Glamorama (44 page)

3

The crew directs me to Security but because there’s not really such an office on board, this scene is shot near the library at a table meant to simulate an office. For “texture”: an unplugged computer terminal, four blank spiral notebooks, an empty Diet Coke can, a month-old issue of
People
. A young British actor—who had small parts in
Trainspotting
and Jane Austen’s
Emma
, and who seems lost even before I start talking—sits behind the makeshift desk, playing a clerk, pale and nervous and fairly cute as far as English actors playing clerks go.

“Hi, I’m Victor Ward, I’m in first class, cabin 101,” I start.

“Yes?” The clerk tilts his head, tries to smile, almost succeeds.

“And I’m looking for a Marina Gibson—”

“Looking for?” he interrupts.

“Yes, I’m looking for a Marina Gibson, who’s in cabin 402.”

“Have you looked in cabin 402?” he interrupts.

“Yes, and she wasn’t in cabin 402, and neither, it seems”—I take a deep breath and then, all in a rush—“was anyone else and I need to find her so I guess what I’m saying is that I’d like her, um, paged.”

There’s a pause that isn’t in the script.

“Why do you need to page her, sir?” the clerk asks.

“Well,” I say, stuck, “I … think she’s lost.” Suddenly I start shaking and have to grip the sides of the desk the actor’s sitting at in order to control it. “I think she’s lost,” I say again.

“You
think
a passenger … is lost?” he asks slowly, moving slightly away from me.

“What I mean”—I breathe in—“is that I think maybe she moved to another cabin maybe.”

“That’s highly doubtful, sir,” the clerk says, shaking his head.

“Well, I mean, she’s supposed to have met me for lunch and she never showed up.” My eyes are closed and I’m trying not to panic. “And I’d like her paged—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t page people because they’ve missed a meal, sir,” I hear the actor say.

“Could you please just confirm for me that she’s in that room? Okay? Could you please just do that?” I ask, teeth clenched.

“I can confirm that, sir, but I cannot give out a passenger’s room number.”

“I’m not asking you to
give out
a room number,” I say impatiently. “I’m not asking for a passenger’s room number. I know her goddamn room number. Just confirm she’s in room 402.”

“Marina … ?”

“Marina Gibson,” I stress. “Like Mel. Like
Mel
Gibson. Only the first name is
Marina.”

The clerk has pulled open one of the spiral notebooks, which supposedly contains a computerized listing of all the passengers on this particular crossing. Then he wheels over to the monitor, taps a few keys, pretends to appear authoritative, consults one graph and then another, lapses into a series of sighs.

“What room did you say, sir?”

“Cabin 402,” I say, bracing myself.

The clerk makes a face, cross-checks something in the spiral notebook, then looks vacantly back up at me.

“That room isn’t inhabited on this crossing,” he says simply.

A long pause before I’m able to ask, “What do you mean? What do you mean, ‘not inhabited’? I called that room last night. Someone answered. I talked to someone in that room. What do you mean, ‘not inhabited’?”

“What I mean, sir, is that this particular room is not inhabited,” the clerk says. “What I’m saying, sir, is that nobody is staying in that room.”

“But …” I start shaking my head. “No, no, that’s not right.”

“Mr. Ward?” the clerk begins. “I’m sure she’ll show up.”

“How do
you
know?” I ask, blanching. “Where in the hell could she be?”

“Maybe she’s in the women’s spa,” the clerk suggests, shrugging.

“Yeah, yeah, right,” I’m muttering. “The women’s spa.” Pause. “Wait—there’s a women’s spa?”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, Mr. Ward—”

“Hey, wait, don’t say things like that,” I say, shuddering, holding my hands up. “Whenever somebody says something like that, something is definitely fucked up.”

“Mr. Ward, please—”

“I think she’s in trouble,” I say, leaning in. “Did you hear me? I said I think she’s in trouble.”

“But Mr. Ward, I don’t even have a Marina Gibson on the passenger list,” the clerk says. “There’s no Marina Gibson registered for this crossing.”

The clerk looks up at me as if he can’t possibly comprehend the expression on my face.

I wait in the hall in a small chair, watching everyone who enters and exits the women’s spa until it closes.

2

F. Fred Palakon calls at 7:00. I’ve been in my room since the women’s spa closed at 5, mulling over the prospect of roaming the entire ship to look for whoever it was who called herself Marina Gibson, ultimately discarding that prospect because the photo from last night’s dinner was slid under my door in a manila envelope stamped with the
QE2
imprimatur. The photo didn’t come out too well, the main reason being that the Wallaces aren’t in it.

The couple sitting at the table in the Queen’s Grill are people I’ve never seen before, who don’t even vaguely resemble the Wallaces. The man glowering at me is much older than Stephen; and the woman,
confused, looking down at her plate, is much dowdier and plainer than Lorrie.

Marina has turned her head away so her face is just a blur.

I’m the only one smiling and relaxed, which amazes me since the only things that look even remotely familiar are the small mound of caviar on my plate and the carafes of the wine Stephen ordered and the Japanese women, in shadows, at the next table.

The original and the three copies I requested are spread out on a desk I’m chain-smoking at, and it’s so cold in the room I’m half-frozen, wearing two J. Crew sweaters under the giant Versace overcoat, and the remains of today’s hangover linger, insistent, like some kind of reminder. I’m vaguely aware that tomorrow the
QE2
docks in Southampton.

“So you’re not going to Paris?” Palakon asks. “So you’ll be in London after all?”

A long stretch of silence that I’m responsible for causes Palakon to snap, “Hello?
Hello
?”

“Yes,” I say hollowly. “How did you figure that … out?”

“I just sensed a change of heart,” Palakon says.

“How did you manage that?”

“Let’s just say I know these precocious moments of yours usually come to an end,” I hear him say. “Let’s just say I concentrate intensely on you and what you have to say and do.” A pause. “I’m also viewing everything from a different angle.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter, Palakon,” I sigh.

“We’ve located Jamie Fields,” Palakon says.

Briefly, I glance up. “So my job’s over, right?”

“No,” Palakon says. “Just made easier.”

“What are you doing right now, Palakon?” I’m asking. “Some lackey’s giving you a pedicure while you’re eating a giant box of mints? That’s what
I’m
picturing.”

“Jamie Fields is in London,” Palakon says. “You’ll find her the day after tomorrow on the set of the movie she’s shooting. All the information you need will be waiting for you at the hotel. A driver will pick you up—”

“A limo?” I ask, interrupting.

A pause, then Palakon gently says, “Yes, Mr. Ward, a limo—”

“Thank you.”

“—will pick you up in Southampton and drive you into London, where I will contact you.”

I keep moving all four copies of the photograph around, repositioning them while Palakon drones on. I light another cigarette before stubbing out the last one.

“Do you understand, Mr. Ward?”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Palakon,” I answer in a monotone.

Pause. “You sound on edge, Mr. Ward.”

“I’m just trying to ascertain something.”

“Is that it, or are you just trying to strike a pose?”

“Listen, Palakon, I’ve gotta go—”

“Where are you off to, Mr. Ward?”

“There’s a gnome-making class that’s starting in ten minutes and I wanna get a head start.”

“I’ll talk to you when you arrive in London, Mr. Ward.”

“I’ve already marked it down in my datebook.”

“I’m relieved to hear it, Mr. Ward.”

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