Glamorama (42 page)

“Perhaps after dinner,” Lorrie says.

“Oh come on,” I say, turning to Marina. “It’ll be like a souvenir.”

“Victor, no,” Marina says. “Not right now.”

“Yes, Victor,” Stephen says. “Perhaps later.”

The photographer crouches at the table, waiting for a decision.

“Well, damnit,” I say. “Come on, guys. Oh, just take it,” I tell the photographer. “Just do it.”

“Victor,
please,”
the Wallaces say in unison.

“I’m not feeling very photogenic right now,” Marina adds improbably.

“Well,
I’m
camera-ready, babies,” I exclaim. “Go for it, dude.”

Just as the flash goes off I try to lean into Marina, who backs slightly away toward the maitre d’, who has stepped aside, waiting patiently to continue serving the caviar.

The Wallaces glare at me sternly while I give the photographer my name and cabin number and ask for four copies. As he walks away, the captain announces over the intercom that the
QE2
will be stopping in a matter of minutes and to please stay seated, that there’s really no need to get up since the fog will probably obliterate the view and we’ll be moving again shortly. But most of the hoi polloi in the Queen’s Grill ignore the captain’s suggestion and drift from their tables to the starboard side, including—thankfully—the Wallaces, though it just seems like an excuse to confer with the director. The maitre d’ finishes serving the caviar and moves away. I’m pouring myself a glass of white wine from one of the carafes when Marina touches my shoulder.

“Victor,” she says.

“I think they’re mad at me,” I say. “I don’t think they liked having their picture taken. The fucking English, y’know? Jesus Christ. I mean, I know that you and I are used to it, but—”

“Victor,” she says again.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “But baby, you look gorgeous.”

“Victor, you’re drunk,” she says.

“And you’re gorgeous—”

“Victor, I have to talk to you.”

“And I have to talk to
you
, baby.” I grab her hand beneath the table.

“No, I’m serious,” she says, pulling away.

“And so am I,” I say, leaning toward her.

“Victor, stop it,” she says. “You have
got
to sober up.”

“Baby, you’re—”

“I have to leave,” she says, glancing over at the Wallaces. “Call me when you’re through with dinner.”

“No-no-no-no,” I say, immediately sobering up. “No way, baby. You’ve
got
to stay. Don’t leave me with—”

“I’m leaving and you’re calling me in my cabin when you’re through with dinner,” Marina explains patiently.

“Why can’t I come with you?” I ask. “What’s the story? What’s wrong?”

“I have to leave,” she says, starting to get up.

“I’m coming too,” I say, holding on to her arm. “I’ll pretend I’m sick.”

“No, that’s not possible,” she says. “Let
go.”

“Baby, come on—”

“It’s imperative that you call me immediately after dinner,” she says, pulling away from the table. “Do you know what ‘imperative’ means?”

“That I”—I squint up at her—“that I … have to call you after dinner?”

“Okay,” she says, semi-relieved.

“Baby, what’s happening?”

“There’s no time to go into it now.”

The Wallaces start heading back along with most of the other passengers, murmurs of disappointment floating around the dining room about what—that they didn’t catch a glimpse of a diabetic seaman? I am so lost.

“Baby,” I start. “I’m not comprehending this—”

“Tell them good night for me,” Marina says, walking quickly out of the restaurant.

I watch as she disappears down a corridor, then notice a nearby waiter who takes in the expression on my face and shrugs sadly, sympathizing with me.

“Too bloody foggy,” Stephen says, pulling Lorrie’s chair out.

“Where did your friend go?” Lorrie asks, sitting down.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “She’s freaking out about something.”

“I hope we didn’t upset her,” Lorrie says.

“Darling, eat your caviar,” Stephen says.

Later the Wallaces insist I join them at a karaoke party in Club Lido but I’m drunk and the details surrounding me are swimming out of focus in front of my eyes and before I bolt for my cabin the camera moves in on dessert: a gold-rimmed plate, raspberries, blueberries, two scoops of vanilla mousse bordering a chocolate bonsai tree.

7

Back in my room pretty much totally sloshed I dial Marina Gibson’s cabin but there’s no answer. When I ask the operator to make sure she’s ringing the right room, she pitches a snotty reply and I hang up on her and then scrounge around the minibar for a split of champagne, drinking it out of the bottle, foam cascading out of the head all over my hands which I wipe off on my complimentary
QE2
bathrobe. I look for a copy of the script, can’t find it, give up, tumble around the room, light cigarettes, the view from the prow of the ship on the TV screen almost totally obscured by fog. The phone rings.

“Victor?” Marina sounds as if she’s been crying.

“Hey baby,” I say soothingly. “Did like Gavin call? What’s the story? You sound bummed.”

“We have to talk.”

“Great,” I say, sitting up. “How about my room?”

“No.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, then, guessing, “How about … your room?”

“I don’t think it’s safe,” she whispers.

I pause, considering this. “Marina,” I say softly. “I have condoms.”

She hangs up.

I immediately dial her room back.

She picks up midway through the first ring.

“Hey baby, it’s me,” I say.

“This isn’t going to work,” she mutters to herself, sounding vaguely panicked.

“What do you mean?” I’m asking. “Do …
you
have condoms?”

“That
isn’t
what I’m talking about!” she shouts.

“Whoa, baby,” I start, holding the phone away, then bringing it back to my ear. “
What
isn’t?”

“Victor, something’s happening that needs to be explained to you.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I’m rushing things,” I apologize. “I’ll read the rest of the script, we’ll get to know each other, whatever.”

“You’re in fucking danger, Victor,” she cries.

“Now don’t go psycho on me, baby—”

“Victor, did anyone give you something to bring with you to London?” she asks breathlessly.

“What do you mean, baby?” I’m checking my hair in the mirror above the dressing table.

“Did anyone tell you to bring something—a package, an envelope, anything—to London?” she asks again, straining to calm down.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she moans. “A gift or something. Something to bring someone.”

“Oh yeah, right,” I say, as if it’s slowly dawning on me.

“What? What was it?” she asks in a rush.

I pause before giggling. “Just my beautiful self, baby.”

“Damnit, Victor,” Marina shouts. “Are you sure? Think carefully.”

“At this point I don’t think I can.”

“Victor,
please
, you’ve got to sober up.”

“I’m coming over to your room,” I tell her. “You sound stressed. You need a massage. Let me administer my famous stress-reducing—”

“Just meet me in Club Lido–
now
.”

“Baby, why not your room?” I whine, disappointed.

“Because it isn’t safe,” she says. “Because we have to meet where there are other people around.”

“Hey baby—”

She hangs up. I’m supposed to look at the phone and shrug, which I do.

6

Cold water splashed on my face doesn’t really hasten my sobriety so I just try not to lurch my way to Club Lido, which is actually close enough to my cabin that I’m able to get there without any passing out or major tripping going down. And Club Lido isn’t crowded since the karaoke party the Wallaces mentioned has moved on to Mr. Kusoboshi’s cabin, the bartender tells me when I take a seat and restrain myself from ordering a martini, sipping a light beer instead, occasionally staring out the large window that looks over the fog-shrouded deck and a small, shallow pool where steam rising from the lit water mixes in with all that fog. A crew member, exasperated, points out someone standing by the railing, the fog sometimes swirling around but mostly just a heavy wall of vaguely transparent granite sitting there, the figure lost within. I sloppily sign a bill for the beer then head outside.

On deck it’s quiet, the sounds of the dry-ice machines churning out huge enveloping clouds of fog the only real noise, and the boat seems to be moving more slowly than usual. Marina’s back is to me and she’s wearing a very cool oversized hooded Prada wool jacket and when I touch her shoulder she automatically stiffens, still looking away, and I’m shivering and damp and she seems even taller and I try to bend down to check if she’s wearing heels but oddly enough she has Nikes on her feet, which also look larger, though since I don’t really remember ever seeing her feet what the hell am I talking about?

“Marina?” I’m asking. “Marina—is that you?”

There’s a pause, then the hood nods.

“Hey, are you okay?” I squint, uselessly waving bad-smelling fake fog away. “What’s the story? Did Gavin call you? What happened?”

“You can’t go to Paris with me,” she whispers, her voice raspy, as if she’s been crying. “You have to go to London.”

“Hey baby, why the change of heart?” I say, gripping her shoulder. “Hey, look at me.”

The hood shakes its head.

“Victor,” she says, pulling away, her back still to me. “You’re drunk.”

“How can you tell if you won’t look at me?” I plead.

“I can smell it,” the voice coughs.

“Hey baby, get closer,” I murmur, leaning in. “I wanna come to Paris with you.”

“Victor, you’re drunk,” the voice protests, moving away.

“I need a better excuse,” I say. “You could at least—ahem—do me the honor of a more intelligent excuse.” This is followed by an enormous belch, which I follow with an apology. I keep trying to get her to face me but she keeps pulling away, tightening the hooded jacket around her.

“Just
go,”
she coughs, then mumbles something else.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.