Glamorama (53 page)

Winking, private glances, general sassiness toward Felix and the director, but no smirking since we’re all basically advertising ourselves and in the end we’re all linked because we “get it.” And I’m trying very hard to stay unimpressed as the conversation revolves around the peaks and valleys of everyone’s respective press, where we were during the 1980s, what this will all look like on a movie screen. Groaning compliments to Bruce about the risotto segue into talk about that bombing of a hotel in Paris on Boulevard Saint-Germain two days ago while U2’s
Achtung Baby
plays softly in the background and we ask each other if anyone we knew in L.A. was injured during the recent rash of earthquakes. It’s warmer in the house now.

And for long stretches of time it feels like I’m back in New York, maybe at Da Silvano at a great table, somewhere in front, a photographer waiting outside in the cold on Sixth Avenue until decaf espressos are finished and the last round of Sambuca is ordered, Chloe tiredly picking up the check and maybe Bobby’s there too. Right now, tonight, Bobby’s quieter than the others but he seems happening and fairly content and every time I make sure to fill his wineglass with an excellent Barbaresco he keeps thanking me with a nod and a relaxed smile, his eyes lingering on mine, only sometimes distracted by the lights and cameras and various assistants swirling around us. Party invitations for tonight are discussed then dismissed and people opt for home because everyone’s tired. Bruce lights a cigar. Tammy and Jamie prepare massive joints. Everyone’s drifting away as I start clearing the table.

In the kitchen Bobby taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey Victor,” he asks. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, man,” I say, wiping my hands on the most expensive dish towel I’ve ever held. “Anything.”

“I was supposed to meet a friend who’s going to stay here this weekend,” Bobby begins.

“Yeah?”

“I’m supposed to pick him up around ten,” Bobby says, moving closer, glancing at his watch. “But I’m totally beat.”

“Man, you look great but”—I cock my head while searching his face for flaws—“maybe a little tired.”

“If I called a car for you, could you go to Pylos—”

“Pylos? Hey, cool.”

“—and pick him up for me?” Bobby’s standing so close I can feel his breath. “I hate asking you but they’re all fairly wasted.” He gestures with his head at Tammy and Bruce and Bentley and Jamie, rolling around halfway behind the steel columns in front of the giant TV set, arguing over which video to watch. “I noticed you didn’t really drink tonight,” Bobby says. “So I’m assuming that maybe you wouldn’t mind going.”

“Well, I’m a
little
shaky from last night but—”

“Yeah, last night,” Bobby murmurs, momentarily far away.

“So where’s this club?” I ask quickly, redirecting him.

“The driver knows where it is,” Bobby says. “He’ll wait outside Pylos with the car. Just let the doorman know that you’re my guest and Sam will be in the VIP room.”

“Why don’t you just put me on the guest list?”

“Victor, this place is so fashionable you can’t get in even if you’re
on
the guest list.”

“How will I know who Sam is?” I ask hesitantly.

“He’s Asian and small and his name is Sam Ho. Believe me, you’ll know him when you see him,” Bobby explains. “He’s a little, uh, theatrical.”

“Okay, guy.” I shrug, genuinely confused. “Who is he?” And then, “Are you guys planning to party later?”

“No, no—he doesn’t deal drugs,” Bobby says. “Haven’t you heard of Sam Ho?” Bobby asks. “He’s a superfamous Asian model.”

“Uh-huh, cool.” I’m nodding.

“Hey, don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not an improbable meeting. It’s in the script.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” I say, trying to assure him.

“Here.” Bobby hands me an envelope that I didn’t notice he was holding. “Give this to Sam. He’ll know what it means. And then I’ll see you guys back here.”

“Cool, cool.”

“I hate like hell to do this, man, but I’m just wiped out.”

“Hey Bobby,” I say, “stop beating yourself up. I’ll go. I’ve been wanting to go to Pylos since it opened—what? Four weeks ago, right?”

“It’s sort of on again, off again.”

Bobby walks me outside into the misty night, where a black limousine waits at the curb and Felix has already set up the next shot.

Bobby looks into my eyes. “I really appreciate this, Victor.”

“No, man, I’m honored.”

“Can we do that again?” the director asks. “Victor—put an emphasis on I’m. Okay, go ahead—we’re still rolling.”

Bobby looks into my eyes. “I really appreciate this, Victor,” he says with even more feeling.

“No, man,
I’m
honored.”

“You rule, man.”

“No, man,
you
rule.”

“Uh-uh.
You
rule, Victor.”

“I can’t believe that Bobby Hughes is telling me
I
rule,” I gasp, pausing to take in a breath. “No,
you
rule.”

Bobby hugs me and when he’s about to step away I keep hugging, unable to stop.

The driver moves in to open the passenger door and I recognize him as the guy who picked me up in Southampton (a scene that will be cut). He has red hair and seems cool.

“Hey Victor,” Bobby calls before I get into the limo.

“Yeah, man?” I ask, turning around.

“Do you speak French?” he asks, just a shadow standing in the darkness outside the house.

It takes me thirty seconds to form the words “Un … petit peu.”

“Good,” he says, disappearing. “Neither do any of us, really.”

And then the evening leads to its logical conclusion.

4

In the limo heading toward Charing Cross Road Everything But the Girl’s “Wrong” plays while I’m studying the small white envelope Bobby gave me to hand over to Sam Ho and there’s the raised outline of a key folded inside a note but because I respect Bobby I don’t even
consider opening it and then it’s 11 p.m. and the limo turns into a rainy alley where a sign reads
DANCETERIA
followed by a wobbly arrow that directs us to the back door of Pylos. Figures under umbrellas flock around a rope and behind that rope the proverbial “big guy”—this one wearing a Casely Hayford Chinese shirt, a Marie Antoinette wig and a black jacket with the words
HELL BENT
stitched over the heart in red—yells into a megaphone “Nobody else is coming in!” but then he spots me as I’m jumping out of the limo and as I approach an empty space that opens up for me the bouncer leans in and I say “I’m a guest of Bobby Hughes.”

The guy nods and lifts the rope while whispering something into a walkie-talkie and I’m whisked up the steps, and just inside the door a young-model type with the dress code down pat (’70s Vivienne Westwood and a fake-fur coat) and obviously immediately infatuated leads me to the VIP room through various corridors and walkways blinking with infrared lights, fashion students trancing out on flickering patterns splattered across the walls, and lower in the club it’s suddenly more humid and we’re passing groups of teenagers united over computer screens and dealers peddling tabs of Ecstasy, and then the floor drops away and we’re on a steel catwalk and beneath us a giant dance floor teems with a monster crowd and we pass a DJ booth with four turntables and some legendary DJ spinning seamless ambient drum and bass—rhythmic and booming—along with his apprentice, who’s this widely praised Jamaican kid, and their set is being played live on various pirate radio stations throughout England tonight and all the gold-electric light strobing out of control everywhere causes the rooms we keep moving through to spin around and I’m about to lose my balance just as my guide ushers me past two hulking goons and into the VIP room and when I try to make conversation with her—“Quite a popular venue, huh?”—she just turns away, muttering “I’m booked.”

Behind the curtains it’s a mock-airport lounge but with discoey white lights and burgundy velvet booths, a giant poster stretches across a black wall with the word
BREED
in purple spectral lettering and dozens of UK record-company executives in Mad Max gear hang out with tattooed models from Holland and managing directors from Polygram share bananas and sip psybertronic drinks with magazine
editors and half of a progressive British hip-hop act wearing schoolgirl uniforms is dancing with modeling agency bookers along with ghosts, extras, insiders, various people from the world at large. Paparazzi hunt for celebs. It’s freezing in the VIP room and everyone’s breath steams.

I order a Tasmanian beer from the bug-eyed bartender wearing a velour tuxedo who unashamedly tries to sell me a joint laced with Special K as he lights my cigarette, wild fluorescent patterns spiraling across the mirrored wall behind him while Shirley Bassey sings the “Goldfinger” theme and an endless reel of Gap ads flashes on various video monitors.

In the mirrored wall I immediately spot the Christian Bale-looking guy who followed me into Masako yesterday standing next to me and I whirl around and start talking to him and he’s annoyed and pulling away but the director takes me aside and hisses, “Sam Ho’s an
Asian
, you nitwit.”

“Hey man, I know, I know,” I say, holding my hands up. “It’s cool. It’s cool.”

“Then who is
that
?” the director asks, nodding over at the Christian Bale guy.

“I thought he was in the movie,” I say. “I thought you guys casted him.”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” the director snaps.

“He’s a buddy of, um, mine,” I say, waving over at him. The Christian Bale guy looks at me like I’m insane and turns back to his beer.

“Over
there,”
the director says. “Sam Ho’s over
there.”

A fairly beautiful Asian kid about my age, slight with blond hair and black roots, wearing sunglasses, sweaty and humming to himself, leans against the bar waiting for the bartender, repeatedly wiping his nose with the hand that’s waving cash. He’s wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, inside-out Levi’s 501s, a Puffer jacket and Caterpillar boots. Sighing to myself, thinking, Oh dear, I make my way over to where Sam Ho’s standing and the first time I glance at him he notices and smiles to himself but then the bartender glides by, ignoring him, causing Sam to start dancing up and down in a frustrated jig. Sam lowers the sunglasses and glares at me as if it’s my fault. I look away but not before noticing the word slave tattooed on the back of his hand.

“Oh, stop being so elusive,” he groans theatrically, in a heavy accent.

“Hey, are you Sam Ho?” I ask. “Like, the model?”

“You’re cute but I think also brain-fried,” he says without looking at me.

“Far out,” I say, undeterred. “Isn’t this place great?”

“I could quite happily live here,” Sam says, bored. “And it’s not even rave night.”

“It’s changing the definition of what a hip night out means, huh?”

“Stop holding out on me, baby,” Sam shouts at the bartender as he races by again, juggling three bottles of Absolut Citron.

“So what’s the story?” I’m asking. “When’s Fetish Evening?”

“
Every
evening is Fetish Evening in clubland, darling,” Sam groans, and then, glancing sideways at me, asks, “Am I being sought after?” He checks out my wrist. “Nice arm veins.”

“Thanks. They’re mine,” I say. “Listen, if you
are
Sam Ho, I have a message for you from someone.”

“Oh?” Sam’s interest perks up. “Are you a little errand boy?”

“Dirty deeds and they’re done dirt cheap.”

“Oh, and you quote AC/DC lyrics too,” Sam says faux-sweetly. “Who wants to give me a message?”

“Bobby Hughes,” I say flatly.

Suddenly Sam Ho is in my face, standing so close I have to back away, almost tipping over. “Hey!” I warn.

“What?” Sam’s asking, grabbing me. “Where? Where is he? Is he here?”

“Hey, watch the
shirt!”
I cry out, removing his hand from the collar, gently pushing him away. “No, I’m here instead.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sam says, backing off a little. “You’re very, very cute—whoever you are—but you are
no
Bobby Hughes.” A pause, then Sam seems crestfallen and panicked. “You two aren’t a duo—are you?”