Glamorama (29 page)

“What in the fuck?” Damien inhales deeply on the cigarette.

“They’re just, um, lighting the candles for dinner,” I say, gesturing innocently at the busboys.

Damien smacks me lightly on the side of the head.

“Why in the fuck is Chloe’s dress exactly like Alison’s?”

“Damien, I know they
look
alike but in actuality—”

He pushes me toward the railing and points down. “What are you telling me, Victor?”

“It’s a—it’s supposedly a, um, very popular dress this … y’know …”

I trail off.

Damien waits, wide-eyed. “
Yes
?”

“ … season?” I squeak out.

Damien runs a hand over his face and stares over the railing to make sure Alison and Chloe haven’t seen each other yet, but Alison’s flirting with Baxter and Chloe’s answering questions about how high the fabulous factor is tonight while a line of TV crews jostle for the perfect angle and Damien’s muttering “Why isn’t she wearing that hat you picked up?” and I’m making excuses (“Oribe said it was a no-no”) and he keeps asking “Why isn’t she wearing the goddamn hat you picked up?” and Lauren’s talking to fucking Chris O’Donnell and Damien guzzles down a large glass of Scotch then sets it on the railing with a shaky hand and I’m kind of like infused with panic and so tired.

“Damien, let’s just try to have a cool—”

“I don’t think I care anymore about that,” he says.

“About what? About having a cool time?” I’m asking. “Don’t say that.” And then after a long patch of silence: “I really don’t know how to respond to that.” And then after a longer patch of silence: “You look really great tonight.”

“About her,” he says. “About Alison. I don’t think I care about
that.”

I’m staring out over the crowd, my eyes involuntarily refocusing on the expressions Lauren’s making while Chris O’Donnell chats her up, swigging from a bottle of Grolsch, Lauren seductively playing with the damp label, models everywhere. “Why … did you ever?” I hear myself ask, thinking, At least the press will be good.

Damien turns to me and I look away but meet his gaze when he says, “Whose money do you think this all is?”

“Pardon?” I ask, leaning away, my neck and forehead soaked with sweat.

“Who do you think is bankrolling all of this?” he sighs.

A long pause. “Various … orthodontists … from, um, Brentwood?” I ask, squinting, wiping my forehead. “Um,
you
. Aren’t you like responsible for all of, um,
this
?”

“It’s
hers,”
he shouts. “It’s all Alison’s.”

“But …” I stop, swaying.

Damien waits, looking at me.

“But … I don’t know how to respond to … that.”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” he snaps.

We’ll slide down the surface of things
…

“They found Mica,” Damien’s saying.

“Who?” I ask numbly, staring off.

“The police, Victor,” he says. “They found Mica.”

“Well, it’s a little too late,” I’m saying, trying to recover. “Right? Do not pass Go? Do not collect two million bucks, right? Junior’s doing a great job and personally I always felt Mica was sort of—”

“Victor, she’s dead,” Damien says tiredly. “She was found in a Dumpster in Hell’s Kitchen. She was beaten with a hammer and … Jesus Christ”—he breathes in, waves down into the crowd at Elizabeth Berkley and Craig Bierko, then brings his hand to his mouth—“eviscerated.”

I’m taking this in with a large amount of extreme calm. “She OD’d?”

“No,” Damien says very carefully. “She was eviscerated, Victor.”

“Oh my god,” I gasp, holding my head, and then, “What does eviscerated mean?”

“It means she didn’t die a peaceful death.”

“Well, yeah, but how do we know that?”

“She was strangled with her own intestines.”

“Right, right.”

“I hope you realize this conversation is off the record.”

Below us I’m just looking down at Debi Mazar and Sophie B. Hawkins, who’s with Ethan Hawke and Matthew Barney. Below us a photographer spots me and Damien standing by the railing and snaps three, four, eight shots in rapid succession before I can straighten my tie.

“No one knows this yet,” Damien sighs, lighting another cigarette. “Let’s keep it this way. Let’s just keep everyone smiling until tomorrow.”

“Yeah man, cool,” I say, nodding. “I think I’m capable.”

“And please try to keep Alison and Lauren away from each other,” he says, walking away. “Let’s make a concerted effort to try and pull that off, okay?”

“I think I’m capable, dude.”

We’ll slide down the surface of things …

Someone calls up to me and I move away from the railing and head downstairs back into the party and then Carmen, this Brazilian heiress, grabs my arm. Chris O’Donnell has moved away from Lauren, who spots me from across the room and just stares, and Baxter’s still desperately keeping Alison occupied, even though it looks like she’s losing interest, because she’s rolling her eyes and making yapping gestures with her hands.

“Victor! I just see the film
Beauty and the Beast
and I love it! I—
love—it!”
Carmen’s shrieking, eyes wide, flailing her arms around.

“Baby, you’re cool,” I say worriedly. “But it would be somewhat profitable if you chilled out a bit.”

Alison pats Baxter on the side of his face and starts to move away from the bar toward the center of the room, where the camera flashes are most intense, and Chloe, predictably, is now standing with Chris O’Donnell.

“But Victor, you hear me?” Carmen’s blocking my way. “I love it. I adore both the Beauty
and
the Beast. I love it. ‘Be My Guest’—
Oh my god!”

“Baby, be
my
guest.
You
need a drink.” Distressed, I snap at Beau while pointing at Carmen. “Beau—get this chick a Caipirinha.”

I push Carmen out of the way but it’s too late. Tarsem and Vivienne Westwood grabbing each of my arms, I can only watch helplessly as Alison glides gaily, drunkenly toward Chloe, who’s being interviewed with Chris O’Donnell for MTV, her expression becoming more confused the nearer she gets. Once she’s behind Chloe, Alison sees the dress, immediately grabs a lighter out of Sean Penn’s hand and, horrorstruck, waves the flame so she can see Chloe better. Bijoux from MTV isn’t looking at Chloe now and has lowered her microphone, and Chloe turns around, sees Alison, smiles, and in the middle of a tiny wave notices Alison’s dress, grimaces, squints desperately, tries to take a closer look—Chris O’Donnell is pretending not to notice, which makes things better—and Bijoux leans in to ask a question and Chloe, dazed, turns hesitantly back to the camera to try and answer it, succeeds with a shrug.

Lauren is standing next to me holding a giant glass filled with what I can only hope is not vodka and without saying a word clamps her free
hand onto my ass. Alison starts heading toward us, purposefully grabbing a martini off a passing tray and getting about half of it in her mouth.

“How did you get off the Xanax?” I’m murmuring to somebody quasi-famous.

“You mean
get
the Xanax.”

“Yeah, yeah,
get
the Xanax, cool.”

“I was withdrawing from marijuana addiction and so I went to my mom’s doctor and—hey Victor, you’re not listening to me—”

“Hey, don’t freak, you’re cool.”

Alison walks up to me, licks my cheek and, standing incredibly close, places her mouth on mine, desperately trying to push her tongue in, but my teeth are clenched and I’m nodding to the guy who’s talking about Xanax and shrugging my shoulders, trying to casually carry on my part of the conversation, when Alison finally gives up, pulls back, leaving my mouth and chin slathered with a combo of saliva and vodka, smiles meanly and then stands next to me so that I’m flanked by her and Lauren. I’m watching Chloe, her interview over, squinting into the crowd trying to find me, Chris O’Donnell still nursing his Grolsch. I look away.

Alison leans in and touches my ass, which I tense uselessly, causing her hand to creep across until it touches the back of Lauren’s hand and freezes.

I’m asking Juliette Lewis how her new dalmatian, Seymour, is doing and Juliette says “So-so” and moves on.

I can feel Alison trying to push Lauren’s hand off but Lauren’s hand has clutched the left cheek and will not let go and I look at her nervously, spilling my drink on the cuff of the Comme des Garçons tuxedo, but she’s talking to someone from the Nation of Islam and Traci Lords, her jaw set tightly, smiling and nodding, though Traci Lords senses something’s wrong and tells me I looked great slouching in the seat next to Dennis Rodman at the Donna Karan show and leaves it at that.

A curvy blonde staggers over with a girl in an African headdress and this Indian dude, and the curvy blonde kisses me on the mouth and stares dreamily into my face until I have to clear my throat and nod at her friends.

“This is Yanni,” the curvy blonde says, gesturing at the girl. “And this is Mudpie.”

“Hey Mudpie. Yanni?” I ask the black girl. “Really? What does Yanni mean?”

“It means ‘vagina,’” Yanni says in a very high voice, bowing.

“Hey honey,” I say to Alison, nudging her. “This is Mudpie and Yanni. Yanni means ‘vagina.’”

“Great,” Alison says, touching her hair, really drunk. “That’s really, really great.” She hooks her arm through mine and starts pulling me away from Lauren, and Lauren, seeing Chloe approaching, lets go of my ass and finishes whatever she’s drinking and Alison’s tugging me away and I try to keep my footing to talk to Chloe, who grabs my other arm.

“Victor, what’s Alison doing?” Chloe calls out. “Why is she wearing that dress?”

“I’m going to find that out now—”

“Victor, why didn’t you want me to wear this dress tonight?” Chloe’s asking me. “Where are you going, goddamnit?”

“Honey, I’m checking for specks,” I tell her, shrugging helplessly, Alison pulling my shoulder out of its socket. “I’ve seen none and am gratefully, er, relieved but there might be some upstairs—”

“Victor, wait—” Chloe says, holding on to my other arm.

“’Allo, my leetle fashion plate.” Andre Leon Talley and the massive-titted Glorinda greet Chloe with impossibly wettish airkisses, causing Chloe to let go of my arm, which causes me to collide with Alison, who, unfazed, just drags me up the stairs.

We’ll slide down the surface of things
…

Alison slams the bathroom door, locks it, then moves over to the toilet and lifts up her skirt, pulls her stockings down and falls onto the white porcelain seat, muttering to herself.

“Baby, this is
not
a good idea,” I’m saying, pacing back and forth in front of her. “Baby, this is
definitely
not a good idea.”

“Oh my god,” she’s moaning. “That tuna has been giving me total shark-eye all night. Did she actually come with you, Victor? How in the fuck did she weasel in here? Did you see the fucking look she gave me when I first made eye contact?” Alison wipes herself and, still sitting there, immediately begins to rummage through a Prada handbag.
“That bitch actually told Chris O’Donnell that I run a quote-unquote highly profitable fat-substitute emporium.”

“I think your meeting could definitely be construed as an uh-oh moment.”

“And if you keep ignoring me you’re gonna have a whole night chock-full of them.” In the Prada handbag Alison finds two vials and stands up, her voice brimming with acid. “Oh, but I forgot, you don’t want to
see me anymore
. You want to
break up
. You need
your space
. You, Victor, are a
major loser.”
She tries to compose herself, fails. “I think I’m gonna be sick. I’m gonna be sick all over you. How could you
do
this to me? And
of all nights!”
She’s hissing to herself, unscrewing the top of one vial, doing two, three, six huge bumps of coke, then suddenly she stops, inspects the vial, then says “Wrong vial” and unscrews the other one and does four bumps from that. “You’re
not
going to get away with this. You’re not. Oh my god.” She grabs her head. “I think I have sickle-cell anemia.” Then, snapping her head up, she shrieks, “And why in the hell is your girlfriend—sorry, ex-girlfriend—wearing the same fucking dress I am?”

“Why?” I shout out. “Does it bother you?”

“Let’s just say—” Alison starts coughing, her face crumples up and between huge sobs she wails, “it was mildly horrifying?” She immediately recovers, slaps my face, grabs my shoulders and screams, “You’re not getting away with this!”

“With what?” I shout, grabbing a vial away from her, scooping out two huge capfuls for myself. “What am I not getting away with?”

Alison grabs the vial away from me and says, “No, that’s, er, something else.” She hands me the other vial.

Already wired, I’m not capable of stopping myself from kissing her on the nose, an involuntary reaction to whatever I just snorted.

“Oh hot,” she sneers miserably. “How hot.”

Unable to move my mouth, I gurgle, “I’m speechless too.”

“That little conversation we had, Victor, upset me very much,” Alison groans, fixing her hair, wiping her nose with Kleenex. She looks at my innocent face in the mirror, while I stand behind her doing a few more hits. “Oh please, Victor, don’t do this—do not do this.”

“When?” I’m shouting out. “What in the hell—”

“About ninety minutes ago? Stop acting like such an idiot. I know
you’re a guy who’s not exactly on the ball, but please—even
this
could not get past you.”

I hand back the vial, wiping my nose, and then say very quietly, hoping to reassure her, “Baby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s the problem, Victor,” she screams. “You never know.”

“Baby, baby—”

“Shut up, shut up,
shut up,”
she screams, whirling away from her reflection. “You stand in front of me just ninety minutes ago outside my apartment and tell me it’s all over—that you’re in love with Lauren Hynde? That you’re dumping Chloe for her? Remember
that
, you humongous idiot?”

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up my hands, both of which she smacks at. “You’re really coked up and you need a tranquilizer and you need to get your facts straight—”