Glamorama (38 page)

“Thank you,” she says demurely, a familiar voice. She retrieves a pack of Silk Cuts from the Chanel tote and with absolutely no difficulty lights one. A cue to motion toward the empty chaise next to her.

“Please, go ahead,” she says a little too loudly because of the Walk
man she’s wearing. I notice the case of the new Tricky cassette sticking out of the Chanel tote and mentally brush up on the last Tricky CD, reviews of certain Tricky concerts I’ve read, any Tricky details from my own past I’m about to use on the girl with the total Juliette Binoche look.

Even though it’s too cold to take off the tank top—and not like it’s doing a good job of hiding anything—I slip out of it without removing my sunglasses, lay the towel down and ease myself on top of it, flexing my abs to get her attention. She’s reading a book with the words
MARTIN AMIS
in giant black letters on the cover and I’m hoping she’s not a member of Amnesty International. A waiter appears and I order a light beer and a large bottle of mineral water, which he brings quickly. I tip him, he’s gone.

When the girl takes the Walkman off I remember a line, make a move.

“Hey, didn’t we meet at that barbecue Kevyn Aucoin threw in New York?”

She takes off her sunglasses, stubs the cigarette in an ashtray, smiles without squinting and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, what’s the story?” I ask. “How do I know you? You look disturbingly familiar.” I lean on my side, staring admiringly. “Though it could be because you’re the only person on this boat born the same decade I was.”

But some element keeps distracting us. There is a couple—handsome and maybe in their mid-forties, dressed in fashionable beachwear that proves they’re in pretty good shape—standing by the railing. The man camcords the woman clowning around in a semi-forced way against the backdrop of the ocean moving slowly behind them and occasionally they glance over at where I’m lounging, the woman with a harsh, almost severe expression that morphs instantly into a garish smile whenever she catches me looking at her. The man is basically a blank and I’m totally not interested.

“Are those your parents?” I ask, nodding toward the couple.

“No, my parents are in the States,” the girl says, glancing over as the couple now shuffles out of her line of vision when they notice her paying attention. “Actually, though, I do know Kevyn Aucoin. I just haven’t been invited to one of his soirees.”

“They’re quite fun as soirees go,” I tell her, perking up. “The whole
gang is usually there. Cindy, Linda, Kate, the Sandras—Bullock, Bernhard and Gallin. Oh, and I met Sheryl Crow there too.”

“I take it you’re also a bold-faced name, no?” she asks.

“Just quasi-famous,” I shrug.

The girl offers what doesn’t seem like a fake smile.

“So maybe we’ve run into each other at various VIP fashion events?” I suggest. “Brushed by each other in the front room at Doppelganger’s or Jet Lounge? Shared cocktails at a private screening where we weren’t aware of each other’s presence, hmm?” I’m arching my eyebrows faux-lasciviously but she’s not amused.

“You’re not a photographer, are you?” she asks suspiciously, her face tightening.

“Hey, no, baby, relax.” I stall, then lift her iced tea and pick up
W
, flipping it open to the Star Spotting section, a photo of Chloe and me at a premiere at Radio City Music Hall. I hand it to the girl over the table. She glances at the page, then looks at me, then back at the photo.

“You’re … Christian Slater?” she asks, confused.

“No, no, the one below that.”

“Oh, I see.”

I start feeling my face and then ask worriedly, “Is my head really that big?”

She focuses in on the right photo: Chloe in a practiced daze, me staring intently into the paparazzi’s lens.

“Yes, that looks like you,” she says. “And that’s Chloe Byrnes, right?”

“I date her,” I say, then, “I mean, I used to date her.”

“Well, I dated Peter Morton,” she says, handing back the magazine. “Peter Morton and I used to get photographed together too.”

“So you’re saying we’re in the same boat?” I ask.

“Well, actually we
are,”
she says, gesturing around, rolling her eyes and groaning inwardly at the line she has to deliver.

“Well, yeah, yes,” I faux-chuckle. “That we, um, are.”

“Marina,” she says. “Marina Cannon.”

“Hey, Victor Ward.” I pause, letting the name resonate, then offer my hand and she takes it lightly. “And you’re off to …” I leave an opening for the name of a place.

“Paris,” she says. “Actually, Cherbourg and then Paris.”

“Why Paris?” I ask. Then, quite suavely, “Though of course, why not?”

“Oh …” She pauses, looks at all that boring black water. “Let’s just say certain individuals weren’t sticking to the plan and leave it at that.”

I immediately sense boyfriend troubles and pounce gingerly. “What’s his name?” I ask softly.

“Gavin,” she says, a bit perturbed but still smiling.

I make a face, mock-shiver. “Ooh, I don’t trust anyone named Gavin.” I make another face, grimacing, holding the expression until she notices, then ask casually, “Where’s Gavin now?”

“Gavin plans to run with the bulls in Pamplona,” she says dryly.

“He’s a basketball player?” I ask, wilting. “I thought the Bulls were in Chicago.”

She just stares at me, a flicker of panic creasing her features. Suddenly the gay German youth bounds down the stairs onto the pool deck, wearing a Garth Brooks tour T-shirt and giant black Nikes. He spots me and starts bounding over. I immediately feign sleep. Soon I feel a shadow cross my face and linger, followed by the sounds of footsteps bounding away. When I feel enough time has passed I open my eyes. Countless Japanese splash around in the pool. The noon whistle goes off. Elderly report: they’re everywhere.

“Someone just … inspected you,” Marina says.

“Just a fan. A hanger-on,” I shrug. “It’s tough but I’m used to it. So what do you do?”

“I model,” she says simply. “Part time.”

I sit up, swing my legs across the chaise, then realize the move is a little too urgent and reach for the light beer instead.

“But just a little bit,” she adds, noticing. “Just here and there.”

“Baby, that is
so
cool,” I’m saying. “I knew you were a model. I knew you were recognizable.”

“Well, I’m not Chloe Byrnes but I do okay.”

“Yeah, Chloe … ,” I say “wistfully.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marina says and then—when I fail to say anything else—adds, “Anyway, I’m off to visit friends and do, oh, touristy things.”

“Hey, roam if you want to. That’s my motto, baby.”

“So why are you sailing?” she asks. “Afraid to fly?”

“I saw
The Poseidon Adventure
twenty times as a small, frightened
child,” I explain. “My favorite line in movies is ‘My God—it’s a giant wall of water, heading
straight for us.’”

A long pause on Marina’s part that I’m responsible for, and then, “That’s … your answer?”

“I’m going to London, babe,” I say quickly. “I’m looking for a friend.” I realize something, my eyes gliding over her body, and add, “But I’m in no hurry.”

“So why do you have to find this friend?”

“Off the record? It’s a long story.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“Well, I was about to host this MTV show—”

“Oh really?” she asks, repositioning herself on the chaise. “About what?”

Without stalling: “Well, it was just going to be about me. My life, y’know, what I do during an average day.”

“I … see,” she says, somewhat contemplatively.

“And the whole modeling grind was getting me down and being quasi-famous was just getting too overwhelming so”—I breathe in for emphasis—“I decided to chuck it all and I thought, man, Europe’s not that far away. But I didn’t really want to participate in that whole Prague scene. I didn’t want to sit in a moldy café with my PowerBook and
deal
with chicks from RISD. I just wanted to write some poetry and, y’know, make some videos … get away from that whole cyberspace scene. Just chill out … Get back to my roots. Gotta get back, back to my roots.” I sip the light beer confidently. “Come back down to earth and get back to my roots.”

“Your family’s from Europe?” she asks.

“Er, well, I’m not sure, but I’m, I mean, I’ve
heard
I had a few roots there”—I pause—“Europe.” I pause again. “Baby, I’m just really searching for some honesty.”

She says nothing.

“Um, y’know, it’s hard right now, it’s so damn hard,” I sigh. “I’m just beginning to adjust to
not
fending off autograph hunters and I’m not used to it yet. I need to detox from that whole celeb thing. But I’m just not used to it yet. Can’t you tell how jittery I am? I think I just twitched.” I pause, sip the light beer thoughtfully. “Do you know who I am now?” I open the
W
up again and show her the picture of Chloe
and me at the premiere at Radio City, my thumb subtly blocking out Chloe’s face.

“I’m not really sure I know who you are,” she says. “But you look more familiar now.”

“I was on the cover of
YouthQuake
magazine last month,” I say. “Does that help?”

“So you’re an actor too?” she asks.

“Yes. I know how to laugh, applaud, cry out in amazement, all on cue. Aren’t you impressed?”

“I sense a supporting-actor Oscar in your future,” she says, smiling.

“Thank you,” I say, then faux-blanch. “
Supporting
?”

I notice the couple conferring with the director, who’s looking schleppier by the minute, and then I notice Marina watching them too and the man turns his head away from us, freezing up when he notices us looking at him, and he nods at the director, who I don’t think is noticing anything, and the three of them are huddled together as if forming a plan.

“So who is this person you’re trying to find?” Marina asks.

“A girl I went to school with,” I murmur.

“Where did you go to school?”

“Undergraduate? Camden College.”

“And where did you get your master’s?”

I pause. “Actually … I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Well, she must be very important to you.”

“Well, she’s, um … yeah.” I squint up into the sky, which looks weird, nonexistent. “I think it’s like in her best interest if I, um, show up.”

“Camden,” Marina murmurs. “I think I know a couple of people who went to Camden.” She concentrates for a moment. “Katrina Svenson?”

“Sure, yeah, right,” I say, nodding. “Very good, um, Hacky Sack player.”

“Paul Denton?”

“Oh yeah, Paulie, Paulie, Paulie.”

“Sean Bateman?”

“Good buddy of mine.”

“He’s actually a fairly lousy individual.”

“Baby, I am
so
glad
you
said that because, baby, I am
so
with you on that one.”

I notice that the director has moved somewhere else and that the couple in fashionable beachwear has started heading toward our general vicinity. When I look over at Marina she’s gathering up her magazines and Walkman and placing them in the Chanel tote, her skin flawless, the scent of flowers rising off her, playing let’s-get-happy with my nostrils.

“Hey, what’s the story?” I ask. “Where are you going?”

“I hate to dash off like this,” she says apologetically, standing up. “But I’m feeling a little exposed.” She grabs her towel.

“Um, well, how about—” I start.

“It was nice to meet you, Victor,” she interrupts, concentrating on getting her things together. “I hope you have a pleasant voyage.”

“Um, wait a minute,” I say, standing up also. “What are you doing for dinner?”

“Call me. I’m in room 402. Deck 3.” She starts walking away, offering a slight wave without turning around, and then she’s gone.

I’m suddenly so cold I pull the Gap tank top back on and, leaving the towel on the chaise, decide to follow Marina, ask her to dinner again, reestablish our groovy rapport, inquire as to whether I freaked her out, if I wasn’t behaving gentlemanly enough, if I came on too hard, if she knows Chloe maybe, which causes me to panic about my reputation, but the couple hurry over before I can rush away and they’re older than they looked from far away and I busy myself with the towel and start folding it uselessly, my back to them, hoping they’re not going to ask me to camcord a tiresome message for friends back home with the two of them framed against the dully sparkling miniwhitecaps stretching out to the horizon.

“Are you Victor Johnson?” the man behind me asks with an English accent. “Or is it Victor Ward?”

I drop the towel on the chaise and turn to face him, whipping off my sunglasses, smiling wide, and—tingling—admit, “Yeah.”

“I don’t think you’ll remember us,” the man starts, “but I’m Stephen Wallace and this is my wife, Lorrie.” I take his hand and shake it and while I’m shaking Lorrie’s hand Stephen says, “We’re friends of your father’s.”

I let go of Lorrie’s hand as the tingling immediately evaporates and then I place my sunglasses back on and pick up the towel. “Oh? Really?” is all I say, breathing in.

“Yes, we knew your parents when they were living in Washington,” Stephen says. “In Georgetown.”

“Oh wow,” I’m saying unenthusiastically. “Am I like on ‘Totally Hidden Video’ or something?”

The Wallaces laugh “good-naturedly” and I’m reminded of a nonexistent appointment I need to keep.

“The last time we saw you, you must have been …” Stephen stops, looks at Lorrie for help. “What? Nine? Ten?”

“Oh, it was earlier than that,” the woman says, tilting her head, consulting the sky.

“What year did your father move back to Washington from New York?” Stephen asks.

“It was the year Mom died,” I say, running my hand through my hair, eyeing the waiter removing Marina’s half-empty pitcher of iced tea and my beer bottle—a prop I almost reach for just to have something to hold on to.

“Right, right,” the man murmurs, shaking his head sorrowfully.

The woman offers a generous, sympathetic smile.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I don’t dwell on what happened, so it’s okay.”

“Was that after you were at … ?” Stephen stops again, stuck. “Where did you go to school?”