Glamorama (20 page)

“I’ve been using vodka to lighten my hair,” she says sadly. “Bongo got a whiff at the Donna Karan show and started muttering the Serenity Prayer.”

“Don’t sweat it, baby. Remember that all you have to do is say cheese about two hundred times a day. That’s it!”

“Being photographed six hours straight is sheer torture.”

“Who’s the dude in the corner, baby?” I gesture toward the guy on the tatami mat.

“That’s La Tosh. We go way back. I’ve known him for weeks. We met over a spring roll at Kin Khao.”

“Très jolie.” I shrug.

“Supposedly he’s one of Rome’s best-connected psychos,” she sighs. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Hey, what happened to the nicotine patch you were gonna wear today?” I ask, concerned.

“It was making me all wobbly on the runway.” She takes my hand and looks up into my face. “I missed you today. Whenever I’m really tired I miss you.”

I lean in, hug her a little, whisper into her ear. “Hey—who’s my favorite little supermodel?”

“Take those glasses off,” she says sourly. “You look like somebody who’s trying too hard. You look like Dean Cain.”

“So what’s the story?” I remove the frames, slip them back into their case.

“Alison Poole has called about ten times today,” Chloe says, looking around the table for cigarettes. “I haven’t called her back. Do you have any idea what she wants?”

“No, baby. Why?”

“Well, didn’t you see her at the Alfaro show?”

“Baby, I wasn’t
at
the Alfaro show.” I pull a small piece of confetti from her hair.

“Shalom said she saw you there.”

“Shalom needs new contacts, then, baby.”

“So why are you visiting me?” she asks. “Are you sure you don’t have a cigarette?”

I check all my pockets. “I don’t think so, baby.” I find a pack of Mentos, offer her one. “Um, I just wanted to stop in, say hello, the usual. I’ve gotta be back at the club, meet this DJ we desperately need for the party tonight and then I’ll see you at Todd’s show.”

“I’ve got to be out of here in forty minutes if I’m going to make it for hair.” She takes a sip from a Fruitopia bottle.

“God, it’s freezing in here,” I say, shivering.

“This week has been hell, Victor,” Chloe says blankly. “Maybe the most hellish week of my life.”

“I’m here for you, baby.”

“I know I should be comforted by that,” she says. “But thank you anyway.”

“I’ve just been so swamped today, baby, it’s totally scary,” I say. “I’ve just been so totally
swamped.”

“We really need to treat ourselves to a vacation,” Chloe says.

“So what’s the story, baby?” I try again. “What’s this thing about?” I ask, gesturing toward the crew, the egg, the guy on the tatami mat.

“I’m not sure, but Scott is supposed to be some kind of phantom-android obsessed with curry—the spice—and we have a fight about whatever people who look like us have fights about and I throw a cube, some kind of—oh, I don’t know—a
cube
at him and then, according to the script, he ‘flees.’”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say. “I remember the script.”

“And then the
bad
phantom-android—”

“Baby,” I interrupt gently. “The synopsis can wait.”

“
We’re
waiting,” Chloe says. “Scott forgot his dialogue.”

“Baby, I read the shooting script,” I say. “He only has one line. Singular.”

The seventeen-year-old director moves over to the booth holding a walkie-talkie and he’s wearing DKNY silver jeans and sunglasses and it’s all kind of a glam combo. “Chloe, we’ve decided to shoot the first shot last.”

“Taylor, I’m desperately needed somewhere in less than an hour,” Chloe pleads. “It’s a matter of life or death. Taylor, this is Victor.”

“Hey,” Taylor says. “We met at Pravda last week.”

“I wasn’t at Pravda last week but oh what the hell, forget it—how’s it going?”

“The extras are cool kids but we want to portray a lifestyle that people can relate to,” Taylor explains. I’m nodding deeply. “My vision is to create the opposite of whatever smuggling Pervitin back from Prague in a rented Toyota means.” An interruption, static from the walkie-talkie, garbled screams from across the room. “That’s just Lars, the runner.” Taylor winks.

“Taylor—” Chloe starts.

“Baby, you will be whisked out of this room in less than thirty, I promise.” Taylor moves back to the group surrounding the egg.

“God, my nerves are fraught,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it has taken a week to shoot this and we’re three weeks behind schedule.”

Pause. “No, what does ‘fraught’ mean?”

“It means I’m tense. It means I’m very tense.”

Finally: “Baby, we gotta talk about something.”

“Victor, I’ve told you that if you need any money—”

“No, no.” Pause. “Well, actually that too, but …”

“What?” She looks up at me, waiting. “What is it, Victor?”

“Baby, it’s just that I’m getting really, um, I’m getting really nervous opening up magazines and reading about who your ideal man is.”

“Why is that, Victor?” She turns back to the mirror.

“Well, I guess the main reason is that”—I glance over at La Tosh and lower my voice—“it’s like the total opposite of me?”

“Oh, so what?” She shrugs. “I said I liked blonds.”

“But baby, I’m really a brunette.”

“Victor, you read this in a magazine, for god’s sake.”

“Jesus, and all this shit about having kids.” I’m moving around now. “Spare me, baby. What’s the story? What’s the megillah?”

“You’ll forgive me, Victor, if I have no idea what ‘megillah’ means.”

“Baby, I’m your best friend, so why don’t—”

“A mirror’s your best friend, Victor.”

“Baby, it’s just that …” I trail off hopelessly. “I … care about us and …”

“Victor, what’s wrong? What is it? Why are you doing this now?”

I recover slightly. “Nothing, nothing. It’s nothing.” I’m shaking my head, clearing it.

“I’ve been holding an ice cube all day,” Chloe says.

“Your fingers are turning blue and you’ve been rolling around with Scott Benoit all day. Is that what you’re saying?”

Music from a boom box, something British, Radiohead maybe, a ballad, lush and sad, plays over the scene.

“Victor, all I want to do, in the following order, is Todd’s show, your opening and then collapse into bed, and I don’t even wanna do two of those.”

“Who’s Baxter Priestly?” I blurt out.

“He’s a friend, Victor. A friend.
My
friend,” she says. “You should get to know some of them.”

I’m about to take her hand but think better of it. “I ran into one today. Lauren Hynde.” I wait for a reaction but there isn’t one. “Yeah, I saw her before band practice when I was buying CDs at Tower Records. She seemed like really hostile.”

“Buying CDs at Tower? Band practice? These are the essentials? You were
swamped?
What else did you do today? Visit a petting zoo? Take glass-blowing lessons?”

“Hey baby, chill out. I met a friend of yours. That should soothe you—”

“I’m dating an imbecile and I should be
soothed
by this?”

A long pause, then, “Baby, I’m not an imbecile. You’re very cool.”

She turns away from the mirror. “Victor, you don’t know how many times in a day I come within
inches
of slapping you. You just don’t know.”

“Whoa, baby. I don’t think I want to. Makes me nervous.” I smile, shivering.

The runner comes by the booth. “Chloe, your limo’s here and Taylor needs you in about five minutes.”

Chloe just nods. When it becomes clear that I’ve got nothing else to say she fills the silence by murmuring, “I just want to finish this thing,” and since I don’t know what
thing
she’s really talking about I start to babble. “Baby, why are you even doing this? I thought it was strictly features for Chloe Byrnes. You turned down that MTV thing.”

“You didn’t want me to do that MTV thing, Victor.”

“Yeah, but only when I found out what your per diem was.”

“No. You said no when you found out that
you
didn’t have one.”

“Might as well face it,” I say. “You’re addicted to love.”

“Chloe,” Taylor calls from the egg. “We’re ready. And please hurry. Mr. Benoit might forget his line again.”

“I’ll see you later, Victor.” She slides out of the booth.

“Okay,” I say simply. “Bye, baby.”

“Oh Victor, before I forget.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the flowers.”

She kisses me lightly, moves on.

“Yeah. Sure. Forget about it.”

15

4:00. From my third-floor vantage the club hasn’t been this bustling since its inception and tables are being set by handpicked busboys who just skateboarded in, waiters brandishing glasses and tablecloths and candles also set chairs around the tables and the carpets are being vacuumed by guys with shag haircuts and a couple of waitresses who arrived early are being photographed by shadowy clumps of people while dancers rehearse amid technicians and security teams and guest-list people and three gorgeous coat-check girls chew gum and flaunt their midriffs and pierced belly buttons and bars are being stocked and giant flower displays are in the process of being strategically lit and Matthew Sweet’s “We’re the Same” is blaring and the metal detectors sit in place at the entrance waiting to be entered and I’m taking it all in blankly, considering fleetingly what it all means and also that being semi-famous is in itself difficult but since it’s so cold in the club it’s hard to stay still so I rush up two flights to the offices more relieved than I should be that everything’s finally falling into place.

“Where was Beau? I called him four times today,” I ask JD the second I enter.

“Acting class, then an audition for the new big vampire movie,” JD says.

“What’s it called?” I throw a clump of invites on my desk. “
Fagula
?”

“Now he’s interviewing DJs in the VIP room in case we don’t get DJ X tonight,” JD says, a fey warning.

“You know, JD, that outfit would look really good on a girl.”

“Here, Victor,” JD says, grimly handing me a fax.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING is scrawled on the fax addressed to me that JD basically stuffs into my hands, looking vaguely panicked.

“What is this?” I ask, staring at the words.

“Seven of them have arrived since you left for lunch.”

“Seven of them?” I ask. “What the fuck does it mean?”

“I think they’re coming from the Paramount Hotel,” JD says, finding another one. “Someone has made sure that the logo was erased on top of the fax sheets but Beau and I caught half the number on the second one and it matched.”

“The Paramount?” I ask. “What does this mean?”

“Victor, I don’t want to know what it means,” JD says, shivering. “Just make the bad man go away.”

“Jesus, it could apply to anything,” I mutter. “So ultimately it’s like meaningless.” I crumple it up. “Would you please eat this? Chew carefully.”

“Victor, you need to make an appearance in front of the DJs upstairs,” JD says carefully.

“Do you think I’m actually being stalked?” I ask. “Wait—how cool.”

“And the
Details
reporter is hanging out with the DJs and—”

I start to move out of the office, JD trailing behind.

“—here are more late RSVPs.” JD hands me another fax as we head toward the VIP room.

“Dan Cortese?” I’m asking. “A brave man. He bungee jumps, he sky surfs, he’s a Burger King spokesperson, but he needs a nose job and I want Dan Cortese
un
plugged.”

“Richard Gere
is
coming, Victor,” JD says, keeping up. “And Ethan Hawke, Bill Gates, Tupac Shakur, Billy Idol’s brother Dilly, Ben Stiller and Martin Davis are also coming.”

“Martin Davis?” I groan. “Jesus, let’s just invite George the Pee Drinker and his good friend Woody the Dancing Amputee.”

“So is Will Smith, Kevin Smith and, um, Sir Mix-a-Lot,” JD says, ignoring me.

“Just apprise me of the crouton situation.” I stop in front of the velvet curtains leading into the VIP room.

“The croutons are in excellent shape and we’re all incredibly relieved,” JD says, bowing.