Glamorama (28 page)

“Wasn’t he a head in a Mr. Jenkins ad, baby?”

“I told you he was coming.”

“What do you think that antifashion look costs?” I ask. “Two thousand bucks? Three thousand bucks?”

“Forget about it, Victor.” She’s searching for a pair of sunglasses to wear.

“Far out.”

“Victor,” she starts. “What are you looking for?”

“My hair gel.” I walk away from the closet and brush by her into the bathroom where I start gelling my hair, slicking it back. My beeper goes off and I ignore it. When it goes off again I wash my hands and find out it’s Alison and I’m wondering how everything got so fucked up, but checking out my profile calms me down and I take a few deep breaths, complete a couple of seconds of some deep-sea visualization and then: ready to go.

“The tux looks nice,” Chloe says, standing in the bathroom door, watching me. “Who was that?” Pause. “On the beeper?”

“Someone at the club.” I just stand there and then I look at my watch and then move back to the bed where I rummage through the Comme des Garçons bag so the clothes can go to Chloe’s dry cleaners. Absently I find the hat Lauren gave me, all scrunched up.

“What’s that?” I hear Chloe ask.

“Oops, wrong hat,” I say, tossing it back in the bag, a Bullwinkle impression that used to make her laugh but now she doesn’t get and she’s not really looking at the hat but thinking other thoughts.

“I really want things to work out,” Chloe says hesitantly. “Between us,” she clarifies.

“I’m mad about you.” I shrug. “You’re mad about me.” I shrug again.

“Don’t do this, Victor.”

“Do what?”

“I’m happy for you, Victor,” she says, strained, just standing there in front of me, exhausted. “I’m really happy for you about tonight.”

“You look faux-orgasmic, baby, and nibbling on that giant mint doesn’t really help matters much.” I brush past her again.

“Is this about Baxter?” she asks.

“That twerp? Spare me. It’s freezing in this apartment.”

“Hey Victor, look at me.”

I stop, sigh, turn around.

“I don’t want to apologize about how good my boyfriend is at irritating people, okay?”

I’m just staring at nothing or what I imagine is nothing until I’m finally moved to say, “As a general rule you shouldn’t expect too much from people, darling,” and then I kiss her on the cheek.

“I just had my makeup done, so you can’t make me cry.”

7

We’ll slide down the surface of things
… Old U2 on the stereo and gridlock jams the streets two blocks from the club and I’m not really hearing the things that are being said in the back of the limousine, just words—technobeat, slamming, moonscape, Semtex, nirvana, photogenic—and names of people I know—Jade Jagger, Iman, Andy Garcia, Patsy Kensit, the Goo-Goo Dolls, Galliano—and fleeting pieces of subjects I’m usually interested in—Doc Martens, Chapel Hill, the Kids in the Hall, alien abduction, trampolines—because right now I’m fidgeting with an unlit joint, looking up through the limo’s sunroof, spacing on the sweeping patterns spotlights are making on the black buildings above and around us. Baxter and Lauren are sitting across from Chloe and me and I’m undergoing a slow-motion hidden freak-out, focusing on our excruciating progress toward the club while Chloe keeps trying to touch my hand, which I let her do for seconds at a time before I pull away to light one of Baxter’s cigarettes or to rewind the U2 tape or to simply touch my forehead, specifically not looking in
the direction of Lauren Hynde or how her legs are slightly spread or the way she’s staring sadly back at her own reflection in the tinted windows. “We all live in a yellow limousine,” Baxter sing-laughs. “A yellow limousine,” Chloe sings too, giggling nervously, looking over at me for approval. I give it by nodding at Baxter, who’s nodding back, and I’m shuddering.
We’ll slide down the surface of things …

Finally we’re at the curb in front of the club and the first thing I hear is someone yelling “Action!” and U2’s “Even Better Than the Real Thing” starts playing somewhere out of the sky as the driver opens the door and Baxter’s checking his hair in Chloe’s compact and I toss him my cummerbund. “Just wrap this around your head and look dreamy,” I mutter. “You’ll be okay.”

“Victor,” Chloe starts.

A wave of cold wind sweeps over the crowd standing behind the barricades in front of the club and causes the confetti strewn over the plush purple-and-green carpet leading up to the entrance to dance and swirl around the legs of cops guarding the place and behind the velvet ropes stand three cool Irish guys Damien hired, each of them holding a walkie-talkie and a separate guest list, and on either side of the velvet ropes are huge gangs of photographers and then the head publicist—smiling warmly until she sees Chloe’s dress—asks us to wait where we are because Alison, wearing the same Todd Oldham dress Chloe has on, and Damien in a Gucci tuxedo are making their entrance and posing for the paparazzi, but people in the crowd have already noticed Chloe and shout out her name in high, garbled voices. Damien appears unusually tense, his jaw clenching and unclenching itself, and Lauren suddenly grabs my hand and I’m also holding Chloe’s and when I look over at Chloe I notice she’s holding Baxter’s.

Damien turns around when he hears people shouting out Chloe’s name and he nods at me, then smiles sadly at Lauren, who just mutters something indifferent, and when he sees Chloe’s dress he does a hideous double take and tries valiantly to smile back a humongous gag and then he hurriedly ushers Alison into the club even though she’s in the middle of taking major advantage of the photo ops, obviously pissed at the interruption, and thankfully Chloe’s already too blinded by the flashing cameras to have noticed Alison’s dress and I’m making a significant mental note about what should happen once inside: dim all the lights, sweet darling, or the night will be over with.

The photographers start shouting out all our names as we move toward the stairs leading up into the club and we linger for the appropriate amount of time—our faces masks, Chloe smiling wanly, Baxter smiling sullenly, Lauren genuinely smiling for the first time tonight, me sufficiently dazed—and above the door in giant ’70s lettering is a warning from MTV (“This Event Is Being Videotaped. By Entering You Consent to the Cablecast and Other Exhibition of Your Name, Voice and Likeness”) and then we’re inside moving through the metal detectors and Chloe whispers something into my ear that I can’t hear.
We’ll slide down the surface of things …

And U2’s “Even Better Than the Real Thing” bursts out as we enter the main room of the club and someone calls out “Action!” again and there are already hundreds of people here and immediately Chloe is pounced on by a new group of photographers and then the camera crews are pushing their way toward her and I let go of her hand, allowing myself to be repositioned by the crowd over to one of the bars, actively ignoring celebs and fans, Lauren following close behind, and I nab the bartender’s attention and order a glass of Veuve Clicquot for Lauren and a Glenlivet for myself and we just stand there while I’m admiring Patrick Woodroffe’s lighting design and how it plays off all the floor-to-ceiling black velvet and Lauren’s thinking I-don’t-even-know-what as she downs the champagne and motions for another one and glancing over at her I finally have to say “Baby …” and then I lean in and nuzzle her cheek with my lips so briefly it wouldn’t register to anyone except someone standing right behind me and I breathe in and close my eyes and when I open them I look to her for a reaction.

She’s gripping the champagne flute so tightly her knuckles are white and I’m afraid it will shatter and she’s glaring past me at someone behind my back and when I turn around I almost drop my glass but with my other hand hold the bottom to keep it steady.

Alison finishes a Stoli martini and asks the bartender for another without looking at him, waiting for a kiss from me.

I grin boyishly while composing myself and kiss her lightly on the cheek but she’s staring back at Lauren when I do this as if I were invisible, which tonight, for maybe the first time in my life, I sort of wish I was. Harry Connick, Jr., Bruce Hulce and Patrick Kelly jostle by. I look away, then down.

“So-o-o …
another
Stoli?” I ask Alison.

“I am now entering the stolar system,” Alison says, staring at Lauren. Casually, to block her view, I lean into the bar.

“Welcome to the state of relaxation,” I say “jovially.” “Er, enjoy your, um, stay.”

“You asshole,” Alison mutters, rolling her eyes, then grabs the drink from the bartender and downs it in one gulp. Coughing lightly, she lifts my arm and uses my jacket sleeve to wipe her mouth.

“Um … baby?” I start uncertainly.

“Thank you, Victor,” she says, too politely.

“Um … you’re welcome.”

A tap on the shoulder and I turn from Alison and lean in toward Lauren, who very sweetly asks, “What do you two see in that bitch?”

“Let’s redirect our conversation elsewhere, ’kay?”

“Spare
me
, you loser,” Lauren giggles.

Luckily Ione Skye and Adam Horowitz push through the crowd toward me—an opening I seize upon.

“Hey! What’s new, pussycat?” I smile, arms outstretched.

“Meow,” Ione purrs, offering her cheek.

“Excuse me while I kiss the Skye,” I say, taking it.

“Yuck,” I hear Alison mutter behind me.

Camera flashes explode from the middle of the room like short bursts from a damaged strobe light and Ione and Adam slip away into the churning crowd and I’ve lit a cigarette and am generally just fumbling around looking for an ashtray while Lauren and Alison stare at each other with mutual loathing. Damien spots me and extracts himself from Penelope Ann Miller and as he moves closer and sees who I’m standing between he stops, almost tripping over this really cool midget somebody brought. Shocked, I mouth
Come here
.

He glances at Lauren mournfully but keeps blinking because of all the cameras flashing and then he’s pushed forward by the crowd and now he’s shaking my hand too formally, careful not to touch either girl, neither one responding to his presence anyway. Behind him Chloe and Baxter are answering questions in front of camera crews and Christy Turlington, John Woo, Sara Gilbert and Charles Barkley slide by.

“We need to talk,” Damien says, leaning in toward me. “It’s crucial.”

“I, um, don’t think that’s such a good idea right … now, um, dude,” I say with careful, deliberate phrasing.

“For once you may have a point.” He tries to smile through a scowl while nodding at Lauren and Alison.

“I think I’m going to take Lauren over to the ‘Entertainment Tonight’ camera crew, okay?” I say.

“I have got to talk to you
now
, Victor,” Damien growls.

Suddenly he reaches through the crowd and grabs Baxter, yanking him away from Chloe and the MTV camera crew, and then whispers something in Baxter’s ear and U2 turns into the Dream Warriors’ “My Definition of a Boombastic Jazz Style.” Lauren and Alison have both lit cigarettes and are blowing smoke directly into each other’s faces. Baxter’s nodding intently and lets Damien sandwich him at the bar—in a style I wish was slightly more subtle—between Alison and Lauren, filling the empty space where I used to stand.

“Who’s this?” Alison asks Damien dully.

“This is Baxter Priestly, baby,” Damien says. “He wants to say hi and, um, wish you well.”

“Yeah, yeah, you look really familiar,” Alison says, totally bored, waving down the bartender, mouthing
Another
.

“He’s in the new Darren Star show,” I say. “And he’s in the band Hey That’s My Shoe.”

“Who are you in the Darren Star show?” Alison asks, perking up.

“He’s the Wacky Guy,” Lauren says, staring at the bartender.

“Right, he’s the Wacky Guy,” I tell Alison as Damien pulls me away and uses my body as a barrier to push through the crowd and up the first flight of stairs to the deserted second floor, where he guides me toward a railing overlooking the party. We immediately light cigarettes. On this floor twenty tables have been set up for the dinner and really handsome busboys are lighting candles. On all the TV monitors: fashionable static.