUMORS OF DRUGS AND ABUSE,
and there’s a photo of Hurley and Sherry Gibson in “happier times” and on the bottom of the page in the boxed section called “What’s Going On Here?” is a photo whose graininess suggests it was taken with a telephoto lens and it’s of someone who’s supposed to be me kissing Lauren Hynde on the mouth, our eyes closed, a caption in bold letters reading
IT BOY VICTOR WARD SMOOCHING ACTRESS HYNDE AT GALA PREMIERE—DOES CHLOE KNOW
?, and blood dripping from my face keeps swirling all over the paper and I stagger up and when I look in the mirror above the bar I try to smooth things out but after touching my mouth and trying to slick my hair back I end up wiping blood all over my forehead and after trying to get it off with a napkin I’m running downstairs.

We’ll slide down the surface of things …

Everyone who was at the dinner has vacated the second floor and the space is now filled with other people. While I’m craning my neck, looking for someone familiar, JD appears and takes me aside.