Glamorama (75 page)

Midnight and I’m drinking Absolut from a plastic cup, overdressed in a black Prada suit with Gucci boots and eating Xanax, a cigarette burning between my fingers. A party at a massive new Virgin megastore that maybe Tommy Hilfiger has something to do with sponsoring; there’s a stage, there’s supposed to be bands, there’s an Amnesty International banner, there’s supposed to be the ubiquitous benefit concert (though right now the Bangles’ “Hazy Shade of Winter” is blasting over the sound system), there’s loads of negativity. There’s the lead singer from the Verve, there are two members from Blur wearing vintage sneakers, there’s Andre Agassi and William Hurt and three Spice Girls and people milling around holding guitars, there are the first black people I’ve seen since I’ve been in France, there’re a lot of major dudes from Hollywood (or not enough, depending on who you ask), there are trays of ostrich on tiny crackers, opossum on bamboo skewers, shrimp heads tied up in vines, huge plates of tentacles draped over clumps of parsley, but I really can’t keep anything down and I’m looking for a leather sofa to fall into because I can’t tell if people are really as disinterested as they appear or just extremely bored. Whatever—it’s infectious. People keep swatting away flies when they aren’t busy whispering or lurking. I’m just saying “Hi.” I’m just following directions. It’s really an alarming party and everyone is a monster. It’s also a mirror.

And then a giant intake of breath. Uncertain of what I’m seeing.

On the edge of the crowd, beyond the crowd, perfectly lit, cameras flashing around her, surrounded by playboys, her hair sleek and dark gold, is a girl.

Chloe.

Everything rushes back and it knocks me forward, stunned, and I start pushing through the crowd dumbly, adrenaline washing through me, my breath exhaling so hard I’m making noises and Elle Macpherson glimpses me and tries reaching over to say “Hi” but when she sees how freaked out I look—face twisted, gasping—something dawns on her and she decides to ignore me.

At the precise moment Elle turns away I see Bertrand Ripleis across
the record store, his eyes focused as if on a target, grimly advancing toward Chloe.

Frantic, I start making swimming motions, butterfly strokes, to facilitate my way through the crowd, knocking into people, but it’s so packed in the Virgin megastore that it’s like moving upward and sideways across a slope and Chloe seems miles away.

It’s shocking how fast Bertrand Ripleis is moving toward her and he’s practicing smiles, rehearsing an intro, a way to kiss her.

“No, no, no,” I’m muttering, pushing forward, the party roaring around me.

Bertrand suddenly gets stuck, first by a waiter holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres, who Bertrand angrily knocks away, and then by an unusually insistent Isabelle Adjani, straining to keep up his side of the conversation. When he glances over, sees how much ground I’ve covered, he pushes her aside and starts cutting across to Chloe laterally.

And then I’m reaching out, my hand falling on Chloe’s shoulder, and before even looking at her—because there’s so much anxiety coursing through me—I glance over in time to see Bertrand suddenly stop, staring at me blank-faced until he retreats.

“Chloe,” I say, my voice hoarse.

She turns around, ready to smile at whoever just said her name, but when she sees it’s me she seems confused and she doesn’t say anything.

People are swarming around us and I start crying, wrapping my arms around her, and in a haze I realize she’s hugging me back.

“I thought you were in New York,” she’s saying.

“Oh baby, no, no,” I’m saying. “I’m here. I’ve been here. Why did you think that?”

“Victor?” she asks, pulling back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m cool,” I say, still crying, trying not to.

Upstairs, at Chloe’s request a PR person maneuvers us to a bench in the VIP section, which looks out over the rest of the party. Chloe’s chewing Nicorette, carefully blotting her lipstick, and gold and taupe brow color has been applied to the outer corners of her eyes and I keep grabbing her hand, clutching it, and sometimes she squeezes back.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Oh great, great.” Pause. “Not so great.” Another pause. “I think I need some help, baby.” I try to smile.

“It’s not drugs … is it?” she asks. “We’re not being bad … are we?”

“No, no, no, not that, I just—” I smile tightly, reach out again to rub her hand. “I just missed you so much and I’m just so glad you’re here and I’m just so sorry for everything,” I say in a rush, breaking down again.

“Hey, shhh, what’s bringing this on?” she asks. I can’t talk. My head slips from my hands and I’m just sobbing, tears pouring out.

“Victor? Is everything okay?” she asks softly. “What’s going on?” I take in a giant breath, then sob again.

“Victor, what’s wrong?” I hear her ask. “Do you need any money? Is that it?”

I keep shaking my head, unable to speak.

“Are you in trouble?” she asks. “Victor?”

“No, no, baby, no,” I say, wiping my face.

“Victor, you’re scaring me.”

“It’s just, it’s just, this is my worst suit,” I say, trying to laugh. “Wardrobe dressed me. The director insisted. But it’s just not fitting right.”

“You look nice,” she says, relaxing a little. “You look tired but you look nice.” She pauses, then adds sweetly, “I’ve missed you.”

“Oh baby …”

“I know I shouldn’t but I do.”

“Hey, hey …”

“I left about a dozen messages on your machine in New York last week,” she says. “I guess you never got them.”

“No.” I clear my throat, keep sniffling. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

“Victor—”

“So are you seeing anyone?” I ask, hope cracking my voice apart. “Did you come here with anyone?”

“Please. No unpleasant questions. Okay?”

“Hey, come on, Chloe, just let me know.”

“Victor, Jesus,” she says, pulling back. “We already talked about that. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“What happened to Baxter?” I ask, coughing.

“Baxter Priestly?” she asks. “Victor—”

“Yeah, Baxter.” I wipe my face with my hand, then wipe my hand on my pants, still sniffling.

“Nothing. Why?” Chloe pauses, chewing tensely. “Victor, I’m suddenly really, really worried about you.”

“I thought he was in the same movie,” I blurt out. “I thought his part got bigger.”

“He’s been written out,” she says. “Not like that should mean anything to you.”

“Baby, listen, I’m just so happy to see you.”

“You’re shaking,” she says. “You’re really shaking.”

“I’m just … so cold,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, the shows,” she says, staring at me strangely.

“Yeah, yeah.” I reach for her hand again. “What else?”

“I’m also narrating a documentary on the history of the negligee.”

“That’s so cool, baby.”

“Some might say,” she concedes. “And yourself? What are you doing in Paris?”

“I’m just, um, moving on to the next project, y’know?” I say. “That’s … constructive.”

“Yeah. Go figure,” I say. “I don’t have a master plan yet.”

At the entrance of the VIP section, at the top of the steel staircase, Bobby is conferring with Bertrand, who is jabbing his finger at where Chloe and I are sitting while he angrily leans into Bobby and Bobby just nods “understandingly” and makes a calming motion with his hand, which Bertrand pushes away disgustedly. Bobby sighs visibly and as he starts making his way over to us, he’s joined by Bentley.

With maximum effort I light a cigarette. Exhaling, I make a face and hand the cigarette to Chloe.

“No, I’m not smoking anymore,” she says, smiling, taking the cigarette from me and dropping it into a nearby beer bottle. “I shouldn’t even be chewing this stuff,” she says, making a face.

Bobby and Bentley get closer, casually determined.

“We can’t talk here,” I’m saying. “I can’t talk here.”

“It’s really loud,” she says, nodding.

“Listen.” I breathe in. “Where are you staying?”

“At Costes,” she says. “Where are
you
staying?”

“I’m just, um, just staying with some people.”

“Who?”

“Bobby Hughes,” I say because I can’t get away with a lie.

“Oh really?” she says. “I didn’t know you knew him.”

“And Jamie Fields. I went to Camden with her. But they’re a couple. Bobby and Jamie are a couple.”

“You don’t need to explain, Victor.”

“No, no, no, it’s not like that,” I keep insisting. “They’re together. I’m just staying at their place.”

A careful pause. “But didn’t you use to date her?” Chloe asks.

“Yeah, yeah, but she’s with Bobby Hughes now,” I say.

“What’s he like?” Chloe asks, and then, “Victor, you’ve got to calm down, you’re freaking me out.”

“I’m not seeing Jamie Fields,” I say. “I have no interest whatsoever in Jamie Fields anymore.”

“Victor, you don’t need to explain,” Chloe says. “I said it’s okay.”

“I know, I know.” My eyes are wet and blinking.

“So what’s the address?” she asks. “Where you are?”

I’m too afraid to give it out so I just tell her the name of a street in the 8th.

“Posh,” she says, and then, uneasily, “People live there?”

“So I’ll call you, okay?”

Suddenly Chloe looks up at someone behind me and, smiling widely, jumps off the bench and shouts, “Oh my god—Bentley!”

“Chloe baby,” Bentley cries out, swingerish, as he grabs her in a giant hug.

She’s squealing happily, spinning around, Bobby silently waiting on the sidelines, listening patiently to their requisite small talk. I force myself to acknowledge Bobby’s presence as he continues to stare at Chloe, his eyes black and waxy, but then Chloe’s smiling at him and suddenly cameras are flashing all around us and as the four of us stand together, pretending we’re not posing casually for the paparazzi, Bobby lifts Chloe’s hand up.

“How gallant,” Chloe whispers mock-seriously as Bobby kisses her hand and when he lifts that hand to kiss it the urge to knock his face away almost destroys me and I fall back on the bench, defeated.

Bobby’s saying, “We’re sorry we have to take him away from you.” He gestures vaguely at me.

This moves me to say, “I think I’m being accosted.”

“It’s okay,” Chloe says. “I have a show tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s leave, Victor,” Bentley says. “Come on, guy.”

“Leave for what?” I ask, refusing to get up from the bench. “It’s midnight.”

“No it’s not,” Bobby says, checking his watch.

“Leave for what?” I ask again.

“We have a dinner party we’re late for,” Bobby explains to Chloe. “Plus a really shitty band’s about to play. It’s a good opportunity to split.”

“Baby.” Bentley’s kissing Chloe again. “We are definitely partying while you’re here. That is a promise.”

“It’s great to see you again, Bentley,” Chloe says, and then to Bobby, “And it’s nice to finally meet you.”

Bobby blushes on cue. “And you,” is all he says but it’s so loaded with references that I start shaking uncontrollably.

“Let’s go,” Bentley’s saying to me. “Get up.”

“Maybe you should just leave without me,” I tell him. “It’s too late to eat.”

“I have a remarkable metabolism,” Bobby says. “It’ll be okay.”

“Chloe,” I say. “Do you want to have a drink with me?”

“Victor,” Bobby says, hurt.

Chloe gauges Bobby’s reaction. “Listen, I have to unpack. I’m jet-lagged,” Chloe says. “We have a press conference tomorrow morning. I have a photo shoot with Gilles Bensimon at twelve, so … not tonight, sorry.”

“Let’s cancel,” I tell Bobby.

“That’s impossible,” Bobby says crisply. “I’m starving.”

“Victor, it’s really okay,” Chloe says. “I have to go anyway. I’m totally jet-lagged. I came straight here from the airport.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?” I ask.

A pause. For some reason she glances over at Bobby. “Sure,” Chloe says. “Call me.”

“Okay.” I glance nervously at Bobby. “I will.”

Chloe reaches over and wipes a smudge of lipstick off my cheek. She kisses me, she disappears.

The three of us look on as the party swallows her up.

“Come on, Victor,” Bobby says.

“No,” I say, not getting up from the bench.

“Ooh, he’s being a little skittish,” Bentley says.

Bobby tugs “playfully” at my sleeve.

“Come on. It’s time to revel.”

I slowly raise myself but it’s really Bobby lifting up my entire weight with just one arm, pulling me off the bench. It’s slippery walking down the staircase because the record store is encased in ice, and gold confetti streams down over us hideously, flies swarming everywhere.

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