Glamorama (83 page)

“He … went to Hôtel Costes,” she gasps. “To see … Chloe.”

I stand up and start moaning, the wind stinging my face, and Jamie’s saying “Wait, wait, don’t” and holding on to my arm, gripping it, but I yank it away.

“Victor …”

“I’m leaving.” Panic bursts through me, spreading. “What do you want, Jamie?”

She says something I can’t hear.

Hurriedly I lean in.

“What is it?”

She mumbles something.

“I can’t hear you, Jamie,” I whisper.

Her last words as she drifts off: “I’m … not … Jamie Fields,” is all she says.

And on cue a giant eruption of flies swarm into the courtyard in one massive black cloud.

4

I run back to the hotel.

I burst through the entrance doors and force myself to walk calmly through the lobby and into an elevator.

Once I reach Chloe’s floor I race down the hallway.

I start pounding on her door.

“Chloe? Chloe—are you okay?” I’m calling out, my voice high and girlish. “Open up. Chloe? It’s me.”

The door opens and Chloe stands there, smiling, wearing a white robe.

“You changed,” she says, glancing at Bobby’s clothes. “Where’s your stuff?”

I push past her and shamble into the room, running through the suite, panicked, not knowing what I’d do if I found him here.

“Who was here?” I’m asking, flinging open the bathroom door.

“Victor, calm down,” Chloe says.

“Where is he?” I’m asking, opening a closet door, slamming it shut.

“Who was here?”

“Bobby Hughes came over,” she says, shivering, sitting down on a high-back chair in front of a desk where she was writing something in a large spiral notebook. She crosses her legs and stares at me sternly.

“What did he want?” I ask, calming down.

“He just wanted to talk.” She shrugs. “He wanted to know where you were—”

“What did he say?”

“Victor—”

“Just answer me, goddamnit. What did he say?”

“He wanted to talk,” she says, shocked. “He wanted to have some champagne. He brought some by. He said it was to patch things up with you—whatever that means. I said no thank you, of course, and—”

“Did you really?”

A long pause. “I just had half a glass.” She sighs. “He wanted me to save it for you. It’s over there in the ice bucket.”

“And”—I breathe in—“what else?” Relief washes over me so hard that tears blur my vision.

“Nothing. It was fine. He was celebrating—what, I don’t know.” She pauses, signifying something. “He was sorry he missed you—”

“Yeah, I bet,” I mutter.

“Victor, he’s …” She sighs, then decides to go with it. “He’s worried about you.”

“I don’t care,” I say.

“I said he’s worried about you,” she exclaims.

“Where is he?”

“He had to go,” she says, clutching herself, shivering again.

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Victor,” she says. “There was a party somewhere. There was another party somewhere.”

“What party? Where?” I ask. “It’s very important, Chloe.”

“I don’t know where he went,” she says. “Listen, we had some champagne, we chatted briefly and then he went off to a party. What’s wrong with you? Why are you so frightened?”

Silence.

“Who was he with, baby?” I ask.

“He was with a friend,” she says. “Someone who looked like Bruce Rhinebeck but I don’t think it was Bruce.”

A long pause. I’m just standing in the middle of the suite, my arms at my sides. “Bruce Rhinebeck?”

“Yeah, it was weird. He kind of looked like Bruce. But something was off about the guy. The hair was different or something.” She grimaces, rubs her stomach. “The guy said his name was Bruce but he didn’t give a last name, so who knows, right?”

I’m just standing there.

“This isn’t happening,” I murmur.

Bruce Rhinebeck is dead
.

“What’s not happening?” she asks, annoyed.

Bruce Rhinebeck was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Béthune, and Bruce Rhinebeck is dead
.

“That wasn’t Bruce Rhinebeck, baby.”

“Well, it looked like Bruce Rhinebeck,” Chloe says. This sounds too harsh and she moves into a gentler mode. “That’s all I’m saying, okay? Victor, just calm down.” She grimaces again.

I start pulling luggage out of the closet.

She turns around. “What are you doing?”

“We’re getting out of here,” I say, throwing the Gucci luggage on the bed. “Now.”

“Out of where, Victor?” Chloe asks impatiently, shifting around in the chair.

“Out of Paris,” I say. “We’re going back to New York.”

“Victor, I have shows tomor—”

“I don’t care,” I shout. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Victor, I’m worried about you too,” she says. “Sit down for a minute. I want to talk.”

“No, no—I don’t want to talk,” I’m saying. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Stop it,” she says, doubling over. “Just sit down.”

“Chloe—”

“I have to use the bathroom,” she says. “But don’t pack anything. I want to talk to you.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I don’t feel well,” she mutters.

“Did you eat anything?” I ask, suddenly concerned.

“No, I just had that champagne.”

I glance over at the ice bucket, at the bottle of Cristal lodged in it, the empty champagne flute sitting on the desk.

She gets up from the desk. I watch her.

She brushes past me.

I’m staring at the glass and then I’m moving toward it.

Looking down into the glass, I notice granules of some kind.

And then I’m looking down at something else.

On the chair where Chloe was sitting is a huge bloodstain.

I’m staring at it.

And then I’m saying, “Chloe?”

She turns around and says, “Yeah?”

And I don’t want her to see how scared I suddenly am but then she sees where my gaze is directed.

She starts breathing harshly. She looks down at herself.

The entire bottom half of her robe is soaked dark red with blood.

“Chloe … ,” I say again.

She staggers over to the bathroom door and grabs the edge of it to balance herself and blood starts running down her legs in thin rivulets and when she lifts up the robe we both can see her underwear soaked with blood and she pulls it off, panicking, and suddenly a huge gush of blood expels itself from beneath the robe, splashing all over the bathroom floor.

She gasps, a thick noise comes out of her throat and she doubles over, grabbing her stomach, then she screams. Looking surprised and still clutching her stomach, she vomits while staggering backward, collapsing onto the bathroom floor. There are strands of tissue hanging out of her.

“Chloe,” I scream.

She starts scrambling across the bathroom floor, leaving a trail, a drag mark of dark red blood.

I’m crawling with her in the bathroom and she’s making harsh panting sounds, sliding across the tiles toward the bathtub.

Another spray of blood comes out of her, along with a horrible ripping sound. She raises up a hand, screaming, and I’m holding on to her and I can feel the screams buzzing through her, followed by another squelching, ripping noise.

In the bathroom I grab the phone and push zero.

“Help us,” I’m screaming. “Someone’s dying up here. I’m in Chloe Byrnes’ room and you’ve got to send an ambulance. She’s bleeding to death—oh fucking god she’s bleeding to death—”

Silence and then a voice asks, “Mr. Ward?”

It’s the director’s voice.

“Mr. Ward?” it asks again.

“No! No! No!
”

“We’ll be right up, Mr. Ward.”

The line goes dead.

Bursting into tears, I hurl the phone away from me. I run out of the bathroom but on the phone by the bed there’s no dial tone.

Chloe’s calling my name.

From where I’m standing the entire bathroom floor seems washed with blood, as if something within her had liquefied.

Blood keeps fanning out from between her legs and some of it looks sandy, granular. A thick ring of flesh slides across the floor as Chloe cries out in pain and she keeps crying as I hold her and then she bursts into a series of hysterical, exhausted sobs and I’m telling her everything will be okay, tears pouring from my eyes. Another long crooked rope of flesh falls out of her.

“Victor! Victor!” she screams madly, her skin yellowing, her screams turning liquid, her mouth opening and closing.

I press a towel against her vagina, trying to stem the bleeding, but the towel is drenched in a matter of seconds. She keeps making harsh panting sounds, then defecates loudly, arching her back, another piece of flesh lurching out of her, followed by another rush of blood that splashes onto the floor.

There is warm blood all over my hands and I’m yelling out, “Baby please it’s okay baby please it’s okay baby—”

Another explosion of blood pours from between her legs, sickeningly hot, her eyes bulging, another giant intake of breath, and I can actually hear the horrible sounds coming from inside her body. Another harsh, startling yell.

“Make it stop oh god make it stop,” she screams, begging me, and I’m sobbing, hysterical too.

Another chunk of flesh, white and milky, spews out. After the next flash of pain cuts through her she can’t even form words anymore. She’s finally relaxing, trying to smile at me, but she’s grimacing, her teeth stained with blood, the entire inside of her mouth coated violet, and she’s whispering things, one hand tightly clasping mine while the other pounds spastically against the tiled floor, and the bathroom reeks powerfully of her blood, and as I’m holding Chloe, her eyes fix on
mine and I’m sobbing, “I’m sorry baby I’m so sorry baby,” and there is surprise in those eyes as she realizes how imminent her death actually is and I’m lapsing in and out of focus, disappearing, and she starts making animal noises and she’s sagging in my arms and then her eyes roll back and she dies and her face turns white very quickly and slackens and the world retires from me and I quit everything as water the color of lavender keeps streaming out of her.

I shut my eyes and clap my hands over my ears as the film crew rushes into the room.

3