Glamorama (49 page)

As the Chemical Brothers’ “Setting Sun” blasts out on cue we’re back in Notting Hill at some industrial billionaire’s warehouse—one of the more elaborate sets so far, which is really a massive series of warehouses within one enormous building—and it’s a party for Gary Hume, though in actuality it’s in honor of Patsy and Liam and getting in is hard if you’re not like us but Jamie’s whisked through a silver archway right behind Kate Moss and Stella Tennant by guards wearing headsets, and the feel of what’s going on outside the warehouse is “just another giant media event” with the prerequisite camera vans parked in front, barricades, fans reaching out, fame, people’s names on the back of jackets, kids looking at us thinking that’s what we want to look like, thinking that’s who we want to be. When I ask Jamie about the identity of the industrial billionaire she tells me he funds certain wars and is also a “friendly” alcoholic and then we bump into Patsy Palmer and Martine McCutcheson and we all end up telling Nellie Hooper how much we adore the new Massive remix as Damon Albarn kisses Jamie on both cheeks.

Inside: most of the vast empty spaces in the warehouse look like restaurant kitchens with giant windows steamed over and it’s freezing because of all the mammoth ice sculptures on display and bands are playing on different floors (the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion’s in the basement) and everyone’s doing Gucci poses while drinking Tsingtao beer but it’s also a kind of Gap-T-shirt-and-Prada-penny-loafers
night, no pitfalls, camcorders everywhere, Carmen Electra in a purple Alaïa dress dancing with one of the ice sculptures, and sometimes the party’s in black-and-white and sometimes it’s in glaring color like in the new Quicksilver ads and the mood is all basically very antistyle and we’re shivering like we’re lodged in an iceberg somewhere that’s floating off the coast of Norway or a place equally cold.

Music is melodic trip-hop on the level where Jamie and I have staked out a small lime-green couch below a massive steel staircase, white flowers surrounding us everywhere, a giant digital clock face glows in the dark, projected yards above us on the ceiling, and we’re doing mellow coke Jamie scored effortlessly and because she stole a Waring blender from one of the kitchens we’re drinking bright-orange slushy tequila punches and sometime during all of this Jamie changed into black Jil Sander, and unimportant paparazzi try to snap some shots but Jamie’s weary and I’m looking a little too wired to be camera-ready so I push them away, snarling, “Hey, she needs her privacy. Jesus—we’re just
people,”
and someone else floats by, taking up their interest, and I watch, a little disappointed, as the paparazzi follow, leaving us behind. Shadows are being taken aside and whispered to. We light each other’s cigarettes.

“Thank you, Victor,” Jamie says, exhaling. “You didn’t need to be that, um, firm, but I’m glad you’re feeling so … protective.”

“Everyone’s so thin and gorgeous, baby,” I’m gushing, the cocaine flowing through me. “And their teeth are, like,
white
. It’s not exactly how I remember London, baby.”

“Well, since most of the people here are Americans I wouldn’t worry about your memory.”

“This is the coolest party,” I’m gushing.

“I thought you’d be impressed,” she sighs.

“What do you think of this place?” I ask, moving closer to her on the lime-green couch.

“Well,” she says, looking around, “I think it looks a little too much like a new Philippe Starck hotel.”

“Too much?” I’m asking, confused. “I think it’s multi-useful, but baby, I don’t want to talk about interior design, baby.”

“Well, what
do
you want to talk about?” she says. “Besides yourself.”

“No, baby, I wanna talk about you.” Pause. “Well, you
and
me.” Another pause. “But let’s start with you. Can I have the coke?”

She slips the vial into my hand. “Let me guess—you want to be one of those guys whose ex-girlfriends never get over them, right?”

I turn to the wall, do a few quick blasts and offer my nose for inspection. She nods her head, meaning it’s fine, then I slip the vial back to her while she waves over to some guy in a gray three-button Prada suit who’s talking to Oliver Payton. The guy in the suit waves back somewhat semi-pretentiously, I feel. They are both holding pythons.

“Who’s that?” I’m asking.

“Someone who did the legs in that new Tommy Hilfiger ad,” Jamie says.

“This is the coolest party, baby,” I’m gushing.

“You’re feeling great
and
looking even better, right?”

I’m nodding. “The better you look, the more you see.”

“I’m seeing Emily Lloyd maintaining remarkable poise while eating a giant grilled shrimp,” Jamie yawns, opening the vial, turning away. “I’m so exhausted.”

“Hey look, there’s Lulu Guinness—she made your bag,” I’m saying, totally wired. “Hey, and there’s Jared Leto—he’s supposed to play me in the movie they’re making of my life.”

Jamie flinches and turns back to me, wiping her nose and taking a large gulp of tequila punch. “You need someone to teach you important life lessons, Victor.”

“Yeah, yeah, baby, exactly,” I’m saying. “But I think
you’re
just having a hard time dealing with my hypermasculine vibe.”

“Don’t be a wuss, baby,” she warns.

“Hey, if you didn’t come to party, don’t bother knocking on my door.” I scoot closer to her, our thighs touching.

“Yeah, that’s me.” She lights a cigarette, smiling. “Little Miss Trouble.”

“What happened to us at Camden, baby?” I’m asking. “Because for the life of me I cannot remember.”

“Well, I think what happened was that first we established that you were an idiot,” she says casually, exhaling.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, but I think I have major credibility now—”

“You also had gigantic intimacy problems that I doubt you’ve overcome.”

“Oh spare me, spare me.” I’m giggling. “Come on, baby.” Leaning
into her, I open my arms wide. “What could have possibly been wrong with
me
?”

“Besides not knowing your place?” she asks. “And that you liked to fuck complete strangers?”

“Hey, I thought
you
were the slutty one, baby,” I say. “I also think that
I’ve
, er, evolved.”

“I dumped you, Victor,” she says, reminding me, but it’s not harsh because she’s leaning in, smiling.

“But it’s not like you broke my heart,” I whisper because we’re close enough.

“That’s because you didn’t have one,” she whispers back, leaning closer. “But hey, I don’t necessarily find that … unsexy.”

Looking into her face, I realize that she’s more willing than I first thought and since I’m not in the mood yet I lean back, away from her, playing it cool, looking over the crowd, guzzling the punch. She pauses, reflects on something and sits up a little, sips her punch too, lets me leave a hand not holding my cigarette on her thigh.

“Rumor has it you fled the States, baby,” I’m saying. “Why?”

“Rumor?” she asks, knocking my hand away by crossing her legs. “Who told you that?” Pause. “There are
rumors
about me?”

“Hey baby, you’re a star.” I’m shrugging. “You’re in the press.”

“You didn’t even know I lived in New York, Victor,” she says, frowning. “Jesus—what
are
you talking about?
What
press?”

“So … you did
not
flee the States?” I ask tentatively. “So-o-o you’re
not
, like, hiding out here?”

“Flee
the States?
Hiding
out here?” she asks. “For fuck’s sake, Victor—get your shit together. Does it look like I’m hiding out?”

“Well, um, baby, I heard things—”

“I came here to make a lousy sci-fi movie,” she says. “Who were you talking to? Who told you this garbage?”

“Hey baby, I heard things.” I shrug. “I heard something about boyfriend troubles. I’m very well connected, you know.”

She just stares at me and then, after the appropriate amount of time passes, shakes her head and mutters, “Oh my god.”

“So when are you coming back?” I’m asking.

“To where?” she asks. “To where
you’re
going? I don’t think so.”

“To the States, baby—”

“The
States?
Who in the fuck calls it the
States
?”

“Yeah, the States, baby.” I’m shrugging. “You wanna join me?”

A long pause that’s followed by “Why are you so concerned whether I come back or not?”

“I’m not, baby, I’m not,” I say, paying attention to her again, moving closer again. “I just want to know when and if you’re leaving and if, uh, you need a lift.”

“I don’t know, Victor,” she says, not moving away. “I don’t know what I’m doing. In fact I don’t even know what I’m doing at this party with you.”

“Hey, I don’t believe that,” I say. “Come on, baby.”

“Why don’t you believe that?”

“Because of the way you said it.” I shrug, but this time I’m staring at her intently.

She studies me too, then shudders. “I have a terrible feeling you’re gonna end up on a late-night talk show in a pink tuxedo in about three years.”

“Hey,” I whisper huskily, “I’m built to last, baby.” It’s the cue for a kiss. “Baby—come to where the flavor is.”

The lights flicker, then dim, the chorus to U2’s “Staring at the Sun” bursts out and she tilts her neck so her mouth is more easily available to mine, confetti starts drifting down around us, and Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C
. suddenly starts running around, projected on an entire wall above our heads, and as our lips touch there’s an insistency on her part that I’m reacting to but Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and the hat designer Philip Treacey stop by and that’s when Jamie and I disengage and as we’re all chatting Jamie asks Tara where the closest rest room is and as they all leave together Jamie winks at me and I not only experience a Camden flashback but also realize that I’m going to get laid
and
make $300,000. Note to self: why bother modeling anymore? New plan: remember all the girls I dated who might need locating. I start mentally composing a list, wondering if Palakon would be even mildly interested.

I’m staring at a group of Japanese guys hunched over a small TV set smoking cigars and drinking bourbon while watching a tape of “Friends” and after one of them notices me he can’t stop staring and, flattered, I pretend not to notice and, unsure of whether Jamie took the
vial of cocaine with her, I start rifling through the Mark Cross suede tote bag she’s carrying in this scene as the Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979” starts playing at an earsplitting level, people crying out in protest until it’s turned down and replaced by the melodic trip-hop at low volume.

Inside the tote bag Jamie might have slipped the vial into: a Gucci snakeskin wallet, a miniature Mont Blanc fountain pen, an Asprey address book, Calvin Klein sunglasses, a Nokia 9000 cell phone, a Nars lip gloss, a Calvin Klein atomizer and a Sony ICD-50 portable digital recorder that I stare at questioningly until I’m cued to press Play and when I do, I hear my voice echoing hollowly in the empty space at Le Caprice.

“I um, don’t know …”

“Don’t be shocked. 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 …. That’s very good, Victor.”

A voice above me, someone hanging over the banister wearing a Gucci tux, someone way too exquisitely handsome and my age, a guy who might or might not be Bentley Harrolds, the model, totally drunk, his tumbler filled to the brim with clear liquid dangling precariously from a hand attached to a sagging wrist:

“Oh, what a circus,” he groans. “Oh, what a show.”

I immediately turn off the recorder and drop it back into Jamie’s tote bag, then look up at Bentley, flashing a sexy grin that causes Bentley’s eyes to widen and then he’s leering at me, blood rushing to his head turning his face crimson, and still hanging over the banister, he slurs, “You certainly don’t make a mundane first impression.”

“And you’re Bentley Harrolds,” I say and then, gesturing toward the glass, “Hey bud, what are you drinking?”

“Er …” Bentley looks at his hand and then back at me, his eyes crossed with concentration. “I’m sipping chilled Bacardi,” and then, still staring down at me: “You’re full-frontal gorgeous.”

“So I’ve been told,” I say, and then, “How gorgeous?”

Bentley’s moving down the staircase and now he’s standing over me, swaying back and forth, flushed.

“You look like Brad Pitt,” Bentley says. “After he’s just wrestled a large … furry …
bear.”
Pause. “And that gets me hot.”

“Just give me a minute to calm down.”

“What were you doing going through Jamie Fields’ tote bag, by the way?” Bentley asks, trying to sit, but I’m scooting all over the couch, making it virtually impossible. He gives up, sighs, tries to focus.

“Um, I suppose you don’t want to hear about my strenuous workout in the Four Seasons gym this morning instead, huh?”

A long pause while Bentley considers this. “I … might”—he gulps—“faint.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

The Japanese guy keeps swigging bourbon and glancing over at me, then nudges another Japanese guy, who waves him away and goes back to watching “Friends,” chowing down on a carton of Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Midnight Cookies. With a grunt, Bentley squeezes down next to me on the lime-green couch and—concentrating on my arms, chest and legs—finally has to admit something.

“I’m capable of being thrilled by you, Victor.”

“Ah, I thought you recognized me.”

“Oh, you’re recognizable, all right,” Bentley guffaws.

“Well, that’s me.”

Bentley pauses, considers something. “Can I ask you something, Victor?”

“Shoot.”

Bentley shakes his head side to side slowly and in a low voice warns, “Oh, you shouldn’t suggest that.”

“I meant”—I clear my throat—“go ahead.”

Bentley clears his throat lightly, then asks, totally serious, “Are you still dating Stephen Dorff?”

Jamie suddenly flops down between us as I’m coughing up the tequila punch, taking in air. “There’s a croquet game on the sixth floor and accessories on five,” she says, kissing Bentley on the cheek.