Glamorama (87 page)

“Why should I know that?” I ask. “Ethical treatment of …
animals
?”

“It’s very simple, Victor,” she says. “We want a world where animals are treated as well as humans are.”

I just stare at her. “And … you don’t think that’s … happening?”

“Not when animals are being killed as indiscriminately as they are now. No.”

“I see.”

“There’s a meeting on Friday at Asia de Cuba,” Alison says. “Oliver Stone, Bill Maher, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger, Grace Slick, Noah Wyle, Mary Tyler Moore. Alicia Silverstone’s reading a speech that Ellen DeGeneres wrote.” Alison pauses. “Moby’s the DJ.”

“Everyone will be wearing camouflage pants, right?” I ask. “And plastic shoes? And talking about how great fake meat tastes?”

“Oh, what’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps, rolling her eyes, distinctly less mellow.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“If you heard about leg-hold traps, the torture of baby minks, the maiming of certain rabbits—not to even mention medical experiments done on totally innocent raccoons and lynxes—my god, Victor, you’d wake up.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Oh baby,” I mutter.

“It’s animal abuse and you’re just lying there.”

“Honey, they save chickens.”

“They have no voice, Victor.”

“Baby, they’re chickens.”

“You try seeing the world through the eyes of an abused animal,” she says.

“Baby, I was a model for many years,” I say. “I did. I have.”

“Oh, don’t be so flippant,” she moans.

“Alison,” I say, sitting up a little. “They also want to protect fruits and vegetables, okay?”

“What’s wrong with that?” she asks. “It’s eco-friendly.”

“Baby, peaches don’t have mothers.”

“They have skin, Victor, and they have flesh.”

“I just think you’re reality-challenged.”

“Who isn’t?” She waves me away. “Animals need as much love and respect and care as we give people.”

I consider this. I think about all the things I’ve seen and done, and I consider this.

“I think they’re better off without that, baby,” I say. “In fact I think they’re doing okay.”

I’m hard again and I roll on top of her.

Later, afterwards, Alison asks me something.

“Did Europe change you, Victor?”

“Why?” I ask sleepily.

“Because you seem different,” she says softly. “Did it?”

“I guess,” I say after a long pause.

“How?” she asks.

“I’m less …” I stop. “I’m less … I don’t know.”

“What happened over there, Victor?”

Carefully, I ask her, “What do you mean?”

She whispers back, “What happened over there?”

I’m silent, contemplating an answer, petting the chows. One licks my hand.

“What happened to Chloe over there, Victor?” Alison whispers.

6

At Industria for the
George
magazine photo shoot I can’t fathom why the press is making such a big deal about this. Simple before-and-after shots. Before: I’m holding a Bass Ale, wearing Prada, a goatee pasted on my face, a grungy expression, eyes slits. After: I’m carrying a stack of lawbooks and wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker suit, a bottle of Diet Coke in my left hand, Oliver Peoples wireframes.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF VICTOR WARD
(
UH, WE MEAN JOHNSON
) is the headline on the cover for the January issue. The photo shoot was supposed to be outside St. Albans in Washington, D.C.—a school I had sampled briefly before being expelled—but Dad nixed it. He has that kind of clout. The Dalai Lama shows up at Industria, and I’m shaking hands with Chris Rock, and one of Harrison Ford’s sons—an intern at
George—is
milling about, along with various people who resigned from the Clinton administration, and MTV’s covering the shoot for “The Week in Rock” and a VJ’s asking me questions about the Impersonators’ new huge contract with DreamWorks and how I feel about not being in the band anymore and I give a cute sound bite by saying, “Law school’s easier than being in that band,” and it’s all very
Eyes of Laura Mars
but it’s also faux-subdued because everyone’s very respectful of what happened to Chloe.

John F. Kennedy, Jr., who’s really just another gorgeous goon, is shaking my hand and he’s saying things like “I’m a big fan of your dad’s” and I’m saying “Yeah?” and though I’m basically calm and amused, there’s one awkward moment when someone who went to Camden accosts me and I simply can’t place him. But I’m vague enough that he can’t become suspicious and then he simply slouches away, giving up.

“Hey!” An assistant with a cell phone rushes over to where I’m standing. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Chelsea Clinton wants to say hi,” the assistant pants.

I take the phone from the assistant. Over static I hear Chelsea ask, “Is it really you?”

“Yeah.” I’m grinning “sheepishly.” I’m blushing, “red-faced.”

A Eureka moment handled suavely.

I find it a little difficult to relax once the photo session starts.

The photographer says, “Hey, don’t worry—it’s hard to be yourself.”

I start smiling secretly, thinking secret things.

“That’s it!” the photographer shouts.

Flashes of light keep going off as I stand perfectly still.

On my way out I’m handed an invitation by a nervous groupie to a party for PETA tomorrow night that the Gap is sponsoring at a new restaurant in Morgan’s Hotel.

“I don’t know if I can make it,” I tell a supermodel who’s standing nearby.

“You’re the outgoing type,” the supermodel says. I read recently that she just broke up with her boyfriend, an ex-model who runs a new and very fashionable club called Ecch! She smiles flirtatiously as I start heading out.

“Yeah?” I ask, flirting back. “How do you know?”

“I can tell.” She shrugs, then invites me to a strip-poker game at someone named Mr. Leisure’s house.

5

On the phone with Dad.

“When will you be down here?” he asks.

“In two days,” I say. “I’ll call.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Has the money been transferred?” I ask.

“Yes. It has.”

Pause. “Are you okay?” I ask.

Pause. “Yes, yes. I’m just … distracted.”

“Don’t be. You need to focus,” I say.

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“Someone will let you know when I’m there.”

A long pause.

“Hello?” I ask.

“I—I don’t know,” he says, breathing in.

“You’re unraveling,” I warn. “Don’t,” I warn.

“We really don’t need to see each other while you’re here,” he says. “I mean, do we?”

“No. Not really,” I say. “Only if you want.” Pause. “Are there any parties you want to show me off at?”

“Hey—” he snaps.

“Watch it,” I warn.

It takes him forty-three seconds to compose himself.

“I’m glad you’ll be here,” he finally says.

Pause. I let it resonate. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad I’ll be there too.”

“Really?” He breathes in, trembling.

“Anything to help the cause,” I say.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No.” Pause. “You figure it out.” I sigh. “Do you even really care?”

Pause. “If there’s anything you need …” He trails off.

“Don’t you trust me?” I ask.

It takes a long time for him to say, “I think I do.”

I’m smiling to myself. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

4

I meet Damien for drinks at the Independent, not far from the club he and I are supposed to open a month from now in TriBeCa. Damien’s smoking a cigar and nursing a Stoli Kafya, which personally I find disgusting. He’s wearing a Gucci tie. I want to make this quick. Bittersweet folk rock plays in the background.

“Did you see this?” Damien asks as I swing up onto a stool.

“What?” I ask.

He slides a copy of today’s
New York Post
across the bar, open to “Page Six.” Gossip about the women Victor Johnson has been involved with since Chloe Byrnes’ unfortunate death in a Paris hotel room. Peta Wilson. A Spice Girl. Alyssa Milano. Garcelle Beauvais. Carmen Electra. Another Spice Girl.

“For mature audiences only, right?” Damien says, nudging me, arching his eyebrows up.