Glamorama

Glamorama Page 194

"That's impossible," Bobby says crisply. "I'm starving."

"Victor, it's really okay," Chloe says. "I have to go anyway. I'm totally jet-lagged. I came straight here from the airport."

"Can I see you tomorrow?" I ask.

A pause. For some reason she glances over at Bobby. "Sure," Chloe says. "Call me."

"Okay." I glance nervously at Bobby. "I will."

Chloe reaches over and wipes a smudge of lipstick off my cheek. She kisses me, she disappears.

The three of us look on as the party swallows her up.

"Come on, Victor," Bobby says.

"No," I say, not getting up from the bench.

"Ooh, he's being a little skittish," Bentley says.

Bobby tugs "playfully" at my sleeve.

"Come on. It's time to revel."

I slowly raise myself but it's really Bobby lifting up my entire weight with just one arm, pulling me off the bench. It's slippery walking down the staircase because the record store is encased in ice, and gold confetti streams down over us hideously, flies swarming everywhere.

16

Outside the Virgin megastore a limousine is waiting, an immense carnival surrounds us, bouncers fend off people way too hopeful of getting in. Tormented, I throw up twice beside the limo while Bobby lights a cigar.

"Time to depart, Victor," Bentley says grimly. "Get your ass up."

"And do what?" I croak. "Stick it in your face?"

"Promises, promises," Bentley sighs, mock-wearily. "Just get the f**k up. That's a boy."

"You're just making noise," I say, standing up.

On the sidewalk Bertrand stares at me and I'm staring back hatefully and then I break away from Bentley and Bobby and rush toward him, my fist raised high above my head, but Bobby ends up holding me back. Bertrand just smiles smugly, within inches of my reach. Slouching away, Bertrand curses in French, something I can't understand.

15

In the limousine moving back to the house I'm sitting between Bentley and Bobby.

"Chloe Byrnes," Bobby's saying. "How... intriguing."

My head is resting on my knees and I'm swallowing back dry heaves, breathing deeply.

"I like Chloe Byrnes," Bobby says. "She's not afraid to embrace her sensuality," he murmurs. "Amazing body." Pause. "Quite... distracting." He laughs darkly.

"If you ever touch her, Bobby, I swear to god I will f**king kill you, I swear to god," I say, enunciating each word.

"Ooh, how confrontational," Bentley giggles.

"Shut up, you faggot," I mutter.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black," Bentley says. "Or so I hear."

Bobby starts giggling too. "Boys, boys."

"Did you hear me, Bobby?" I ask.

Bobby keeps giggling and then, in a very tight voice, squeezing my thigh, says, "You have neither the clout nor the experience to make a threat like that, Victor."

14

In my bedroom at the house in the 8th or the 16th, sleeplessness is interrupted by the occasional unbearable dream-chased by raptors down hotel corridors, the word "beyond" appearing repeatedly, something wet keeps flying across the upper corner of the frame, making slapping noises, I'm always brushing my hair, trying to find the most accurate way possible to create a part, and I'm canceling dream appointments, keeping things loose, tumbling down steep flights of stairs that are too narrow to navigate and I'm always over water and everyone I run across has a face resembling mine. Waking up, I realize: you're just someone waiting casually in the dark for a rustling outside your door and there's a shadow in the hall.

I open the door. The director from the French film crew is waiting.

He seems nervous. He's holding a videotape, expectantly. He's wearing an expensive parka.

Without being invited in, he slips past me, closes the door. Then he locks it.

"What do you want?" I ask, moving back to the bed.

"I know we haven't talked much during the shoot, Victor," he starts apologetically, without the accent I expected.

"I have nothing to say to you," I mutter.

"And I understand," he says. "In fact I think I understand why even more now."

"That's okay because I don't care, I have my own problems," I say, and then, yawning, "What time is it?"

"It's light out," he offers.

I reach over to the nightstand and swallow two Xanax. I tip a bottle of Evian to my mouth. I stare at the director hatefully.