Glamorama (70 page)

20

We’re at a dinner party in an apartment on Rue Paul Valéry between Avenue Foch and Avenue Victor Hugo and it’s all rather subdued since a small percentage of the invited guests were blown up in the Ritz yesterday. For comfort people went shopping, which is understandable even if they bought things a little too enthusiastically. Tonight it’s just wildflowers and white lilies, just W’s Paris bureau chief, Donna Karan, Aerin Lauder, Inès de la Fressange and Christian Louboutin, who thinks I snubbed him and maybe I did but maybe I’m past the point of caring. Just Annette Bening and Michael Stipe in a tomato-red wig. Just Tammy on heroin, serene and glassy-eyed, her lips swollen from collagen injections, beeswax balm spread over her mouth, gliding through the party, stopping to listen to Kate Winslet, to Jean Reno, to Polly Walker, to Jacques Grange. Just the smell of shit, floating, its fumes spreading everywhere. Just another conversation with a chic sadist obsessed with origami. Just another armless man waving a stump and whispering excitedly, “Natasha’s coming!” Just people tan and back from the Ariel Sands Beach Club in Bermuda, some of them looking reskinned. Just me, making connections based on fear, experiencing vertigo, drinking a Woo-Woo.

Jamie walks over to me after Bobby’s cell phone rings and he exits the room, puffing suavely on a cigar gripped in the hand holding the phone, the other hand held up to his ear to block the din of the party.

“He’s certainly in hair heaven,” Jamie says, pointing out Dominique Sirop. Jamie’s looking svelte in a teensy skirt and a pair of
$1,500 shoes, nibbling an Italian cookie. “You’re looking good tonight.”

“The better you look,” I murmur, “the more you see.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“No you won’t. But for now I’ll believe you.”

“I’m serious.” She waves a fly away from her face. “You’re looking very spiffy. You have the knack.”

“What do you want?” I ask, recoiling from her presence.

Behind her Bobby walks quickly back into the room. He grimly holds hands with our hostess, she starts nodding sympathetically at whatever lie he’s spinning and she’s already a little upset that people in the lobby are dancing but she’s being brave and then Bobby spots Jamie and starts moving through the crowd toward us though there are a lot of people to greet and say goodbye to.

“That’s a loaded question,” Jamie says glacially.

“Do you know how many people died at the Ritz yesterday?”

I ask.

“I didn’t keep track,” she says, and then, “Don’t be so corny.”

“That was Bertrand,” Bobby says to no one in particular. “I’ve gotta split.”

“You look freaked,” Jamie says slowly. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later, back at the house,” he says, taking her champagne glass, drinking half.

“Why are you leaving, Bobby?” Jamie asks carefully. “Where are you going?”

“I guess my social life is much busier than yours,” Bobby says, brushing her off.

“You brute.” She grins. “You savage.”

“Just stay for the dinner,” Bobby says, checking his watch. “Then come back to the house. I’ll be there by eleven.”

Bobby kisses Jamie hard on the mouth and tries to act casual but something’s wrong and he can barely control his panic. I try not to stare. He notices.

“Stop gawking,” he says irritably. “I’ll be back at the house by eleven. Maybe sooner.”

On his way out Bobby stops behind Tammy who’s swaying from side to side, listening rapturously to a drug dealer called the Kaiser, and Bobby motions from across the room to Jamie, mouthing,
Watch her
. Jamie nods.

“Is Bobby gone?” Jamie’s asking.

“You’re in fine form tonight,” I spit out, glaring. “Do you know how many people died at the Ritz yesterday?”

“Victor, please,” she says genuinely while trying to smile, in case anyone’s watching. But the French film crew is surrounding a cluster of mourners laughing in the corner of the cavernous living room. Blenders are whirring at a bar, there’s a fire raging in the fireplace, cell phones keep being answered.

“They killed the French premier’s son yesterday too,” I say calmly, for emphasis. “They cut off his leg. I watched him die. How can you wear that dress?” I ask, my face twisted with loathing.

“Is Bobby gone?” she asks again. “Just tell me if he’s left yet.”

“Yes,” I say disgustedly. “He left.”

Visibly, she relaxes. “I have to tell you something, Victor,” she says, gazing over my shoulder, then glancing sideways. “What?” I ask. “You’re all grown up now?”

“No, not that,” she says patiently. “You and I—we can’t see each other anymore.”

“Oh really?” I’m glancing around the room. “Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Is it?” I ask, smirking. “What a cliché.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“I think this whole thing has gotten out of hand,” Jamie says.

I start giggling uncontrollably until a sudden spasm of fear causes my eyes to water, my face to contort. “That’s … all?” I cough, wiping my eyes, sniffling. “Just … out of hand?” My voice sounds high and girlish.

“Victor—”

“You are not playing by the rules,” I say, my chest tightening. “You are not following the script.”

“There
are
no rules, Victor,” she says. “What rules? That’s all nonsense.”

She pauses. “It’s too dangerous,” she says again.

“I’m feeling a lack of progress,” I’m saying. “I think we’re all living in a box.”

“I assume you understand more about Bobby now,” she says. “It’s easier, isn’t it? It’s easier to gauge the fear factor now, isn’t it?”

A long pause. “I suppose,” I say, without looking at her.

“But you’ll still be in my … periphery.”

“I suppose,” I say again. “How reassuring.”

“You also need to stay away from Bertrand Ripleis.”

“Why?” I’m barely listening.

“He hates you.”

“I wondered why he was always snarling at me.”

“I’m serious,” she says, almost pleadingly. “He still holds a grudge,” she says, trying to smile as she waves to someone. “From Camden.”

“About what?” I ask, irritation and fear laced together.

“He was in love with Lauren Hynde,” she says. “He thinks you treated her shittily.” A pause. “This is on the record.” Another pause. “Be careful.”

“Is this a joke or like some kind of French thing?”

“Just stay away from him,” she warns. “Don’t provoke.”

“How do you know this?”

“We’re … incommunicado.” She shrugs.

A pause. “What’s the safety factor?” I ask.

“As long as you stay away from him?”

I nod.

A tear, one tiny drop, slips down her cheek, changes its mind and evaporates, while she tries to smile.

“So-so,” she whispers.

Finally I say, “I’m leaving.”

“Victor,” Jamie says, touching my arm before I turn away.

“What?” I groan. “I’m leaving. I’m tired.”

“Victor, wait,” she says.

I stand there.

“In the computer,” she says, breathing in. “In the computer. At the house. There’s a file.” She pauses, nods at a guest. “The file is called ‘Wings.’” Pause. As she turns away, she says, “You need to see it.”