Glamorama (48 page)

“Where did you go after shooting today?” I ask.

“I had a Himalayan rejuvenation treatment at Aveda in Harvey Nichols,” she says. “I needed it. I deserved it.”

“Cool, hip.”

“So what are you doing in London, Victor?” she asks. “How did you find me?”

“Baby,” I’m saying, “it was purely accidental.”

“Uh-huh,” she says somewhat dubiously. “What were you doing on the set this morning?”

“I was just browsing, doing some shopping in Nothing Hill, minding my own business and—”

“It’s Notting Hill, Victor,” Jamie says, motioning to a waiter for more bread. “
Notting
Hill. Continue.”

I stare at her, sending out vibes; some hurtle back at me, others land softly, sticking.

She’s waving a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Victor?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, blinking. “Um, could you repeat the question?”

“How—did—you—find—me?” she asks tensely.

“I just stumbled onto … things, y’know?” I squint, making an airy motion with my hands, hoping it clarifies.

“That sounds like you but I’m not buying it.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, grinning sexily at her, leaning in, seeing how far I can push this mode. “Someone at a party—”

“Victor,” she interrupts, “you’re a very good-looking guy. You don’t need to push it with me, okay? I get it.”

The sexy grin fades and I sit back and take a sip of the martini, then carefully wipe my lips with a napkin.

“Proceed,” she says, arms crossed, staring.

“Someone at a party I was at mentioned, um, something,” I say, distracted, shrugging everything off. “Maybe it was at the Groucho Club. I think it was someone who went to Camden with us—”

“You
think
?”

“Baby, I was so loaded—”

“Oh shit, Victor,
who
was it?”

“Wait—I’m sorry, I think it was someone I bumped into at Brown’s—”

“Who, for god’s sake?”

I lean in, grinning sexily and purring, “I see I have your full attention now.”

“Victor,” she says, squirming. “I want to know.”

“Baby,” I say, “let me tell you something.”

“Yeah?” she asks expectantly.

“I never reveal my sources,” I whisper to her in the empty restaurant and then lean back, satisfied.

She relaxes and, to prove she’s okay with this, takes a final spoonful of chowder and licks the spoon thoughtfully. Now it’s her turn to lean in. “We have ways of making you talk,” she whispers back.

Playfully, I lean in again and say with a husky voice, “Oh, I bet you do.”

But Jamie doesn’t smile at this—just suddenly seems preoccupied with something else, which may or may not concern me. Withdrawn and pensive, she sighs and fixes her eyes on a point behind my back. I turn around and glance at a row of David Bailey photographs lining the wall.

“Hey baby,” I start, “you seem tired all of a sudden. Are you like really beat?”

“If you had to deliver lines like ‘Once Farris gets hold of the scepter it’s over for your planet’ all day, you’d be soul-sick too,” she says tiredly. “Japanese investors—what’s left to say?”

“Hey, but I
am
soul-sick,” I exclaim, trying to cheer her up. “A girlfriend once told me so,” I say mock-proudly.

“Who are you seeing now?” she asks listlessly.

“I’m off relationships for now. ‘Be more sensitive, be more macho.’ Jesus, forget it.” Pause. “I’m chasing hookers instead.”

“Speaking of which—what ever happened to Chloe Byrnes?” she asks. “Or did she OD yet?” Jamie shrugs, then reconsiders. “I suppose I would’ve heard about that.”

“No, she’s cool,” I say, figuring out how to play the current situation, landing on: “We’re on hiatus. Like on vacation.”

“What? That’s code for she dumped your ass?”

“No,” I start patiently. “It means every … relationship has its, like, um—oh yeah—ups and downs.”

“I take it this is a down?”

“You could say so.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say glumly.

“I heard she had a run-in with heroin,” Jamie says lightly.

“I can’t confirm that rumor,” I say.

“Because it isn’t true?” Jamie pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Hey baby—”

“It’s okay,” she says patiently. “You can smoke in restaurants in London.”

“That’s not what I’m hey-babying about.”

“So just give me the lowdown. Chloe’s not dead: have I got that much right?” she asks.

“No, she’s not dead, Jamie,” I say, mildly pissed off.

“Well, rumor has it, Victor … ,” Jamie says, shaking her head fauxsadly, lighting the cigarette.

“I don’t give a shit about what gossip you’ve heard.”

“Oh, stop right there, please.” Jamie sits back, exhaling smoke, arms crossed, marveling at me. “Is this the same Victor Johnson I knew way back when, or have you suddenly got your act together?”

“I’m just saying Chloe—”

“Oh, I don’t really want to hear about your relationship with Chloe Byrnes.” She cuts me off irritably, nodding at a waiter to remove a bowl. “I can just imagine. Weekends in South Beach, lunches with Andie MacDowell, discussions revolving around ‘Will Chloe get into fashion heaven or not,’ debating the color yellow, you keep finding syringes in Chloe’s Prada handbag—”

“Hey,” I snap. “It was a
nasal
habit.”

“Ooh.” Jamie’s eyes light up. “Is that
on
the record?”

“Oh shit, I don’t give a crap what people think,” I mutter, pushing myself away from the table. “Like I really care what people think, Jamie.”

A pause. “I think you’re adapting well,” she says, smiling.

“Yeah,
I’m
a genius, baby.”

“So why is the genius in London and not back in New York?” Jamie asks herself. “Let me guess: he’s doing research on that screenplay he always wanted to write.”

“Hey, I’m a genius, baby,” I tell her. “I know you might find that hard to believe, but there it is.”

“How snazzy,” she says, then fatigue overtakes her and she whimpers, “Oh no, I’m having flashbacks—the eighties are coming back to me and an anxiety attack is imminent.” She holds herself, shivering.

“That’s a good thing, baby,” I say, urging, “Float into it.”

“No, Victor,” she says, shaking her head. “Contrary to popular opinion, that is most definitely
not
a good thing.”

“Hey baby, why not?”

“Because it brings back our college years and I, for one, have no desire to relive them.”

“Oh come on, baby—you had fun at Camden. Admit it,” I say. “And don’t look at me like I’m insane.”

“Fun?” she asks, appalled. “Don’t you remember Rupert Guest? Hanging out with
him
was fun?”

“He was a drug dealer, baby,” I say. “He wasn’t even enrolled.”

“He wasn’t?” she asks, confused, then, remembering something both private and horrific, groans,
“Oh god.”

“I remember Roxanne Forest, however,” I say, teasing her. “And some
really
good times with that Swedish chick—Katrina Svenson.”

“Oh gross,” she sighs, then she quickly recovers and decides to play
along. “Do you remember David Van Pelt? Mitchell Allen? Those were
my
good times.”

A considerable pause. “In that case—not friends of mine, baby.”

I recognize the current expression on Jamie’s face—time to taunt—and then she throws me a name, but I’m staring at the black floor beneath us, trying to remember David Van Pelt or Mitchell Allen, momentarily zoning out, and I don’t hear the name Jamie just mentioned. I ask her to repeat it.

“Lauren Hynde?” Jamie says, in a certain tone of voice. “Do you remember her?”

“Um, no, not really,” I say casually, reacting to her tone.

“You must remember Lauren, Victor.” She says this sighing, looking away. “Lauren Hynde?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” I say blankly. “Why? Should it?”

“You left me for her.”

After a long silence, trying to remember the particular sequence of events during any given term, I end up saying, “No.”

“Oh Jesus, this might’ve been a mistake.” Jamie’s moving around in her chair, uncomfortably, as if she’s trying to unstick herself from the seat.

“No, I remember her,” I say, looking directly at Jamie. “But I also remember that I’d taken a term off and when I came back in December you weren’t around—”

“I also had taken the term off, Victor,” she counters.

“Baby, the point is …” Defeated, knowing there never was a point, that there never would be anything that could wrap this up neatly, I just ask quietly, “Are you still pissed?”

“Oh yeah, it destroyed me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I had to move to Europe to get over the genius.”

“Have you really lived here
that
long?” I’m asking, mystified. “That’s … impossible.”

“I live in New York, dodo,” she says. “I work in New York.”

“Why don’t we ever see each other?”

“I think the combination of your self-absorption and my fear of just about everyone in Manhattan conspires against us.”

“Oh baby, you’re so tough,” I’m telling her. “Nobody scares you.”

“Do you know Alison Poole?” she asks.

“Um.” I cough lightly and then mutter, “I’ll pass on that one.”

“That’s not what I heard—”

“Hey, when’s the last time you saw me?” I ask, cutting her off. “Because the Klonopin I’m on affects long-term memory.”

“Well,” she starts, “I saw photos of you at the shows in WWD last week.”

“You mean the Todd Oldham show?” I’m asking. “Do you still have that issue?”

“No, you were at the Calvin Klein show,” she says.

“Oh yeah,” I say vacantly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I guess I became aware of you—
and
that I wasn’t going to be able to escape you—when I saw a Gap ad you did a couple years ago,” she says. “It was a pretty decent black-and-white photo of just your head and it said something like ‘Even Victor Ward Wears Khakis’ or whatever. It gave off the impression that you wore those khakis rather proudly, Victor. I was damn impressed.”

“Did we—” I start, then shake my head. “Forget it.”

“What? Did we end up hating each other? Did we end up the way we thought we always knew we would? Did
I
end up wearing khakis because of that fucking ad?”

“No, did we … ever do a fashion shoot for
GQ
together?”

A long pause. She stares disconcertingly at my near-empty martini glass. “How many of those have you had?” Another pause. “Boy—I think you need to get off the Klonopin, guy.”

“Forget it. I knew it was a crazy question, forget it,” I say, trying to smile, shaking my head. “So who’s been sleeping in
your
bed?”

“I’m enjoying the art of being semi-single,” she sighs.

“I’m seeing your face in a new light,” I say, resting my chin in the palm of my hand, staring straight at her. “And you’re lying.”

“About what?” she asks hesitantly.

“About being single.”

“How would you know?”

“Because girls who look like you are never single,” I say faux-confidently. “Plus I know you, Jamie. You like guys too much.”

She just stares at me, mouth open, and then starts laughing hysterically and doesn’t stop cracking up until I ask, “Did you have cheekbones like that back at Camden?”

She takes a couple of deep breaths, reaches over to finish my martini and, flushed, panting, asks, “Victor, what do you expect me to say to that?”

“You dropped a bomb on me, baby,” I murmur, staring at her.

Startled, pretending not to be, she asks, “I did what?”

“You dropped a bomb on me,” I say. “You, like, affected me.”

“When did this happen?”

“When we first met.”

“And?”

“And now I’m in the same state.”

“Well, get over it,” she says. “Get over yourself as well.”

“You’re thinking something, though,” I say, refusing to break eye contact, not even blinking.

“Yes, I am,” she says finally, smiling.

“What are you thinking, Jamie?”

After a pause and looking directly back at me, she says, “I’m thinking you’re a potentially interesting person who I might want to get reacquainted with.”

“You’ve always been one of the fifty most inspiring women in the world to me.”

“Would you like to get reacquainted, Victor?” she asks, daring me, lowering her eyes, then raising them back up, widening them.

Suddenly the way she says this and the look on her face—total sex—flusters me, and with my face burning, I try to complete a sentence but only “I, um, don’t know …” comes out. I end up staring down at the table.

“Don’t be shocked,” she says. “I’m not saying let’s fuck. I’m just saying maybe we can get … reacquainted.”

“Hey, nothing shocks me anymore, baby.”

“That’s good,” she says after a while, studying me. “That’s very good, Victor.”

After the table has been cleared and we’ve split a dessert, she asks, “What are you thinking about?”

After a long pause, debating which way to go, I say, “I’m thinking, Does she still do drugs?”

“And?” she asks teasingly.

“And … does she have any on her right now?”

Smiling, getting into the spirit, Jamie says, “No.” A slight pause. “But I know where you can get some.”

“Waiter?” I lift my hand. “Check, please?”

After he brings it, Jamie realizes something.

“You’re actually paying?” she asks. “Oh my god.”

“Hey baby, I’m flush,” I say. “I’m on a roll. I’m happening.”

Watching me slap down the appropriate amount of cash, including a giant tip, Jamie murmurs, “Maybe things really have changed.”

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