Glamorama

3

The crew directs me to Security but because there's not really such an office on board, this scene is shot near the library at a table meant to simulate an office. For "texture": an unplugged computer terminal, four blank spiral notebooks, an empty Diet Coke can, a month-old issue of People. A young British actor—who had small parts in Trainspotting and Jane Austen's Emma, and who seems lost even before I start talking—sits behind the makeshift desk, playing a clerk, pale and nervous and fairly cute as far as English actors playing clerks go.

"Hi, I'm Victor Ward, I'm in first class, cabin 101," I start.

"Yes?" The clerk tilts his head, tries to smile, almost succeeds.

"And I'm looking for a Marina Gibson—"

"Looking for?" he interrupts.

"Yes, I'm looking for a Marina Gibson, who's in cabin 402."

"Have you looked in cabin 402?" he interrupts.

"Yes, and she wasn't in cabin 402, and neither, it seems"—l take a deep breath and then, all in a rush—"was anyone else and I need to find her so I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like her, um, paged."

There's a pause that isn't in the script.

"Why do you need to page her, sir?" the clerk asks.

"Well," I say, stuck, "I . . . think she's lost." Suddenly I start shaking and have to grip the sides of the desk the actor's sitting at in order to control it. "I think she's lost," I say again.

"You think a passenger . . . is lost?" he asks slowly, moving slightly away from me.

"What I mean"—I breathe in—"is that I think maybe she moved to another cabin maybe."

"That's highly doubtful, sir," the clerk says, shaking his head.

"Well, I mean, she's supposed to have met me for lunch and she never showed up." My eyes are closed and I'm trying not to panic. "And I'd like her paged—"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't page people because they've missed a meal, sir," I hear the actor say.

"Could you please just confirm for me that she's in that room? Okay? Could you please just do that?" I ask, teeth clenched.

"I can confirm that, sir, but I cannot give out a passenger's room number."

"I'm not asking you to give out a room number," I say impatiently. "I'm not asking for a passenger's room number. I know her goddamn room number. just confirm she's in room 402."

"Marina . . . ?"

"Marina Gibson," I stress. "Like Mel. Like Mel Gibson. Only the first name is Marina."

The clerk has pulled open one of the spiral notebooks, which supposedly contains a computerized listing of all the passengers on this particular crossing. Then he wheels over to the monitor, taps a few keys, pretends to appear authoritative, consults one graph and then another, lapses into a series of sighs.

"What room did you say, sir?"

"Cabin 402," I say, bracing myself.

The clerk makes a face, cross-checks something in the spiral notebook, then looks vacantly back up at me.

"That room isn't inhabited on this crossing," he says simply.

A long pause before I'm able to ask, "What do you mean? What do you mean, 'not inhabited'? I called that room last night. Someone answered. I talked to someone in that room. What do you mean, 'not inhabited'?"

"What I mean, sir, is that this particular room is not inhabited," the clerk says. "What I'm saying, sir, is that nobody is staying in that room."

"But . . ." I start shaking my head. "No, no, that's not right."

"Mr. Ward?" the clerk begins. "I'm sure she'll show up. "

"How do you know?" I ask, blanching. "Where in the hell could she be?"

"Maybe she's in the women's spa," the clerk suggests, shrugging.

"Yeah, yeah, right," I'm muttering. "The women's spa." Pause. "Wait—there's a women's spa?"

"I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, Mr. Ward—"

"Hey, wait, don't say things like that," I say, shuddering, holding my hands up.

"Whenever somebody says something like that, something is definitely fucked up."

"Mr. Ward, please—"

"I think she's in trouble," I say, leaning in. "Did you hear me? I said I think she's in trouble."

"But Mr. Ward, I don't even have a Marina Gibson on the passenger list," the clerk says. "There's no Marina Gibson registered for this crossing."

The clerk looks up at me as if he can't possibly comprehend the expression on my face.

I wait in the hall in a small chair, watching everyone who enters and exits the women's spa until it closes.

2

F. Fred Palakon calls at 7:00. I've been in my room since the women's spa closed at 5, mulling over the prospect of roaming the entire ship to look for whoever it was who called herself Marina Gibson, ultimately discarding that prospect because the photo from last night's dinner was slid under my door in a manila envelope stamped with the QE2 imprimatur. The photo didn't come out too well, the main reason being that the Wallaces aren't in it.

The couple sitting at the table in the Queen's Grill are people I've never seen before, who don't even vaguely resemble the Wallaces. The man glowering at me is much older than Stephen; and the woman, confused, looking down at her plate, is much dowdier and plainer than Lorrie.

Marina has turned her head away so her face is just a blur.

I'm the only one smiling and relaxed, which amazes me since the only things that look even remotely familiar are the small mound of caviar on my plate and the carafes of the wine Stephen ordered and the Japanese women, in shadows, at the next table.

The original and the three copies I requested are spread out on a desk I'm chain-smoking at, and it's so cold in the room I'm half-frozen, wearing two J. Crew sweaters under the giant Versace overcoat, and the remains of today's hangover linger, insistent, like some kind of reminder. I'm vaguely aware that tomorrow the QE2 docks in Southampton.

"So you're not going to Paris?" Palakon asks. "So you'll be in London after all?"

A long stretch of silence that I'm responsible for causes Palakon to snap, "Hello? Hello?"

"Yes," I say hollowly. "How did you figure that . . . out?"

"I just sensed a change of heart," Palakon says.

"How did you manage that?"

"Let's just say I know these precocious moments of yours usually come to an end," I hear him say. "Let's just say I concentrate intensely on you and what you have to say and do." A pause. "I'm also viewing everything from a different angle."

"I'm a lover, not a fighter, Palakon," I sigh.

"We've located Jamie Fields," Paiakon says.

Briefly, I glance up. "So my job's over, right?"

"No," Palakon says. "Just made easier."

"What are you doing right now, Palakon?" I'm asking. "Some lackey's giving you a pedicure while you're eating a giant box of mints? That's what I'm picturing."

"Jamie Fields is in London," Palakon says. "You'll find her the day after tomorrow on the set of the movie she's shooting. All the information you need will be waiting for you at the hotel. A driver will pick you up—"

"A limo?" I ask, interrupting.

A pause, then Palakon gently says, "Yes, Mr. Ward, a limo—"

"Thank you."

"—will pick you up in Southampton and drive you into London, where I will contact you."

I keep moving all four copies of the photograph around, repositioning them while Palakon drones on. I light another cigarette before stubbing out the last one.

"Do you understand, Mr. Ward?"

"Yes, I understand, Mr. Palakon," I answer in a monotone.

Pause. "You sound on edge, Mr. Ward."

"I'm just trying to ascertain something."

"Is that it, or are you just trying to strike a pose?"

"Listen, Palakon, I've gotta go—"

"Where are you off to, Mr. Ward?"

"There's a gnome-making class that's starting in ten minutes and I wanna get a head start."

"I'll talk to you when you arrive in London, Mr. Ward."

"I've already marked it down in my datebook."

"I'm relieved to hear it, Mr. Ward."

1

I find Felix the cinematographer at the piano bar, hunched over an array of snifters half-filled with brandy as he stares miserably at his own reflection in the mirrors situated above the racks of alcohol, relentlessly smoking Gauloises. The pianist—who I'm just noticing much to my horror is also the male aerobics instructor with the hideous teeth— plays a mournful version of "Anything Goes." I take the stool next to Felix and slap the photograph next to his arm. Felix doesn't flinch. Felix hasn't shaved in what looks like days.

"Felix," I say, trying to contain myself "Look at this photo."

"I don't want to look at any photos," Felix says miserably in his halting, untraceable accent.

"Felix, please, it's important," I say. "I think."

"I'm not supposed to look at the photo, Victor."

"Fuck it—just look at the fucking photo, Felix," I spit out, panicking.

Felix turns to me, muttering "Grouchy, grouchy," then glances tiredly at the picture. "Yeah? So? People having caviar, people not looking so happy." He shrugs. "It happens."

"Felix, I did not have caviar with these people," I'm saying. "Yet this photograph ex-ex-exists," I sputter.

"What do you mean?" Felix sighs. "Oh god, I'm so tired."

"But this is the wrong photo," I squeal giddily. "That's not the couple I had dinner with last night. These people are not the Wallaces. Do you understand, Felix? I—don't—know—these—people."

"But that's the picture, Victor," Felix says. "That's you."

"Yes, that's me," I say. "But who are these people, Felix?" For emphasis I'm running my hand over the photograph. "I mean, what is this? What the hell's going on?"

"Deluded youth," he sighs.

"Where, Felix? Where?" I ask, whirling around. "I don't see anyone under sixty on this goddamn boat."

Felix motions to the bartender for another.

"Felix," I say, breathing in. "I think I'm scared."

"You should be, but why?"

"A lot of reasons," I whisper.

"A certain amount of hardship is to be expected in this life."

"I know, I know, I need to accept the bad if I want to accept the good—oh god, Felix, just shut the fuck up and look at the fucking photo."

Felix's interest rises slightly as he holds the photo closer to his face and the atmosphere surrounding the bar is smoky and vague and the piano player continues with the mournful rendition of "Anything Goes" while various extras playing soused nannies, croupiers and beverage personnel listen, rapt, and I focus on the silence surrounding the music and try to get the bartender's attention.

"It's been altered," Felix says, clearing his throat.

"How do you know?"

"You should be able to see this girl's face." He points at Marina.

"Yeah, but I think she turned away when the flash went off."

"No," Felix says. "She didn't."

"How can you tell?"

"The position of her neck—see, here?" Felix runs a finger along Marina's throat. "The position of her neck suggests she was looking at the camera. Someone else has been—oh, how do you say?—superimposed over this girl." Felix pauses, then his eyes move to the Wallaces. "I assume the same thing happened with this couple," he says, squinting at the photo. "A rather crude job, actually." Felix sighs, placing the photo back on the bar. "But hell, who knows? Maybe you were really drunk and feeling rather friendly so you joined another table."

I'm shaking my head. "I'd never sit with those people," I'm saying. "Look at that woman's hair." I order an Absolut-and-cranberry from the bartender—with lime, I stress—and when he brings it I drink it quickly, but it totally fails to relax me.

Maybe I just need to get laid," I sigh.

Felix starts giggling. "You will." He keeps giggling. "Oh, you will."

"Spare me the giggling, Felix."

"Haven't you read the new draft?" he's asking.

"I think the script keeps changing, Felix," I say. "I don't think this is what I signed on for."

"You're really not accustomed to disappointment, are you, Victor?"

"I think something bad happened to that girl," I'm saying meekly. "To . . . Marina."

"You think errors are being made?" Felix asks, taking a long swallow of brandy, moving one snifter aside for another. "I think people can know too much."

"I just . . . I just . . . think there's been some kind of- oh man-like emergency and . . ." My voice trails off. I stare over at the piano player, at the extras sitting at tables, on couches, nodding thoughtfully to the music. "And . . . I just think no one's responding—oh man."

"You need, I think, to find a more fruitful and harmonious way to live."

"I'm on the cover of YouthQuake magazine," I exclaim. "What in god's name are you talking about?"

"Perhaps the two are unrelated."

"Tell me I'm not being wrongheaded and foolish," I plead. "Tell me this isn't an 'extraneous matter,' Felix. I mean, I'm a fairly easygoing person.

"I know, I know," Felix says sympathetically, inhaling on a cigarette. "It's intolerable, eh?"

Finally I ask, "What about Palakon? How is he involved in this?"

"Who is Palakon?" Felix asks.

"Palakon," I sigh. "The guy who got me on this fucking boat."

Felix stays quiet, then stubs the cigarette out. "I don't know anyone named Palakon."

While signaling the bartender for another drink, I mutter, annoyed, "What?"

"Palakon's not in the script, Victor," Felix says carefully.

Pause. "Whoa—wait a minute, wait a minute." I hold up a hand. "Hello? You are driving blind, baby."

"No, no, I don't think so," Felix says. "And please don't call me 'baby,'Victor."

"Hold on, Felix," I say. "I'm talking about the guy I met at Fashion Café. That kind-of-euro twit who got me on this floating nursing home in the first place. Palakon?"

This doesn't register with Felix. I stare, dumbfounded.

"I met him after I was chased," I try to explain. "I met him at Fashion Café after I was chased by the black Jeep? F. Fred Palakon?"

Felix turns to me, looking more worried than bemused, and finally says, "We didn't shoot a chase scene, Victor." A long pause. "We didn't shoot anything in Fashion Café."

While staring back at the photo, I feel something in me collapse.

"There's no Palakon in the shooting script," Felix murmurs, also staring at the photo. "I've never heard of him."

While I'm breathing erratically, another drink is placed in front of me, but my stomach sours up and I push the drink toward Felix.

"I think this is the logical cutting-off point," Felix says, slipping away.

0

On deck the air felt damp, the sky got unusually dark, almost black, clouds were bulging, distorted, a monster behind them, then thunderclaps, which merited some attention and made everyone feel vaguely apprehensive, and past that darkness, below that sky, land was waiting. On deck I lit a cigarette, the camcra circling me, newly supplied Xanax eliminating nausea and distracting tics, and I kept my Walkman on, the Dave Matthews Band's "Crash into Me" buzzing in my ears through the headphones, spilling over onto the sound track. I sat on a bench, sunglasses on, blinking frantically, gripping a new magazine Gail Love started called A New Magazine until I couldn't sit still anymore. Images of Marina plunging into the black water, sinking leagues to the calm, sandy bottom, swallowed up without a trace, jumped playfully around the back of my mind, teasing me, or maybe she was leaping off the ship because there were worse things waiting. The hat Lauren Hynde gave me in New York and that Palakon told me to bring was missing, was confirmed "disappeared" after I tore my cabin apart looking for it, and though this shouldn't be a problem, I somehow knew that it was. I was told by the director that what I didn't know was what mattered most.

On deck I was aware of my feet moving listlessly past a cotton-candy kiosk opened for "the kids." On deck the Wallaces drifted by, intent on not dealing with me, and I was unable to interpret the signals their false smiles gave off and my heart continued pounding uneasily but really I was drawn out and apathetic and even that feeling seemed forced and I didn't fight it and there was nothing I could do. For courage I just kept telling myself that I was a model, that CAA represented me, that I'm really good in bed, that I had good genes, that Victor ruled; but on deck I started to semi-seriously doubt this. On deck the gay German youth passed by, ignoring me, but he never really fit into the story and my scenes with him were discarded and it didn't fuck up continuity. On deck members of the film crew were dismantling fog machines, placing them in crates.

Europe moved toward me, the ocean flowing darkly around us, clouds were dispersing, specks of light in the sky were growing wider until daylight reappeared. On deck I was gripping the railing, adding up the hours I had lost, depth and perspective blurring then getting sharper and someone was whistling "The Sunny Side of the Street" as he passed behind me but when I turned around, predictably, no one was there. Looking down at my feet, staring blankly, I noticed, next to my shoe, a stray piece of confetti, then I noticed another.

3

14

A street in Notting Hill. In a row: a new Gap, a Starbucks, a McDonald's. A couple walks out of the Crunch fitness center, carrying Prada gym bags, appearing vaguely energized, Pulp's "Disco 2000" blaring out of the gym behind them as they pass a line of BMWs parked tightly along the curb on this street in Notting Hill.

A group of teenagers, thin-hipped, floppy-haired, wearing T-shirts with ironic slogans on them, hang out in front of the Gap comparing purchases, someone's holding an Irvine Welsh paperback, they pass around a cigarette and in the overall void comment unfavorably about a motorbike roaring down the street and the motorbike slows down for a stoplight, then brakes.

Someone who looks like Bono walks a black Lab, snapping back its leash as the dog lunges for a piece of stray garbage it wants to devour—an Arch Deluxe wrapper.

A businessman strides by the Bono look-alike, frowning while he studies the front page of the Evening Standard, a pipe gripped firmly in his mouth, and the Bono look-alike walks past a fairly mod nanny wheeling a designer baby carriage and then the nanny passes two art students sharing a bag of brightly colored candy and staring at the mannequins in a store window.

A Japanese tourist videotapes posters, girls strolling out of Starbucks, the black Lab being walked by the Bono look-alike, the mod nanny, who has stopped wheeling the designer baby carriage since, apparently, the baby needs inspecting. The guy on the motorbike still sits at the light, waiting.

Pulp turns into an ominous Oasis track and everyone seems to be wearing Nikes and people aren't moving casually enough—they look coordinated, almost programmed, and umbrellas are opened because the sky above the street in Notting Hill is a chilly Dior gray, promising impending rain, or so people are told.

Over a significant period of time the following occurs:

Jamie Fields emerges on the street in Notting Hill, running out of an alley, desperately waving her arms, yelling garbled warnings at people, an anguished expression ruining (or adding to?) the beauty of her face, which is covered with brown streaks of grime.

A cab moving slowly down the street in Notting Hill almost slams into Jamie Fields and she throws herself, screaming, against it, and the driver, appropriately petrified, rolls up his window and speeds away, swerving past the guy on the motorbike, and the black Lab begins barking wildly and the two art students turn away from the mannequins and the fairly mod nanny starts wheeling the carriage in the opposite direction and the nanny bumps into the businessman, knocking the pipe from his mouth, and he turns around, miffed, mouthing What the hell? And then buildings start exploding.

First the Crunch gym, seconds later the Gap and immediately after that the Starbucks evaporate and then, finally, the McDonald's. Each of the four separate explosions generates a giant cumulus cloud of roaring flames and smokc that rises up into the gray sky and since the carefully planted bombs have caused the buildings to burst apart outward onto the walkways bodies either disappear into the flames or fly across the street as if on strings, their flight interrupted by their smashing into parked BMWs, and umbrellas knocked out of hands are lifted up by the explosions, some on fire, swinging across the gray sky before landing gently on piles of rubble.

Alarms are going off in every direction and the sky is lit up orange, colored by two small subsequent explosions, the ground continually vibrating, hidden people yelling out commands. Then, at last, silence, but only for maybe fifteen seconds, before people start screaming.

The group of teenagers: incinerated. The businessman: blown in half by the Starbucks explosion.

There is no sign of the Japanese tourist except for the camcorder, which is in pristine condition.

The guy on the motorbike waiting at the stoplight: a charred skeleton hopelessly tangled in the wreckage of the motorbike, which he has now melded into.

The fairly mod nanny is dead and the designer baby carriage she was wheeling looks like it was smashed flat by some kind of giant hand.

The black Lab has survived but the Bono look-alike isn't around. His hand-blown off at the wrist-still clutches the leash, and the dog, covered in ash and gore, freaked out, dashes madly toward a camera its trainer is standing behind.

And on the street in Notting Hill, a dazed Jamie Fields falls slowly to her knees while gazing up at the gray sky and bows her head guiltily, convulsing in horror and pain as a strange wind blows smoke away, revealing more rubble, more body parts, bathroom products from the Gap, hundreds of blackened plastic Starbucks cups, melted Crunch gym membership cards, even fitness equipment—StairMasters, rowing machines, a stationary bike, all smoldering.

The initial damage behind Jamie Fields seems terrible but after a certain amount of time has passed the street really doesn't look destroyed—just sort of vaguely wrecked. Only two BMWs have toppled over—corpses hanging out of the shattered windshields-and where mangled bodies lie, the gore surrounding them looks inauthentic, as if someone had dumped barrels containing smashed tomatoes across sidewalks, splattered this mixture on top of body parts and mannequins still standing behind decimated storefront windows—the blood and flesh of the art students—and it just seems too red. But later I will find out that this particular color looks more real than I could ever have imagined standing on the street in Notting Hill.

If you're looking at Jamie Fields right now, you'll notice that she's laughing as if relieved, even though she's surrounded by disconnected heads and arms and legs, but these body parts are made of foam and soon crew members are picking them up effortlessly. A director has already yelled "Cut" and someone is wrapping a blanket around Jamie and whispering something soothing in her ear, but Jamie seems okay and as she bows the sound of applause takes over, rising up to dominate the scene that played itself out on the street in Notting Hill on this Wednesday morning.

It's windier after the explosions and extras are letting makeup assistants wipe fake blood off their faces and a helicopter flies noisily over the scene and an actor who looks like Robert Carlyle shakes the director's hand and dollies are dismantled and stuntmen congratulate one another while removing earplugs and I'm following Jamie Fields to her trailer, where an assistant hands her a cell phone and Jamie sits down on the steps leading up into the trailer and lights a cigarette.

My immediate impressions: paler than I remember, still dazzling cheekbones that seem even higher, eyes so blue they look like she's wearing fake contacts, hair still blond but shorter now and slicked back, body more defined, chic beige slacks stretching over legs that seem more muscular, breasts beneath a simple velour top definitely implants.

A girl from Makeup wipes strategically placed smudges off Jamie's face, forehead and chin with a large wet cotton ball and Jamie, trying to talk into the cell phone, waves the girl away and growls "Later" as if she really means it. Trying to smile, the girl slinks away, devastated.

I position myself on the sidelines, leaning sexily against a trailer parked across from Jamie's so she'll have no problem immediately spotting me when she looks up: me grinning, my arms crossed, coolly disheveled in casual Prada, confident but not cocky. When Jamie actually does look up, irritably waving away another makeup girl, my presence—just feet away—doesn't register. I take off the Armani sunglasses and, simulating movement, pull out a roll of Mentos.

"Been there, done that," Jamie whispers tiredly into the cell phone, and then, "Yeah, seeing is believing," which is followed by "We shouldn't be talking on a cell phone," and finally she mutters "Barbados," and by now I'm standing over her.

Jamie glances up and without any warning to the person on the other end angrily snaps the cell phone shut and stands so quickly that she almost falls off the stairs leading into the compact white trailer with her name on the door, the expression on her face suggesting: Uh-oh, major freak-out approaching, duck.

"Hey baby," I offer gently, holding my arms out, head tilted, grinning boyishly. "Like, what's the story?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" she growls.

"Uh, hey baby—"

"Jesus Christ—what are you doing here?" She's glancing around, panicked. "Is this a fucking joke?"

"Hey, cool it, baby," I'm saying, moving closer, which causes her to move up the stairs backward, grabbing onto the railing in order not to trip. "It's cool, it's cool," I'm saying.

"No, it's not cool," she snaps. "Jesus, you've got to get the hell out of here—now."

"Wait a minute, baby—"

"You're supposed to be in New York," she hisses, cutting me off. "What are you doing here?"

I reach out to calm her down. "Baby, listen, if you—”

She slaps my hands away and backs up onto another stair. "Get away from me," and then, "What the hell were you doing at Annabel's last night?"

"Baby, hey, wait—"

"Stop it," she says, glancing fearfully behind me, causing me to turn around too, then I'm looking back at her. "I mean it—leave. I can't be seen here with you."

"Hey, let's discuss this in your trailer," I'm suggesting gently. "Let's talk in the trailer." Pause. "Would you like a Mentos?"

Incredulous, she pushes my hand away again. "Get the fuck off this set or I'll call Bobby, okay?"

"Bobby?" I'm asking. "Hey baby—”

"You're supposed to be in fucking New York—now goddamnit get the hell out of here."

I hold my hands up to show her I'm not hiding anything and back away. "Hey, it's cool," I murmur, "it's cool, I'm cool."

Jamie whirls around and before disappearing into the trailer turns back to shoot me an icy glare. The trailer door slams shut. Inside, someone fiddles with a lock. Then silence.

The smell of burning rubber is suddenly everywhere, causing a major coughing fit that I ease out of with the help of a couple of Mentos, then I bum a Silk Cut from another cute makeup girl, who looks like Gina Gershon, and then I'm lingering next to other people who might not have noticed me at first, until I move down Westbourne Grove, then down Chepstow Road, then I stop in at a really cool shop called Oguri and after that I spot Elvis Costello at the corner of Colville Road exiting a neo-Deco, turquoise-tiled public rest room.

13

Feeling really injured, trying to formulate a new game plan in order to halt vacuous wandering, I proceed to various newsstands in desperate need of a New York Post or a New York News to check out what course my life is taking back in Manhattan, but I can't find any foreign papers anywhere, just typical British rags with headlines blaring LIAM: MAN BEHIND THE MYTH Or A DAY IN THE LIFE OF BIJOU PHILLIPS (an article I may or may not appear in, depending on what day) or CHAMPAGNE SALES SOAR AS SWINGING LONDON LEARNS TO PARTY. I stop by a Tower Records after downing a so-so iced decaf grande latte at one of the dozens of Starbucks lining the London streets and buy tapes for my Walkman (Fiona Apple, Thomas Ribiero, Tiger, Sparklehorse, Kenickie, the sound track of Mandela) and then walk outside into the stream of Rollerbladers gliding by in search of parks.

Rugby players and the whole rugby-player look are definitely in, along with frilly chiffons, neo-hippie patchworks and shaved heads; because of Liam and Noel Gallagher, I notice beards are more in vogue than they were last time I was here, which causes me to keep touching my face vacantly, feeling naked and vulnerable and so lost I almost step on two Pekingese puppies a bald neo-hippie rugby player with a beard is walking when I collide with him on Bond Street. I think about calling Tamara, a society girl I had a fling with last time she was in the States, but instead debate the best way of putting a positive spin on the Jamie Fields situation if F. Fred Palakon ever calls. Thunderstorms start rumpling my hair and I dash into the Paul Smith store on Bond Street, where I purchase a smart-looking navy-gray raincoat. Everything But the Girl's "Missing" plays over everything, occasionally interrupted by feel-good house music, along with doses of Beck's "Where It's At" and so on and so on.

I'm also being followed by a guy wearing wraparound black sunglasses who looks like he should be in a soap opera—handsome, with a too-chiseled chin and thick swept-up black hair—and resembles maybe a moddish Christian Bale, suspiciously blasé in a long black Prada overcoat, seemingly up to no good and vaguely plasticine.

Regrets: I never should have turned down that Scotch ad.

Mental note: eyeliner on men seems fairly cool this season.

At Masako I'm slumped in a velvet booth in back picking at sushi that tastes like ham, and the Christian Bale guy sits at a table for four up front in the deserted restaurant, grinning distantly, a camcorder sitting on an empty chair next to him, and doom music piped in through the stereo system fails to cheer anybody up.

When I walk up to him holding a San Pellegrino bottle, he pays his check and takes a final sip of cold sake, smiling arrogantly at me.

"You want my autograph? Is that it?" I'm asking and then my voice gets babyish. "Stop following me. Just leave me the fuck alone, okay?" A pause, during which he gets up and I back away. "Or else I'll pour this San Pellegrino all over your head—got it?"

He just answers silently with a so-what? expression.

I watch as he glides confidently outside to where a boxy blue Jeep Commando waits at the curb in front of Masako, its windows tinted black, blocking out the face of the driver. Outside, I take note of various Tex-Mex restaurants, the postapocalyptic mood, my pseudoreality, then head back to the Four Seasons, where all I really want to do is take my shirt off.

12

Outside the Four Seasons obligatory paparazzi share cigarettes, glance idly at me as I stand there pretending to ruffle through my pockets for my room key while they wait for the occasional Town Car or limousine to roll up and dispense anyone snapworthy, which today does not include me. Inside: Ralph Fiennes is shaking hands with a twenty-year-old movie producer who I'm sure someone I know has boned and Gabriel Byrne is simultaneously talking on a cell phone, being interviewed by People magazine and sipping a large cup of tea. In other words: it's all happening, it's all familiar. The only void: no message from Palakon, which doesn't relieve me in the way I imagined it would. I push the door to my suite open, turn on MTV—and with a ping, Everything But the Girl floats through the room, which right now is totally arctic. Shivering uncontrollably I push a bunch of Japanese fashion magazines scattered across the bed into a pile and then I'm flopping down, pulling the covers over me, dialing the kitchen for a protein shake and to see what time the hotel's gym closes.

Movement across the room causes me to whirl around.

Jamie Fields: legs slung over a floral-patterned swivel chair, wearing an ultrafashionable Prada camisole top, shimmery black disco pants, black stiletto shoes, black Armani sunglasses, and her face is masklike, but after my initial shock I'm projecting something vaguely apologetic it and she confirms this by removing the sunglasses, stoplight-red onto Hard Candy polish on her nails.

Jamie notices how distracting they are. "I know—it's ugly," she sighs, lighting a cigarette. "It's for the movie."

"Which one?" I'm asking.

She shrugs, exhaling. "Both?"

"How did you get in here?" I ask.

"I'm well acquainted with certain key staff members at the Four Seasons," she says casually. "They know me. They let me do whatever I want. It's a perk. Let's leave it at that."

I pause before asking, "Are you going to start flailing around again?"

"No. I'm sorry about all of that."

Another pause. "What happened back there?"

"Oh, I just thought you were someone else," she mutters. "Forget about it. Anywa-a-a-ay . . .”

"You thought I was someone else?" I ask. "Baby, that hurts."

"I know." Jamie reaches into a Gucci leather clutch envelope and pulls out a small gift-wrapped box. "So I thought this might ease your pain.

I reach out and hesitantly take the box. "What is it?"

"Cigars. Montecristos," she says, standing up, stretching. "I mean, I'm assuming you're still as trendy as you used to be." She takes a drag off the cigarette, makes a face, stubs it out in an ashtray. "I really don't think times have changed that much." She starts moving around the suite, not impressed but not unimpressed, just bizarrely neutral, fingering the curtains, studying various knickknacks of mine taking up space on a desk.

The phone suddenly rings. When I pick it up no one's there. I slowly place the phone back down.

"That keeps happening," I mutter.

Jamie continues to move around the room, runs her hands beneath desktops, inspects a lamp, then another, opens an armoire, gazes at the space behind the TV—Beck on a donkey, a Spice Girl swinging a lasso—then she lifts a remote control and seems on the verge of taking it apart when I interrupt.

"Baby, why don't you sit down?" I ask.

"I've been lounging around all day." She stretches again, resumes a more casual pose. "I can't stay still."

"Um, baby?" I begin awkwardly. "How did you find me?"

"Hey—" She looks back at me. "How did you find me?"

Pause. "You go first."

"I had my assistant call all the places I thought you'd be staying at." She sighs, continues. "The Connaught, the Stafford, Claridge's, the Dorchester, the Berkeley, the Halcyon, then—boom—the Four Seasons.

A long pause, during which I just stare at her, dumbfounded.

"What?" she asks. "What is it?"

"How about the fucking Hempel? Why didn't you check the fucking Hempel? Jesus, baby."

A smile creeps up but she stops it when she realizes something and this causes her to groan, flopping back into the swivel chair.

"Don't make me put my sunglasses back on, Victor," she warns.

The phone rings again. I sigh, reach over to the nightstand, pick the phone up, listen. Silence, a series of beeps unevenly spaced, two clicks, a patch of far-off static, another beep, then silence. I look back at Jamie in the swivel chair, playing thoughtfully with her sunglasses, legs dangling over an armrest, before I slowly place the phone back down.

"I asked for Victor Johnson's room but then I remembered—or read somewhere—that you changed your name. To Victor Ward." She pauses, smiles playfully. "Why?"

"Various committees assumed it was a smart PR move to jump-start my career." I shrug. "It made me semi-famous."

"A misconception made you semi-famous," she corrects.

"I've traveled quite well on that misconception."

"It was a suit that got you the gig."

"It was also an inordinate amount of sheer cool."

"Why do I have the feeling your father made you change the name?" She smiles playfully again. "Huh? Did Daddy make a request?"

"I don't talk about my father—”

"Oh god, whatever." She stands up again, then flops down in the chair again, sighs a number of times. "Listen, I'm just here to tell you I'm sorry about freaking out and, y'know, have a good time in London and all that and, um, I'll see you in another eight years."

"So are you gonna freak out again?" I ask, playing it cool, moving across the bed so that I'm closer to her.

"I'm feeling, um, reformed."

"Oh, that's good."

Pause. "That depends on your definition of good," she says.

"What's the story, baby?" I sigh mock-wearily. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

"Today was the last day of the shoot," she says. "We finished the interiors last week in Pinewood." Pause. "So I'm basically free, free, free."

"Well, then I'm glad I caught you."

"Caught me?" she asks, stiffening, vaguely annoyed. "Why are you glad you caught me, Victor?"

Suddenly her cell phone rings. She pulls it out of a Lulu Guinness handbag I hadn't noticed before and answers it. While staring directly at me, she says, "Yes? . . . It's fine. . . . Right. . . . No, I'm at the Four Seasons. . . . Is that the buzzword for the day? . . . Let's see a show of hands. . . . Yes. . . . Sounds delicious. . . . Right. . . . Later." She clicks off, stares blankly at me.

"Who was that?" I ask, shivering, my breath steaming.

"No one you know," she murmurs, and then, barely audible, "yet."

I'm lying on my side now, running my hands slinkily across the floral print of the comforter, drawing attention to my hands because of the way they're moving, and my shirt's become untucked in a not-too-suggestive way and when I look down "sheepishly," then back up with a seductive smile, Jamie is glaring at me with a noxious expression. When I revert to not being so studly, she relaxes, stretches, groans.

"I've got to get something to eat," she says.

"Baby, are you famished?"

"Beyond famished."

"Hey, I saw that movie." I grin, faux-mischievously. "What about room service?" I suggest, my voice deepening.

She stands there, contemplating something, glances back at the TV, then her eyes carefully scan the ceiling. Finally she murmurs, "Let's get out of here."

"Where to?"

"Let's go out for dinner."

"Now? It's only five," I point out. "Is anything open yet?"

"I know a place," she murmurs. Something on the ceiling, in the corner, dominates Jamie's attention and she moves toward it, reaching up, then—realizing something—stops herself. She turns around, tries to smile, but apparently she can't help it: the room seems to worry her in some way.

"Baby, it's just a set," I'm saying. "Forget about it."

11

Though the restaurant doesn't serve until 6 Jamie gets us into Le Caprice at 5:30 with a cryptic phone call she makes in the cab on the way to Arlington Square.

"I was supposed to have dinner with Amanda Harlech but I think this will be much more, er, interesting," she says, tucking the cell phone back into her handbag.

"That's me," I say. "A blast from the past."

While sitting across the table from her in Le Caprice I'm aware that Jamie Fields is so beautiful that she's starting to blow away whatever residual memories of Lauren Hynde I might have held on to and after knocking back a martini and some white wine we order crab-and-corn chowder and a plate of chargrilled squid and the two of us start relaxing into the moment, only briefly interrupted on Jamie's part by a few giant yawns and a slightly deadened look behind those very cool blue eyes. I order another martini, momentarily thinking, This is gonna be so easy.

"Where did you go after shooting today?" I ask.

"I had a Himalayan rejuvenation treatment at Aveda in Harvey Nichols," she says. "I needed it. I deserved it."

"Cool, hip."

"So what arc you doing in London, Victor?" she asks. "How did you find me?"

"Baby," I'm saying, "it was purely accidental."

"Uh-huh," she says somewhat dubiously. "What were you doing on the set this morning?"

"I was just browsing, doing some shopping in Nothing Hill, minding my own business and—"

"It's Notting Hill, Victor," Jamie says, motioning to a waiter for more bread. "Notting Hill.” Continue."

I stare at her, sending out vibes; some hurtle back at me, others land softly, sticking.

She's waving a hand in front of my face. "Hello? Victor?"

"Oh yeah," I say, blinking. "Um, could you repeat the question?"

"How—did—you—find—me?" she asks tensely.

"I just stumbled onto . . . things, y'know?" I squint, making an airy motion with my hands, hoping it clarifies.

"That sounds like you but I'm not buying it."

"Okay, okay," I say, grinning sexily at her, leaning in, seeing how far I can push this mode. "Someone at a party—"

"Victor," she interrupts, "you're a very good-looking guy. You don't need to push it with me, okay? I get it."

The sexy grin fades and I sit back and take a sip of the martini, then carefully wipe my lips with a napkin.

"Proceed," she says, arms crossed, staring.

"Someone at a party I was at mentioned, um, something," I say, distracted, shrugging everything off. "Maybe it was at the Groucho Club. I think it was someone who went to Camden with us—”

"You think?"

"Baby, I was so loaded—"

"Oh shit, Victor, who was it?"

"Wait—I'm sorry, I think it was someone I bumped into at Brown's—"

"Who, for god's sake?"

I lean in, grinning sexily and purring, "I see I have your full attention now."

“Victor," she says, squirming. "I want to know."

"Baby," I say, "let me tell you something."

"Yeah?" she asks expectantly.

"I never reveal my sources," I whisper to her in the empty restaurant and then lean back, satisfied.

She relaxes and, to prove she's okay with this, takes a final spoonful of chowder and licks the spoon thoughtfully. Now it's her turn to lean in. "We have ways of making you talk," she whispers back.

Playfully, I lean in again and say with a husky voice, "Oh, I bet you do."

But Jamie doesn't smile at this—just suddenly seems preoccupied with something else, which may or may not concern me. Withdrawn and pensive, she sighs and fixes her eyes on a point behind my back. I turn around and glance at a row of David Bailey photographs lining the wall.

"Hey baby," I start, "you seem tired all of a sudden. Are you like really beat?"

"If you had to deliver lines like 'Once Farris gets hold of the scepter it's over for your planet' all day, you'd be soul-sick too," she says tiredly. "Japanese investors—what's left to say?"

"Hey, but I am soul-sick," I exclaim, trying to cheer her up. "A girlfriend once told me so," I say mock-proudly.

"Who are you seeing now?" she asks listlessly.

"I'm off relationships for now. 'Be more sensitive, be more macho.' Jesus, forget it." Pause. "I'm chasing hookers instead."

"Speaking of which—what ever happened to Chloe Byrnes?" she asks. "Or did she OD yet?" Jamie shrugs, then reconsiders. "I suppose I would've heard about that."

"No, she's cool," I say, figuring out how to play the current situation, landing on: "We're on hiatus. Like on vacation."

"What? That's code for she dumped your ass?"

"No," I start patiently. "It means every . . . relationship has its, like, um—oh yeah—ups and downs."

"I take it this is a down?"

"You could say so."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say glumly.

"I heard she had a run-in with heroin," Jamie says lightly.

"I can't confirm that rumor," I say.

"Because it isn't true?" Jamie pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"Hey baby—”

"It's okay," she says patiently. "You can smoke in restaurants in London."

"That's not what I'm hey-babying about."

"So just give me the lowdown. Chloe's not dead: have I got that much right?" she asks.

"No, she's not dead, Jamie," I say, mildly pissed off.

"Well, rumor has it, Victor . . . ,” Jamie says, shaking her head faux-sadly, lighting the cigarette.

"I don't give a shit about what gossip you've heard."

"Oh, stop right there, please." Jamie sits back, exhaling smoke, arms crossed, marveling at me. "Is this the same Victor Johnson I knew way back when, or have you suddenly got your act together?"

"I'm just saying Chloe—"

"Oh, I don't really want to hear about your relationship with Chloe Byrnes." She cuts me off irritably, nodding at a waiter to remove a bowl. "I can just imagine. Weekends in South Beach, lunches with An8ie MacDowell, discussions revolving around 'Will Chloe get into fashion heaven or not,' debating the color yellow, you keep finding syringes in Chloe's Prada handbag—"

"Hey," I snap. "It was a nasal habit."

"Ooh." Jamie's eyes light up. "Is that on the record?"

"Oh shit, I don't give a crap what people think," I mutter, pushing myself away from the table. "Like I really care what people think, Jamie."

A pause. "I think you're adapting well," she says, smiling.

"Yeah, I'm a genius, baby."

"So why is the genius in London and not back in New York?" Jamie asks herself. "Let me guess: he's doing research on that screenplay he always wanted to write."

"Hey, I'm a genius, baby," I tell her. "I know you might find that hard to believe, but there it is."

"How snazzy," she says, then fatigue overtakes her and she whimpers, "Oh no, I'm having flashbacks—the eighties are coming back to me and an anxiety attack is imminent." She holds herself, shivering.

"That's a good thing, baby," I say, urging, "Float into it."

"No, Victor," she says, shaking her head. "Contrary to popular opinion, that is most definitely not a good thing."

"Hey baby, why not?"

"Because it brings back our college years and I, for one, have no desire to relive them."

"Oh come on, baby-you had fun at Camden. Admit it," I say. "And don't look at me like I'm insane."

"Fun?" she asks, appalled. "Don't you remember Rupert Guest? Hanging out with him was fun?"

"He was a drug dealer, baby," I say. "He wasn't even enrolled."

"He wasn't?" she asks, confused, then, remembering something both private and horrific, groans, "Oh god."

"I remember Roxanne Forest, however," I say, teasing her. "And some really good times with that Swedish chick—Katrina Svenson."

"Oh gross," she sighs, then she quickly recovers and decides to play along. "Do you remember David Van Pelt? Mitchell Allen? Those were my good times."

A considerable pause. "In that case—not friends of mine, baby."

I recognize the current expression on Jamie's face—time to taunt—and then she throws me a name, but I'm staring at the black floor beneath us, trying to remember David Van Pelt or Mitchell Allen, momentarily zoning out, and I don't hear the name Jamie just mentioned. I ask her to repeat it.

"Lauren Hynde?" Jamie says, in a certain tone of voice. "Do you remember her?"

"Um, no, not really," I say casually, reacting to her tone.

"You must remember Lauren, Victor." She says this sighing, looking away. "Lauren Hynde?"

"It doesn't ring a bell," I say blankly. "Why? Should it?"

"You left me for her."

After a long silence, trying to remember the particular sequence of events during any given term, I end up saying, "No."

"Oh Jesus, this might've been a mistake." Jamie's moving around in her chair, uncomfortably, as if she's trying to unstick herself from the seat.

"No, I remember her," I say, looking directly at Jamie. "But I also remember that I'd taken a term off and when I came back in December you weren't around—"

"I also had taken the term off, Victor," she counters.

"Baby, the point is . . ." Defeated, knowing there never was a point, that there never would be anything that could wrap this up neatly, I just ask quietly, "Are you still pissed?"

"Oh yeah, it destroyed me," she says, rolling her eyes. "I had to move to Europe to get over the genius."

"Have you really lived here that long?" I'm asking, mystified. "That's . . . impossible."

"I live in New York, dodo," she says. "I work in New York."

"Why don't we ever see each other?"

"I think the combination of your self-absorption and my fear of just about everyone in Manhattan conspires against us."

"Oh baby, you're so tough," I'm telling her. "Nobody scares you."

"Do you know Alison Poole?" she asks.

"Um." I cough lightly and then mutter, "I'll pass on that one."

"That's not what I heard—"

"Hey, when's the last time you saw me?" I ask, cutting her off. "Because the Klonopin I'm on affects long-term memory."

"Well," she starts, "I saw photos of you at the shows in WWD last week."

"You mean the Todd Oldham show?" I'm asking. "Do you still have that issue?"

"No, you were at the Calvin Klein show," she says.

"Oh yeah," I say vacantly. "Yeah, that's right."

"I guess I became aware of you—and that I wasn't going to be able to escape you—when I saw a Gap ad you did a couple years ago," she says. "It was a pretty decent black-and-white photo of just your head and it said something like 'Even Victor Ward Wears Khakis' or whatever. It gave off the impression that you wore those khakis rather proudly, Victor. I was damn impressed."

"Did we—" I start, then shake my head. "Forget it."

"What? Did we end up hating each other? Did we end up the way we thought we always knew we would? Did I end up wearing khakis because of that fucking ad?"

"No, did we . . . ever do a fashion shoot for GQ together?"

A long pause. She stares disconcertingly at my near-empty martini glass. "How many of those have you had?" Another pause. "Boy—I think you need to get off the Klonopin, guy."

"Forget it. I knew it was a crazy question, forget it," I say, trying to smile, shaking my head. "So who's been sleeping in your bed?"

"I'm enjoying the art of being semi-single," she sighs.

"I'm seeing your face in a new light," I say, resting my chin in the palm of my hand, staring straight at her. "And you're lying."

"About what?" she asks hesitantly.

"About being single."

"How would you know?"

"Because girls who look like you are never single," I say faux-confidently. "Plus I know you, Jamie. You like guys too much."

She just stares at me, mouth open, and then starts laughing hysterically and doesn't stop cracking up until I ask, "Did you have cheekbones like that back at Camden?"

She takes a couple of deep breaths, reaches over to finish my martini and, flushed, panting, asks, "Victor, what do you expect me to say to that?"

"You dropped a bomb on me, baby," I murmur, staring at her.

Startled, pretending not to be, she asks, "I did what?"

"You dropped a bomb on me," I say. "You, like, affected me."

"When did this happen?"

"When we first met."

"And?"

"And now I'm in the same state."

"Well, get over it," she says. "Get over yourself as well."

"You're thinking something, though," I say, refusing to break eye contact, not even blinking.

"Yes, I am," she says finally, smiling.

"What are you thinking, Jamie?"

After a pause and looking directly back at me, she says, "I'm thinking you're a potentially interesting person who I might want to get reacquainted with."

"You've always been one of the fifty most inspiring women in the world to me."

"Would you like to get reacquainted, Victor?" she asks, daring me, lowering her eyes, then raising them back up, widening them.

Suddenly the way she says this and the look on her face—total sex—flusters me, and with my face burning, I try to complete a sentence but only "I, um, don't know . . ." comes out. I end up staring down at the table.

"Don't be shocked," she says. "I'm not saying let's fuck. I'm just saying maybe we can get . . . reacquainted."

"Hey, nothing shocks me anymore, baby."

"That's good," she says after a while, studying me. "That's very good, Victor."

After the table has been cleared and we've split a dessert, she asks, "What are you thinking about?"

After a long pause, debating which way to go, I say, "I'm thinking, Does she still do drugs?"

"And?" she asks teasingly.

"And . . . does she have any on her right now?"

Smiling, getting into the spirit, Jamie says, "No." A slight pause.

"But I know where you can get some."

"Waiter?" I lift my hand. "Check, please?"

After he brings it, Jamie realizes something.

"You're actually paying?" she asks. "Oh my god."

"Hey baby, I'm flush," I say. "I'm on a roll. I'm happening.”

Watching me slap down the appropriate amount of cash, including a giant tip, Jamie murmurs, "Maybe things really have changed."

1 0

As the Chemical Brothers' "Setting Sun" blasts out on cue we're back in Notting Hill at some industrial billionaire's warehouse-one of the more elaborate sets so far, which is really a massive series of warehouses within one enormous building-and it's a party for Gary Hume, though in actuality it's in honor of Patsy and Liam and getting in is hard if you're not like us but Jamie's whisked through a silver archway right behind Kate Moss and Stella Tennant by guards wearing headsets, and the feel of what's going on outside the warehouse is "just another giant media event" with the prerequisite camera vans parked in front, barricades, fans reaching out, fame, people's names on the back of jackets, kids looking at us thinking that's what we want to look like, thinking that's who we want to be. When I ask Jamie about the identity of the industrial billionaire she tells me he funds certain wars and is also a "friendly" alcoholic and then we bump into Patsy Palmer and Martine McCutcheson and we all end up telling Nellie Hooper how much we adore the new Massive remix as Damon Albarn kisses Jamie on both cheeks.

Inside: most of the vast empty spaces in the warehouse look like restaurant kitchens with giant windows steamed over and it's freezing because of all the mammoth ice sculptures on display and bands are playing on different floors (the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's in the basement) and everyone's doing Gucci poses while drinking Tsingtao beer but it's also a kind of Gap-T-shirt-and-Prada-penny-loafers night, no pitfalls, camcorders everywhere, Carmen Electra in a purple Alaïa dress dancing with one of the ice sculptures, and sometimes the party's in black-and-white and sometimes it's in glaring color like in the new Quicksilver ads and the mood is all basically very antistyle and we're shivering like we're lodged in an iceberg somewhere that's floating off the coast of Norway or a place equally cold.

Music is melodic trip-hop on the level where Jamie and I have staked out a small lime-green couch below a massive steel staircase, white flowers surrounding us everywhere, a giant digital clock face glows in the dark, projected yards above us on the ceiling, and we're doing mellow coke Jamie scored effortlessly and because she stole a Waring blender from one of the kitchens we're drinking bright-orange slushy tequila punches and sometime during all of this Jamie changed into black Jil Sander, and unimportant paparazzi try to snap some shots but jamie's weary and I'm looking a little too wired to be camera-ready so I push them away, snarling, "Hey, she needs her privacy. Jesus—we're just people," and someone else floats by, taking up their interest, and I watch, a little disappointed, as the paparazzi follow, leaving us behind. Shadows are being taken aside and whispered to. We light each other's cigarettes.

"Thank you, Victor," Jamie says, exhaling. "You didn't need to be that, um, firm, but I'm glad you're feeling so . . . protective.

"Everyone's so thin and gorgeous, baby," I'm gushing, the cocaine flowing through me. "And their teeth are, like, white. It's not exactly how I remember London, baby."

"Well, since most of the people here are Americans I wouldn't worry about your memory."

"This is the coolest party," I'm gushing.

"I thought you'd be impressed," she sighs.

"What do you think of this place?" I ask, moving closer to her on the lime-green couch.

"Well," she says, looking around, "I think it looks a little too much like a new Philippe Starck hotel."

"Too much?" I'm asking, confused. "I think it's multi-useful, but baby, I don't want to talk about interior design, baby."

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" she says. "Besides yourself

"No, baby, I wanna talk about you." Pause. "Well, you and me."

Another pause. "But let's start with you. Can I have the coke?"

She slips the vial into my hand. "Let me guess—you want to be one of those guys whose ex-girlfriends never get over them, right?"

I turn to the wall, do a few quick blasts and offer my nose for inspection. She nods her head, meaning it's fine, then I slip the vial back to her while she waves over to some guy in a gray three-button Prada suit who's talking to Oliver Payton. The guy in the suit waves back somewhat semi-pretentiously, I feel. They are both holding pythons.

"Who's that?" I'm asking.

"Someone who did the legs in that new Tommy Hilfiger ad," Jamie says.

"This is the coolest party, baby," I'm gushing.

"You're feeling great and looking even better, right?"

I'm nodding. "The better you look, the more you see."

"I'm seeing Emily Lloyd maintaining remarkable poise while eating a giant grilled shrimp," Jamie yawns, opening the vial, turning away.

"I'm so exhausted."

"Hey look, there's Lulu Guinness—she made your bag," I'm saying, totally wired. "Hey, and there's Jared Leto—he's supposed to play me in the movie they're making of my life."

Jamie flinches and turns back to me, wiping her nose and taking a large gulp of tequila punch. "You need someone to teach you important life lessons, Victor."

"Yeah, yeah, baby, exactly," I'm saying. "But I think you're just having a hard time dealing with my hypermasculine vibe."

"Don't be a wuss, baby," she warns.

"Hey, if you didn't come to party, don't bother knocking on my door." I scoot closer to her, our thighs touching.

"Yeah, that's me." She lights a cigarette, smiling. "Little Miss Trouble."

"\Vhat happened to us at Camden, baby?" I'm asking. "Because for the life of me I cannot remember."

"Well, I think what happened was that first we established that you were an idiot," she says casually, exhaling.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, but I think I have major credibility now—"

"You also had gigantic intimacy problems that I doubt you've overcome.

"Oh spare me, spare me." I'm giggling. "Come on, baby." Leaning into her, I open my arms wide. "What could have possibly been wrong with me?"

"Besides not knowing your place?" she asks. "And that you liked to fuck complete strangers?"

"Hey, I thought you were the slutty one, baby," I say. "I also think that I've, er, evolved."

"I dumped you, Victor," she says, reminding me, but it's not harsh because she's leaning in, smiling.

"But it's not like you broke my heart," I whisper because we're close enough.

"That's because you didn't have one," she whispers back, leaning closer. "But hey, I don't necessarily find that . . . unsexy."

Looking into her face, I realize that she's more willing than I first thought and since I'm not in the mood yet I lean back, away from her, playing it cool, looking over the crowd, guzzling the punch. She pauses, reflects on something and sits up a little, sips her punch too, lets me leave a hand not holding my cigarette on her thigh.

"Rumor has it you fled the States, baby," I'm saying. "Why?"

"Rumor?" she asks, knocking my hand away by crossing her legs. "Who told you that?" Pause. "There are rumors about me?"

"Hey baby, you're a star." I'm shrugging. "You're in the press."

"You didn't even know I lived in New York, Victor," she says, frowning. "Jesus—what are you talking about? What press?"

"So . . . you did not flee the States?" I ask tentatively. "So-o-o you're not, like, hiding out here?"

"Flee the States? Hiding out here?" she asks. "For fuck's sake, Victor -get your shit together. Does it look like I'm hiding out?"

"Well, um, baby, I heard things—"

"I came here to make a lousy sci-fi movie," she says. "Who were you talking to? Who told you this garbage?"

"Hey baby, I heard things." I shrug. "I heard something about boyfriend troubles. I'm very well connected, you know."

She just stares at me and then, after the appropriate amount of time passes, shakes her head and mutters, "Oh my god.”

"So when are you coming back?" I'm asking.

"To where?" she asks. "To where you're going? I don't think so."

"To the States, baby—"

"The States? Who in the fuck calls it the States?"

"Yeah, the States, baby." I'm shrugging. "You wanna join me?"

A long pause that's followed by "Why are you so concerned whether I come back or not?"

"I'm not, baby, I'm not," I say, paying attention to her again, moving closer again. "I just want to know when and if you're leaving and if, uh, you need a lift."

"I don't know, Victor," she says, not moving away. "I don't know what I'm doing. In fact I don't even know what I'm doing at this party with you."

"Hey, I don't believe that," I say. "Come on, baby."

"Why don't you believe that?"

"Because of the way you said it." I shrug, but this time I'm staring at her intently.

She studies me too, then shudders. "I have a terrible feeling you're gonna end up on a late-night talk show in a pink tuxedo in about three years.

"Hey," I whisper huskily, "I'm built to last, baby." It's the cue for a kiss. "Baby—come to where the flavor is."

The lights flicker, then dim, the chorus to U2's "Staring at the Sun" bursts out and she tilts her neck so her mouth is more easily available to mine, confetti starts drifting down around us, and Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. suddenly starts running around, projected on an entire wall above our heads, and as our lips touch there's an insistency on her part that I'm reacting to but Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and the hat designer Philip Treacey stop by and that's when Jamie and I disengage and as we're all chatting Jamie asks Tara where the closest rest room is and as they all leave together Jamie winks at me and I not only experience a Camden flashback but also realize that I'm going to get laid and make $300,000. Note to self: why bother modeling anymore? New plan: remember all the girls I dated who might need locating. I start mentally composing a list, wondering if Palakon would be even mildly interested.

I'm staring at a group of Japanese guys hunched over a small TV set smoking cigars and drinking bourbon while watching a tape of "Friends" and after one of them notices me he can't stop staring and, flattered, I pretend not to notice and, unsure of whether Jamie took the vial of cocaine with her, I start rifling through the Mark Cross suede tote bag she's carrying in this scene as the Smashing Pumpkins’ "1979" starts playing at an earsplitting level, people crying out in protest until it's turned down and replaced by the melodic trip-hop at low volume.

Inside the tote bag Jamie might have slipped the vial into: a Gucci snakeskin wallet, a miniature Mont Blanc fountain pen, an Asprey address book, Calvin Klein sunglasses, a Nokia 9000 cell phone, a Nars lip gloss, a Calvin Klein atomizer and a Sony ICD-50 portable digital recorder that I stare at questioningly until I'm cued to press Play and when I do, I hear my voice echoing hollowly in the empty space at Le Caprice.

"I um, don't know. . .”

"Don't be shocked. I'm not saying let's fuck. I'm just saying maybe we can get . . . reacquainted."

"Hey, nothing shocks me anymore, baby."

"That's good. . . . That's very good, Victor."

A voice above me, someone hanging over the banister wearing a Gucci tux, someone way too exquisitely handsome and my age, a guy who might or might not be Bentley Harrolds, the model, totally drunk, his tumbler filled to the brim with clear liquid dangling precariously from a hand attached to a sagging wrist:

"Oh, what a circus," he groans. "Oh, what a show."

I immediately turn off the recorder and drop it back into Jamie's tote bag, then look up at Bentley, flashing a sexy grin that causes Bentley's eyes to widen and then he's leering at me, blood rushing to his head turning his face crimson, and still hanging over the banister, he slurs, "You certainly don't make a mundane first impression.”

"And you're Bentley Harrolds," I say and then, gesturing toward the glass, "Hey bud, what are you drinking?"

"Er. . ." Bentley looks at his hand and then back at me, his eyes crossed with concentration. "I'm sipping chilled Bacardi," and then, still staring down at me: "You're full-frontal gorgeous."

"So I've been told," I say, and then, "How gorgeous?"

Bentley's moving down the staircase and now he's standing over me, swaying back and forth, flushed.

"You look like Brad Pitt," Bentley says. "After he's just wrestled a large . . . furry . . . bear." Pause. "And that gets me hot."

"Just give me a minute to calm down."

"What were you doing going through Jamie Fields' tote bag, by the way?" Bentley asks, trying to sit, but I'm scooting all over the couch, making it virtually impossible. He gives up, sighs, tries to focus.

"Um, I suppose you don't want to hear about my strenuous workout in the Four Seasons gym this morning instead, huh?"

A long pause while Bentley considers this. "I . . . might"—he gulps—"faint."

"You wouldn't be the first."

The Japanese guy keeps swigging bourbon and glancing over at me, then nudges another Japanese guy, who waves him away and goes back to watching "Friends," chewing down on a carton of Hägen-Dazs Chocolate Midnight Cookies. With a grunt, Bentley squeezes down next to me on the lime-green couch and—concentrating on my arms, chest and legs—finally has to admit something.

"I'm capable of being thrilled by you, Victor."

"Ah, I thought you recognized me."

"Oh, you're recognizable, all right," Bentley guffaws.

"Well, that's me."

Bentley pauses, considers something. "Can I ask you something, Victor?"

"Shoot."

Bentley shakes his head side to side slowly and in a low voice warns, "Oh, you shouldn't suggest that."

"I meant"—I clear my throat—"go ahead."

Bentley clears his throat lightly, then asks, totally serious, "Are you still dating Stephen Dorff?"

Jamie suddenly flops down between us as I'm coughing up the tequila punch, taking in air. "There's a croquet game on the sixth floor and accessories on five," she says, kissing Bentley on the cheek.

"Hello, darling," Bentley says, kissing her back.

"Why are you choking?" Jamie asks me. "Why is he choking?" she asks Bentley, and then, "Oh Bentley, what did you do?"

"Moi?" Bentley whines. "Oh, just asked a personal question that got exactly the kind of response that satisfied me immensely."

"I didn't answer any question," I croak, wiping my mouth.

"Well, give Bentley an answer now, baby," Bentley says.

Playing along—but also panicked—I shrug. "Maybe it's true."

Bentley takes this in calmly, then, totally deadpan, his eyes closed with pain and longing, asks, "Would you move in with me, please?"

"How disco, baby," I say, recovering. "But I'm, um"—I glance over at Jamie, who seems like she could care less—"involved."

Another long pause on Bentley's part, during which he tosses back what's left of the chilled rum and gathers his thoughts. "Well, then," he asks, "can I . . . watch?"

"Er, no."

"He was looking through your purse, Jamie," Bentley says, immediately sober, pointing a finger at me.

"Hey, I was looking for the coke," I say.

"Jesus, Victor," she says, reaching into a jacket pocket. "Here. You don't need to go through my things." But the annoyance lasts only a millisecond because she's waving back at Iris Palmer and Honor Fraser, while Bentley bows his head, raising his empty glass.

"Iris looks fabulous," Jamie murmurs.

"How do you and Mr. Ward know each other, Jamie?" Bentley asks, leaning over. "And I'll leave him alone-I promise. It's just that I was flirting with Harry Nuttall all evening and then I had my sights set on Robbie but it's all just been intolerably arid—" And then, squinting into the crowd, "Oh my god, who invited Zandra Rhodes?"

"We went to Camden College together, Bentley," Jamie says. "However, I graduated." She turns to me. "Did you?"

"Oh, that's right," Bentley says. "Bobby told me that."

"Who's Bobby, baby?" I'm asking, trying to get her attention.

Bentley suddenly pretends to be looking around, "busying himself," his eyes widening exaggeratedly, and over his shoulder the Japanese guy keeps staring in such a strange way that it's starting to cause me major discomfort and maybe Jamie notices this too because she leans in, blocking the view, and kisses me softly on the lips and maybe that's an answer to the Bobby inquiry. While I'm staring into Jamie's face—her expression saying basically "hey, it's okay"—Bentley dramatically clears his throat and Jamie pulls back, almost shamefully. Again I'm left staring at the Japanese guy.

"So Victor," Bentley says, staring at me with all the subtlety of a raven, "what do you think of London?"

"Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust, I see."

"How tongue-in-chic."

"Hey Joaquin, hey man," I call out, waving Joaquin Phoenix over, and he's dressed in a brown Prada suit and has his hair swept back and he shakes my hand and, recognizing Jamie, kisses her on the cheek and nods briefly at Bentley.

"Hey, how's this party, man?" I'm asking. "Wild, huh?"

"It's very . . . unstuffy," Joaquin says, giving the party behind him a cursory look. "I kind of like it. Better than last night, huh?"

"Yeah man," I'm saying. "So what are you doing in town, man?" Joaquin flinches, pretends he didn't hear me.

"What?"

"What are you doing in town, man?" I ask, staring up into his face.

"Uh, Victor, man," Joaquin says. "I told you last night I'm shooting that John Hughes movie in Hampstead."

"Oh," I say. "Yeah, yeah, that's right."

"Did you two see each other last night?" Bentley asks, suddenly paying close attention, emphasis on all the wrong places.

"We were at Annabel's," Joaquin sighs, scratching at a sideburns "It was a party for Jarvis Cocker that Catrina Skepper threw." He takes a sip from a bottle of Tsingtao.

"Man, I guess I'm just like, um, really . . . jet-lagged," I say, forcing a casual grin. "Yeah, that was such a fun party."

"It was okay." Joaquin shrugs.

He doesn't stay long because Iris Palmer and Bella Freud whisk him away and Bentley lights another cigarette for Jamie, who's just staring on a continuous basis in a very hard, weird way at me, as if she's trying to figure something out. I play along by cocking my head, looking confused, grinning dumbly, fooling around with my own cigarette that Bentley insists on trying to light, shrugging my shoulders guy-like.

"I think Joaquin's harelip is fabulous," Bentley intones dramatically.

"Why did you tell him you were at Annabel's last night?" Jamie asks me.

"Because, baby, I was," I say. "Yeah, Jarvis and I hung out and then Joaquin and I, er, hung out some more and . . . it was just like clowns to the left of us, jokers to the right, y'know, baby?"

Jamie nods, inhales on the cigarette, then says, "But you weren't there, Victor."

"Hey, how do you know, baby?" I'm asking.

"Because I was there, Victor," she says.

A long pause and then, feigning outrage, I ask, "And you didn't say hello? Jesus, baby."

"I didn't say hello, Victor, because you were not there," Jamie says. "I would've remembered if you had been there, Victor."

"Well, Joaquin says he saw me there—so hey." I lift my arms up, shrugging, hoping this gesture will do for an answer. "Maybe you didn't see me."

Bentley's pulling white roses out of chrome vases, smelling them, fastening one to his lapel, squinting out at the rest of the room, at the extras sweeping past. Jamie keeps staring at me. I'm nodding my head to the music, trying to get a grip.

"What are you doing in London, Victor?" Jamie asks.

"Having a fly time, bay-bee," I say, leaning up into her face, kissing her again on the lips, this time harder, a tongue slipping through. Jamie kisses back but suddenly it's broken because of shadows standing over us and someone saying, "Kula Shaker's performing on the sixth floor."

Above us is this impossibly gorgeous couple, smiling wryly at Jamie as if she'd just done something wrong, and the girl is wearing a white Yohji Yamamoto sheer slip dress and I vaguely recognize her as Tammy, this model from Kentucky, and she's holding hands with Bruce Rhinebeck, also model handsome and wearing a shiny Gucci fitted suit with a Dolce & Gabbana leather jacket over it and he automatically hands Jamie the joint they're sharing.

"And word is flashing about that the DJ on the roof is Laurent Garnier," Bruce says. "Sounds crunchy, huh?"

"Hey guys," Jamie says, and then, an afterthought, "Oh, this is Victor Ward."

"Ah, terrific," Bruce says, not ungentlemanly. "Another expatriate."

"Nice eyebrows, bud," I tell Bruce.

"Thanks," he says. "They're mine."

"We're bored and need to split," Tammy says.

"Can we go to Speed tonight?" Bentley asks. "LTJ Bukem is spinning. Or we can stay here because I think I'm having the time of my life."

"I've had the most terrible day," Tammy says. "I just want to go home and collapse."

"What are you drinking?" Jamie asks, taking the glass out of Tammy's hand. "Can I have a sip?"

"It's rum, tonic and lime juice," Tammy says. "We overheard somewhere that it's the new drink of the decade."

"Drink of the decade?" Bentley groans. "Oh, how horribly disgusting. What horribly disgusting person so named that measly little cocktail?"

"Actually it was Stella McCartney," Tammy says.

"Oh, she's wonderful," Bentley says, sitting up. "I love Stella - ooh, let me have a sip." He smacks his lips after tasting the drink. "Oh my god—I think Stella's right. This little baby is the new drink of the decade. Jamie—alert the media. Somebody—nab a publicist."

"I spent most of the day at the Elite Premier offices." Tammy yawns, leaning into Bruce. "Then lunch in Chelsea."

"Oh, where?" Bentley asks, studying a white rose.

"Aubergine," Tammy sighs. "I spent what could have been two hours in Vent and then I had drinks at the Sugar Club before coming here. Oh Jesus, what a day."

"I had that Craig McDean photo shoot," Bruce says, taking the joint back from Jamie. "Then I watched representation for the Spice Girls sign a gargantuan record deal and had an early dinner at Oxo Tower with Nick Knight, Rachel Whitehead and Danny Boyle."

"You're a man of substance." Jamie smiles.

"I'm a preeminent tastemaker." Bruce smiles back.

"You're sheer genius, baby," Tammy tells Jamie.

"And you're the fall's most revealing fashion trend," Bentley tells Tammy.

"A-list all the way," Bruce says, squeezing Tammy's hand.

"What is this?" I'm asking. "Night of the Perpetually Chic?"

"It looks like everybody's going somewhere, but they're not, really," Tammy says, looking around.

"Let's face it, the impression I get is: boom—this is over," Bruce says, finishing the roach.

Since the tape of "Friends" is being rerun, the Japanese guy has engaged two of his buddies to start looking at me and he's gesturing wildly and I'm trying to recall the ads I did that appeared in Japan but can't come up with any and Bruce is noticing my discomfort so he glances back at the Japanese guys and then Tammy and Jamie follow suit and I notice an almost imperceptible nod on Tammy's part that makes Bruce suggest, "Maybe, guys, it's time we escape."

Jamie leans into me and whispers, "Why don't you come with us?"

"Where are you guys going?" I ask as she helps me stand.

Tammy and Bruce lift Bentley up off the lime-green couch and Bentley sloshes around and they steady him and then guide his weaving body down a staircase.

"We're going back to our house."

"What's our house?"

"A place we all inhabit," she says. "Does that simplify matters for you?"

"Why don't you come back to the Four Seasons with me?"

"You may do whatever you want, Victor." Jamie leans in and kisses me so hard I back into a giant vase of white roses, my head pressed into them, petals brushing over my cheeks, my scalp, my neck.

"I'm just glad you're here," she purrs before guiding me downstairs to Bruce's Jaguar. "And safe," she adds quietly.

"All this persuasion," I moan.

9

Bruce races recklessly in a skillful way through London streets, Tammy in the front seat next to him lighting another joint, both of them occasionally eyeing us distantly in the rearview mirror, and even with the air-conditioning blasting the windows are steamed over and I'm between Bentley and Jamie and she's clinging to me in the darkness of the backseat and that Robert Miles song "One and One" is blasting out of the speakers and I'm hungrily kissing her lips, craving her in a way I never did at Camden, while also contending with Bentley, who keeps reaching over, brushing confetti off the Versace jacket I'm wearing, and every time I push him away he makes doomed noises and Jamie keeps stroking my dick, which is stiff and raging against my thigh, and I have to keep repositioning myself and finally my hand wraps around hers, guiding it, applying more pressure, and when I'm too lost in Jamie, that's when Bentley's hand sneaks in and grabs something in my pocket and rubbing it he starts making gratified noises and then, when he realizes it's just a roll of Mentos, there's another doomed noise.

As Bruce makes a sweeping U-turn, changing direction because of streets blocked off due to bomb threats in Trafalgar Square, Primal Scream's "Rocks Off" blasts out and the Jaguar speeds up, careening around a corner, noise from the song pouring over us, and the windows are rolled down, wind rushing in, and every time Jamie touches me I'm seeing blue and leaping around with desire and then she kicks off her shoes and swings her legs up over my thighs so her feet lie across Bentley's lap and I'm leaning down, lights from the city flashing around us.

"You're so beautiful," she's whispering to me as my head drops down to hers, my face burning.

One or two more traffic delays provoke cursing. Bentley quarrels briefly with Bruce until he finds a still of Matthew McConaughey romping in a stream that someone left in the backseat and Bentley ends tip staring at it, occupied, and finally Bruce maneuvers the Jaguar into a driveway where a small gate slides open and when we pass through it a blinding light shoots out from points on the roof of the black house we've driven up to and then that light slowly fades as Bruce pulls out some kind of remote device and touches a few buttons and once it's dark everything vanishes except for the clouds in the open sky above us.

8

Inside the black house there's a doorway that I follow Jamie through and Bentley and Bruce and Tammy scatter, dispersing upstairs to bedrooms, and Jamie and I are in a dark place, and she's lighting candles and offering me a drink that smells like Sambuca and we both pop a Xanax to come off the coke before heading toward a hot bath in a room that smells of freshly painted walls where more candles are lit and Jamie tears off the Jil Sander suit and helps me undress, and she finally pulls my Calvin Klein boxer-jockeys off while I'm on the bathroom floor, delirious and giggling, my legs up in the air, Jamie standing over me, candlelight throwing her elongated shadow over the walls and ceiling, and my hand's reaching for her ass and then we're in the water.

After the bath she pushes me onto a sprawling bed and I'm drugged out and turned on and a Tori Amos CD plays softly in the background and then I'm lying on my side, marveling at her, my hand running along the sparse hair on her cunt, fingers slipping in and out, strumming along it, while I let her suck on my tongue.

"Listen," she keeps whispering, breaking away.

"What, baby?" I whisper back. "What is it?"

She doesn't want to fuck so she starts giving me head and I swing her around and start eating her pussy which is hot and tight and I'm taking it slow, licking with long strokes of my tongue, sometimes all the way up to her asshole spread above me, and then driving the tongue in deeper and faster, sometimes stiffening it, making my tongue rigid and fucking her with it, then taking as much of her pussy into my mouth as I can, sucking on the whole thing, and then I flick the tip of my tongue over her clit and that's when she sits up on my face, humping it while I reach up, massaging her nipples as she comes touching her clit with her middle finger, my mouth slobbering all over her hand, and she's making weeping sounds and when I come she tries to steady my hips with her chest because they're thrusting up involuntarily and with her hand pumping my cock I shoot all over her, ejaculating endlessly and so hard I have to bury my face and mouth back into her pussy to muffle the shouts my orgasm forces me to make and then I drop back, wetness from her vagina smeared all over my chin, lips, nose, and then it's silent except for my breathing. The CD that was playing has stopped, a few candles have burned out, I'm spinning.

In the darkness I hear her ask, "You came?"

"Yeah," I pant, laughing.

"Okay," she says, the bed making rustling noises as she gets off it, carefully holding up an arm as if she's afraid of dropping something.

"Hey baby—”

"Good night, Victor."

Jamie walks toward the door, swings it open, light from the hallway causes me to squint, shielding my eyes, and when she closes the door blackness blossoms out of control and still spinning I'm also moving upward toward something, a place where there's someone waiting to meet me, voices calling out follow, follow.

7

I'm waking up because of the sun streaming through the skylight and chic steel beams onto the bed where I'm staring at the geometric patterns etched on those chic steel beams. I tentatively sit up, bracing myself, but I've apparently slept off what should have been a major hangover. I check out the surroundings: a room done in ash gray and totally minimalist, a large steel vase filled with white tulips, lots of gorgeous chrome ashtrays scattered everywhere, a steel nightstand where a tiny black phone sits on a copy of next month's Vanity Fair with Tom Cruise on the cover, a Jennifer Bartlett painting hanging over the bed. I open a steel blind and peer out at what looks like a reasonably fashionable London street, though I'm not quite sure where. There are no clocks in the room so I have no idea what time it is but the way the clouds are racing past the sun above the skylight suggests it's not morning.

I call the Four Seasons asking for messages but there aren't any and a flicker of panic I think I can control starts spreading and I wash it off in the shower adjacent to the bedroom, the stall made up of pale-green and dark-gray tiles, and the bathtub Jamie and I used last night is drained, melted candles on its rim, Kiehl's products neatly lined up next to stainless-steel sinks. I dry off and take a Ralph Lauren bathrobe hanging from a hook and drape it over me before opening the door very slowly because I'm unsure of what's behind it.

6

I'm standing on what looks like the second floor of a three-story town house and everything is stark and functional and so open you can't really hide anywhere. I'm moving down a hallway—passing bedrooms, a study, two bathrooms, rows of empty shelves—heading toward a staircase that will take me to the first floor, and the color scheme incorporates aqua and apple and cream but ash dominates-the color of chairs and couches and comforters and desks and vases and the carpets lining the bleached oak floors—and then moving down the stairs, gripping the cold steel railing, I step into a huge open space divided in two by a series of tall steel columns and the floors are suddenly terrazzo and the windows are just cubes of opaque glass. There's a dining area where Frank Gehry chairs surround a giant Budeiri granite table below diffused lighting. There's a salmon-hued kitchen where shelves hang by steel rods and the vintage refrigerator contains yogurt, various cheeses, a tin of unopened caviar, Evian, half a round of focaccia; and in a cupboard, Captain Crunch, bottles of wine. The whole place seems transitory and it's freezing and I'm shivering uncontrollably and there's a profusion of cell phones piled on a fancy pink table and I'm thinking this is all too 1991.

The sound of Counting Crows on a stereo coming from the giant space in the middle of the house is what I'm moving toward and as I turn a steel column what comes into view is a massive pistachio-colored sofa and a big-screen TV with the volume off—Beavis and Butthead sitting rigid—along with an unplugged pinball machine standing next to a long bar made of distressed granite where two backgammon boards sit and I'm coming up behind a guy wearing a USA Polo Sport sweatshirt and baggy gray shorts hiked up a little too high and he's leaning over a computer where diagrams of airplanes keep flashing across the blue screen and on that desk is an Hermès rucksack with a copy of a book by Guy Debord hanging out of it along with various manila envelopes someone's doodled drawings of caterpillars all over. The guy turns around.

"I am freezing," he shouts. "I am fucking freezing."

Startled, I just nod and murmur, "Yeah . . . it's cold, man."

He's about six foot one with thick black hair cut very short and swept back, his impossibly natural-looking tan covering an underlying pink hue, and when I see those cheekbones I'm immediately thinking: Hey, that's Bobby Hughes. Dark-green eyes flash over at me and a bleachy white smile lifts up a chiseled jawline.

"Please allow me to introduce myself," he says, holding out a hand attached to a muscular forearm, bicep bulging involuntarily. I’m Bobby."

"Hey man," I say, taking it. "I'm Victor."

"Sorry if I'm a little sweaty." He grins. "I was just down in the gym. But sweet Jesus it's cold in here. And I have no idea where the goddamn thermostat is."

"Oh?" I say, stuck, then try to nod. "I mean . . . oh." Pause. "There's a gym . . . here?"

"Yeah"—he gestures with his head—"in the basement."

"Oh yeah?" I say, forcing myself to be more casual. "That's so cool . . . man.

"They're all at the store," he says, turning back to the computer, lifting a Diet Coke to his lips. "You're lucky you're here—Bruce is cooking tonight." He turns back around. "Hey, you want some breakfast? I think there's a bag of croissants in the kitchen somewhere and if Bentley didn't drink it, maybe some OJ left."

Pause. "Oh, that's okay, that's okay. I'm cool." I'm nodding vacantly.

"You want a Bloody Mary?" He grins. "Or maybe some Visine? Your eyes look a little red, my friend."

"No, no . . ." A pause, a shy smile, an inward breath, then exhaling, barely. "It's okay. It's cool."

"You sure, guy?" he asks.

"Um, yeah, uh-huh."

Expelled his first term from Yale for "unruly behavior," Bobby Hughes started modeling convincingly enough for Cerutti at eighteen to skyrocket from that gig into an overnight sensation. This was followed by becoming Armani's favorite model and then various million-dollar deals, sums unheard of for a man at that time. There was the famous Hugo Boss ad where Bobby was flipping off the camera, the tag line "Does Anybody Really Notice?" below him in red neon letters, and then the historic Calvin Klein commercial of just Bobby in his underwear looking vacant and coughing while a girl's voice-over whispered, "It will co-opt your ego," and when GQ still ran models on the cover, Bobby's face was there endlessly, dead-eyed and poised. He was the boytoy in two Madonna videos, the "sad lost guy" in a Belinda Carlisle clip and shirtless in countless others because he had a set of breathtaking abdominals before anyone was really paying attention to the torso, and he was probably the major force in starting that craze. During his career he walked thousands of runways, garnering the nickname "The Showstopper." He was on the cover of the' Smiths' last album, Unfortunately. He had a fan club in Japan. He had great press, which always pushed the notion that beneath the drifting surfer-dude image Bobby Hughes was "alert" and had a “multifaceted personality." He was the highest-paid male model for a moment during the 1980s because he simply had the best features, the most sought-after look, the perfect body. His calendar sold millions.

He gave his last interview to Esquire during the winter of 1989, which was where he said, not at all defensively, "I know exactly what I'm going to do and where I'm going," and then he more or less just vacated the NewYork fashion scene—all this before my life in the city really began, before I was known as Victor Ward, before I met Chloe, before my world began to take shape and started to expand—and then the occasional grainy photograph of him would show up in certain European fashion magazines (Bobby Hughes attending a consulate party in Milan, Bobby Hughes standing in the rain on Wardour Street dressed in Paul Smith green, Bobby Hughes playing volleyball on the beach in Cannes or in the lobby at the Cap d'Antibes at dawn wearing a tuxedo and holding a cigarette, Bobby Hughes asleep in the bulkhead seats on the Concorde), and because he had stopped giving interviews there were always tabloid rumors about his engagement to Tiffani—Amber Thiessen or how he "almost" broke up Liz Hurley and Hugh Grant or how he did break up Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh. He supposedly had firsthand knowledge of certain S&M bars in Santa Monica. He supposedly was going to star in the sequel to American Gigolo. He supposedly had squandered the fortune he'd accumulated on failed restaurants, on horses and cocaine, on a yacht he named Animal Boy. He supposedly was heading back to modeling at an age that was considered "iffy" at best. But he never did.

And now he's here in the flesh—four years older than me, just a foot away, tapping keys on a computer terminal, sipping Diet Coke, wearing white athletic socks—and since I'm not really used to being around guys who are so much better looking than Victor Ward, it's all kind of nerve-racking and I'm listening more intently to him than to any man I've ever met because the unavoidable fact is: he's too good-looking to resist. He can't help but lure.

"Um, I'm kind of lost," I start, hesitantly. "Where . . . exactly am I?"

"Oh." He looks up, stares straight at me, blinks once or twice, then decides something. "You're in Hampstead."

"Oh yeah?" I say, relieved. "My friend Joaquin Phoenix—you know, River's brother?"

Bobby nods, staring intently.

"Well, he's shooting the new John Hughes movie in, um, Hampstead," I say, suddenly feeling ridiculous in this robe. "I think," I add, a little stressed.

"Oh, that's cool," Bobby says, turning back to the computer.

"Yeah, we saw him at the party last night."

"Hey, how was that party?" he asks. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"The party was, well . . ." Nervously, I try to explain. "Let's see, who was there? Well, it was in Notting Hill —"

"Of course," he says derisively, which almost puts me at ease.

"Oh gosh, I know, man, I know." Stuck, just staring at him as he glances back at the computer screen, I tighten the robe around me.

"It was for the painter Gary Hume, right?" he asks, coaxing.

"Oh yeah," I say. "But everyone knew it was really for Patsy and Liam."

"Right, right," he says, tapping three keys and rapidly calling onto the screen more airplane diagrams. "Who was there? What luminaries showed up?"

"Well, um, Kate Moss and Stella Tennant and Iris Palmer and I think Jared Leto and Carmen Electra and, um, Damon Albarn and . . . we drank orange punch and . . . I got pretty wasted . . . and there were lots of . . . ice sculptures."

"Yeah?"

"Where were you, man?" I ask, finally easing into a more comfortable vibe.

"I was in Paris."

"Modeling?"

"Business," he says simply.

"But not modeling?"

"No, that's all over," he says, checking something in a notebook that lies open next to the computer. "I completed that part of my life."

"Oh yeah man," I say, nodding. "I know what you mean."

"Really?" He grins, looking over his shoulder. "Do you?"

"Yeah." I shrug. "I'm thinking of calling it quits too."

"So what are you doing in London, then, Victor?" Bobby asks.

"Off the record?"

"Modeling?" He grins again.

"Oh spare me, man, spare me," I laugh. "No way—I mean, I really want to get out of that, branch out."

"It's a very rough life, right?"

"Man, it's so hard."

"Potentially devastating."

"I'm just kicking back and taking a breather."

"I think that's a smart move."

"Yeah?"

"It can ruin people. I've seen people destroyed."

"Me too, man. I am so with you."

"I have no stomach for it," he says. "I have absolutely no stomach for it."

"But . . . you have, like, a great stomach, man," I say, confused.

"What?" Bobby looks down at himself, realizes where I'm coming from and starts smiling, his confused expression turning sweet. "Oh, right. Thanks. Hmm."

"So when did you get in?" I ask, beginning the bonding process.

"This morning," he yawns, stretching. "How about you?"

"A couple days ago," I tell him.

"You came in from New York?"

"Yeah man."

"What's New York like these days?" he asks, concentrating on the screen again. "I'm rarely there. And what I read about I'm not sure I can handle. Maybe I'm just all grown up or something."

"Oh, y'know, it's all kind of, um, bogus, man," I say. "Young people are such idiots, you know what I'm saying?"

"People applauding madly as supermodels gyrate down runways? No thanks, man."

"Oh man, I am so with you."

"What do you do there?"

"The usual. Modeling. I helped open a club last week." I pause. "I'm up for a part in Flatliners II."

"God, it's freezing," he shouts again, hugging himself "Are you cold too?"

"I'm a little chilly," I concede.

He pads out of the room and from somewhere in the house he yells, "Where is the fucking heater in this place?" and then he calls out, "Should we start a fire?"

CDs scattered on top of one of the giant speakers include Pete Gabriel, John Hiatt, someone named Freedy Johnston, the las Replacements album. Outside, through glass doors, a small terrace is surrounded by a garden filled with white tulips, and tiny birds congregate on a steel fountain, and as the wind picks up and shadows star crossing the lawn they decide something's wrong and fly away in unison.

"So who lives here?" I ask as Bobby pads back into the room. "I mean, I know it's a set, but it's pretty nice."

"Well, sometimes I rent it from someone," he says as he heads toward the computer and studies the screen. "And right now I'm sharing it with Tammy and Bruce, who I think you've met."

"Yeah, they're cool."

"And Bentley Harrolds, who's an old friend of mine, and Jamie Fields, whom"—a pause, without looking up at me—"I take it you know from college."

"Yeah, yeah." I'm nodding. "Right. She's cool too."

"Yeah," Bobby says wearily, flicking off the screen, sighing. "We're all pretty damn cool."

I consider going somewhere, debate, then decide to press ahead.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?" He's looking over at me again.

"I just want to, um, let you know that- this is going to sound really corny—but you were"—I take a deep breath—"a really, like, a really, like an inspiration to a lot of us and you were like a major influence and I just want to let you know that." I pause, look away, distressed, my eyes watering. "Did I just sound totally weird?"

Silence, then, "No. No, you didn't, Victor." He's staring at me warmly. "It's good. I like it. Thank you."

Relief washes over me, my throat tightens, and with difficulty, my voice totally strained, I manage, "No problem, man."

Voices outside in the yard. A gate opens, then closes. Four gorgeous people dressed in black, wearing sunglasses and carrying chic grocery bags, move through the darkening garden and toward the house. Bobby and I watch them from behind the glass doors.

"Ah, the troops return," Bobby says.

I wave at Jamie as the group walks toward the expanse of window I'm standing behind, but no one waves back. Bentley scowls, flicking away a cigarette. Bruce, holding two bags piled high with groceries, playfully nudges Tammy off the stone path. Jamie strides forward, staring straight ahead impassively, chewing gum.

"Why can't they see me?" I'm asking.

"That's one-way glass," Bobby says.

"Oh," I say. "That's . . . cool."

The four of them stagger through a back entrance and into the kitchen, a series of small electronic beeps sounding as someone closes the door. Turning, Bobby and I watch as they drop grocery bags on a large steel counter. We move closer, hitting our marks. Jamie is the first to see us and she whips off her sunglasses, smiling.

"So you're awake," Jamie says, walking toward us.

I smile at her and as she heads toward me I start expecting a kiss and I close my eyes, bouncing lightly up and down on the soles of my feet. A small rush of lust starts gaining momentum and then gets out of control, shoots out all over the place. But Jamie passes by and I open my eyes and turn around.

She and Bobby are embracing and he's kissing her hungrily, making noises. It takes too long for Jamie to notice me standing there staring, and as she pulls back a little Bobby hangs on and won't let go.

"You guys meet?" is all Jamie can ask after taking in the expression on my face.

"Yeah." I nod.

"Hey, let go," Jamie squeals, pushing Bobby off her. "Let go, let go."

But Bobby doesn't—he just keeps leaning in, kissing her face, her neck. I just stand there watching, hot, suddenly clearheaded.

"I think it's cocktail hour," Bentley says, pouting.

Tammy walks by where I'm standing. "We ran into Buffy. She just got back from climbing Everest. There were two deaths. She lost her cell phone."

I have no idea who this is directed at, so I just slowly nod my head.

"Hey, I'm ravenous," Bobby says, still holding Jamie in his arms, but she's not struggling anymore. "When are we eating?" he calls out. "What are we eating?" Then he whispers something into Jamie's ear and she giggles and then slaps his arms, grabbing at them with both hands where his biceps bulge.

"I'm making bruschetta," Bruce calls out from the kitchen. "Porcini risotto, prosciutto and figs, arugula and fennel salad."

"Hurry," Bobby bellows, nuzzling Jamie's face, squeezing her tighter. "Hurry, Bruce. I'm starving."

"Victor, what are you wearing under that robe?" Bentley asks, staring at me, holding a bottle of Stoll. "Wait—don't tell me. I don't think I can handle it." Walking back into the kitchen, he calls out, "I have your underwear, by the way."

"I'm taking a bath," Tammy says, batting her gray eyes at me. "You look remarkably put—together considering last night's carousing." She pouts, pushes her lips out. "It is five o'clock, though."

"Good genes." I shrug.

"Nice robe," she says, drifting upstairs.

"Hey, it's freezing in here," Bobby says, finally letting go of Jamie.

"Then get dressed," she says bitterly, walking away. "And get over yourself as well."

"Hey!" Bobby says, mock-stunned, his mouth opening, his jaw dropping in a parody of shock. He lunges toward her and Jamie squeals, delighted, and dashes into the kitchen and I'm seeing everything clearly, noticing that I've been standing in the same place for the last several minutes. Bentley calls out, "Be careful, Bobby—Jamie's got a gun.

And then Jamie's walking up to me, out of breath. Behind her Bobby's tearing through groceries, conferring with Bruce. Bentley asks one of them to taste a fresh batch of martinis.

"Where are my clothes?" I ask her.

"In the closet," she sighs. "In the bedroom."

"You guys make a really great couple," I tell her.

"Are all the doors locked?" Bobby's calling out.

Jamie mouths I'm sorry to me and turns away.

Bobby's moving around, slaps Jamie's ass as he walks past making sure everything's secure.

"Hey?" he asks somebody. "Did you forget to turn the alarms on again?"

5

As the sun goes down the crew gets shots of a flawless dusk sky before it turns black while the house inside brightens and the six of us—Bentley and Tammy and Bruce and Jamie and Bobby and myself-are slouching in the Frank Gehry chairs that surround the granite table in the dining area and I'm hanging back shyly as two handheld cameras circle us, creating a montage. Then plates and wine boffles are being passed around and despite the Bobby-Hughes-as-stumbling-block-to-$300,000-factor I start feeling peaceful and accepting and in the mood for anything and the constant attention these new friends are pushing my way makes me start ignoring certain things, especially the wav Jamie's eyes widen as they move back and forth between me and Bobby, sometimes cheerfully, other times not. I'm fielding questions about Chloe—the table genuinely impressed I was her boyfriend—and the YouthQuake cover and the band I quit and my workout routine and various muscle supplements and no one asks "Who are you?" or "Where are you from?" or "What do you want?" —questions that aren't pertinent because they all seem to know. Bentley even mentions press he read about last week's club opening that made it into London papers and he promises to show me the clippings later, no innuendo attached.

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"—l 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 giantfv 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 He'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 50 1 s, a Puffer jacket and Caterpillar boots. Sighing to myself, thinking, Oh dear, I make my way over to where Sam He'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?"

"Hey, watch it, Sam," I snap. "I've got a very strong reputation and no."

"Where is he?" Sam demands. "Where's Bobby?"

"Here," I say, handing him the envelope. "I'm just here to give you this and—"

Sam's not listening to me. He tears the envelope open greedily and pulls out the key and squints while reading the note and then he starts shivering uncontrollably and hugging himself, a beatific smile softening the angles of his face, making him seem less queeny, slightly more serene, not so jumpy. In seconds he's matured.

"Oh—my—God," Sam's saying, lost, holding the note against his chest. "Oh my God—he's essential."

"That's a fan talking," I point out.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Sam asks. "Let me guess—a yuppie beer with a lime stuffed in it?"

"The name's Victor," I point out. "Victor Ward."

"Victor, you're the spitting image of a boy I always wanted to fuck in high school but never had the nerve to approach." To calm himself down he lights a Marlboro and exhales dramatically.

"I find that hard to believe, Sam," I sigh. "So, like, spare me, okay?"

"Are you staying with Bobby?" he asks suspiciously.

"Yeah," I say, shrugging. "He's a friend."

"No—he's a god, you're the friend," Sam corrects. "Are you in the house on Charlotte Road?"

"Er, no, we're in Hampstead."

"Hampstead?" Sam looks back at the note. "But it says here you're on Charlotte Road."

"I only stay in hotels," I tell him. "So I'm really not sure where we are." I pause, stub out my cigarette. "It's just a set anyway.”

"Okay." Sam breathes in. "Do you have a car, and please say yes because I don't want to have to hijack a cab."

"Actually," I say, "I have a car and driver out back."

"Oh, this is excellent," Sam says. "But we have to elude someone."

"Who?" I ask, glancing around the VIP room.

"Those guys," Sam says, nodding his head. "Don't look, don't look. They're under that gold arch—over there. They just love to play games with me."

What looks like two bodyguards dressed in identical Armani overcoats stand close together not even conferring with each other beneath a blue light that accentuates the size of already enormous heads and they're being cruised by various fashion victims but their arms are crossed and they don't seem distracted. Their focus is on Sam, at the bar, leaning in to me.

"Who are they?"

"My father's idea," Sam says. "He's not happy about certain elements of my life."

"He has you followed?" I'm asking, stunned. "Jesus, and I thought my dad was a major fussbudget."

"I'm going to tell them I need to use the rest room and then"—he raps his fingers against my chest—"ooh, nice pecs—that I'm going home with you." He stuffs the envelope into his pocket. "They're usually too scared to enter the men's room with me—for the obvious reasons." Sam checks his watch and takes a deep breath. "I will tell them—before I disappear into the night—that I'm coming back after a much-needed piss to take you home with me, my little freak. Got it?"

"I—I guess that's, um, cool," I say, making a face.

"What color is the car?"

"It's a black limo," I say, trying not to look over at the bodyguards. "A guy with red hair is driving."

"Fabulous," Sam gushes. "I will see you out there. And remember—hurry. They look bulky but they can move."

"Are you sure this is all right?"

"I'm twenty-six," Sam says. "I can do what I want. Let's boogie."

"Um."

"Be careful on your way out," Sam says. "One of them usually carries a bottle of hydrochloric acid and is basically very stern." Sam pauses. "They used to work at the Israeli embassy."

"Is that a club?"

Sam Ho stops smiling and relaxes and touches the side of my face tenderly. "You're so mainstream," he murmurs.

I'm in the middle of telling him, "Hey, I'm just a very quiet club-goer—but I'm very tuned in," when he runs over to the bodyguards, points at me and says something that causes Bodyguard #1 to seriously blanch and then they both nod reluctantly as Sam scampers out of the room and Bodyguard #2 nods at #1 and follows Sam while Bodyguard #1 turns his attention to me, staring, and I turn away looking like I'm figuring out what I should be doing, hopelessly play with a Marlboro,

I glance over at the Christian Bale guy, who's still standing just a foot away at the bar, and leaning in, I ask, "Are we in the same movie?" He just starts scowling.

On cue, a girl sitting in one of the burgundy velvet booths yells her approval when Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" blasts out and she jumps up onto a platform, tearing off a Stussy dress and an Adidas T-shirt and in only her bra and Doc Martens starts thrashing around, twisting, doing what looks like the breaststroke, and at the precise moment Bodyguard, #I glances over at her a production assistant I didn't notice before cues me by whispering, "Now. Go, now!" and I casually pogo out of the VIP room while all the extras cheer.

3

In the alley outside Pylos I jump over the rope and tumble into a crowd of hip-hop enthusiasts waiting in the rain to gain entrance and once I've pushed through them I spin around to see if either of the bodyguards has followed me but I think I lost them when I pretended to duck into a DJ booth. Sam's already in the limo, sticking his head out the window, calling "Hey! Hey!" as I sprint over to the car and yell "Hurry!" to the driver. The limo skids out of the alley and Into Charing Cross Road, horns echoing behind us, and Sam has broken into the minibar, popping open a split of champagne, drinking straight from the bottle and finishing it in less than a minute while I just stare tiredly and then he starts shouting at the driver, "Go faster go faster, go faster!" and keeps trying to hold my hand. In his calmer moments Sam shows me his crystals, demands LSD, hands me a pamphlet about brainwave harmonizers, sings along to "Lust for Life" as it bursts from speakers in the back of the limo and he's drinking deeply from a bottle of Absolut and shouting "I'm a pinhead!" while sticking his head out the sunroof as the limo races through the drizzle back to the house.

"I'm seeing Bobby, I'm seeing Bobby," he singsongs, blitzed out, bouncing up and down on the seat.

I light a cigarette, trying to perfect my scowling. "Can you please mellow out?"

The limousine stops in front of the darkened house and then, once the gate opens, slowly pulls into the driveway. The roof lights immediately flash on, blinding us even through the limousine's tinted windows, then slowly fade.

Sam Ho opens the door and jumps out drunkenly, shambling toward the darkness of the house. At an upstairs window a silhouette appears, peering from behind a blind, and then the light goes out. "Hey Sam," I call, swinging my legs out of the limo. "There's an alarm system—be careful." But he's gone. Above us the sky has cleared and there's really nothing up there except for half a moon.

The driver waits for me to step from the limo and I'm suddenly surprised by how tired I am. I get out of the car and stretch, and then, just standing there, avoiding the house and what's going on within it, light a cigarette.

"Were we followed?" I ask the driver.

"No." He shakes his head curtly.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"The second unit took care of it," he says.

"Hmm." I take a drag off the cigarette, flick it away.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asks.

I consider the offer. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Well then, good night." The driver closes the door I just stepped out of and walks around the car, back to the driver's side.

"Hey," I call out.

He glances up.

"Do you know a guy named Fred Palakon?"

The driver stares at me until he loses interest and looks elsewhere.

"Right," I say tensely. "O-kay."

I open a gate and then it closes automatically behind me and then I'm walking through the darkened garden while R.E.M.'s "How the West Was Won" plays and above me, in the house, the lights in some of the windows don't reveal anything. The back door that leads into the kitchen is half-open and after I've walked in and closed it there's that series of electronic beeps. I move uncertainly through the space—nobody's downstairs, there's no sign of the crew, everything's spotless. I pull an Evian out of the fridge. A video—the end of Die Hard 2—silently plays on the giant TV, credits roll, then the tape starts rewinding itself. I brush confetti off the giant pistachio-colored sofa and lie down, waiting for someone to appear, occasionally glancing toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, listening intently, but hear only the whirring of the tape being rewound and the R.E.M. song fading. I vaguely imagine Jamie and Bobby together, maybe even with Sam Ho, in bed, and there's a pang; but after that, nothing.

A script lies on the coffee table and absently I pick it up, open it to a random page, an odd scene, descriptions of Bobby calming someone down, feeding me a Xanax, I'm weeping, people are getting dressed for another party, a line of dialogue ("what if you became something you were not") and my eyes are closing. "Fall asleep," is what I imagine the director would whisper.

2

Wakened suddenly out of a brief dreamless nap by someone calling "Action" softly (though when I open my eyes and look around the living room there's no one here), I get off the couch, noticing vacantly that the script I fell asleep reading has disappeared. I pick up the Evian bottle, take a long, deep swallow and carry it with me as I move uncertainly through the house, past spaces where someone has turned off various lights while I was sleeping. In the kitchen I'm staring into the refrigerator for what seems like days, unsure of what to do, when there's a strange noise below me-a rapid thumping sound, followed by maybe a muffled wail, and at the same instant the lights in the kitchen dim once, then twice. I look up, quietly say "Hello" to myself. Then it happens again.

Because of the way the set is lit, a door I never noticed in a hallway adjacent to the kitchen practically glows now. A framed Calvin Klein poster covers the top half-. Bobby Hughes on a beach, shirtless, white Speedos, impossibly brown and hard, not seeing a near-naked Cindy Crawford standing next to him because he's looking directly into the camera, at you. Drawn to it, I run my hand along the glass it's encased in and the door slowly swings open onto a staircase dotted with confetti and my breath immediately starts steaming because of how freezing it suddenly is and then I'm moving down the stairs, gripping the icy railing, heading toward the bottom. Another thump, the strange faraway wailings, the lights dimming again.

Belowground I'm moving down a plain, undecorated hallway, one arm extended, fingers trailing along the cold brick wall that lines this corridor, humming to myself—hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry—and I'm heading toward a door with another Calvin Klein poster on it, another beach scene, another shot of Bobby proudly baring his abdominals, another beautiful girl ignored behind him, and in a matter of seconds I'm standing in front of it, straining to assemble the vague noises I'm hearing on a sound track where the volume's too low. There's a handle, something I'm supposed to turn, and piles of confetti are scattered all over the concrete floor.

Vacantly, in this instant, I'm thinking of my mother and the George Michael concert I attended just days after she died, the azaleas on the block we lived on in Georgetown, a party where no one was crying, the hat Lauren Hynde gave me in New York, the tiny red rose on that hat. A final sip of Evian and I turn the handle, shrugging, the lights dimming once again.

"It's what you don't know that matters most," the director said.

Movement behind me. I turn around as the door opens.

Jamie's walking toward me quickly, dressed in sweats, her hair pulled back, wearing yellow rubber gloves that run all the way up to her elbows.

I smile at her.

"Victor," she shouts. "No—don't—”

The door swings open.

I turn, confused, looking into the room.

Jamie yells something garbled behind me.

Fitness equipment has been pushed aside into the corners of what looks like a soundproofed room and a mannequin made from wax covered in either oil or Vaseline, slathered with it, lies twisted on its back in some kind of horrible position on a steel examination table, naked, both legs spread open and chained to stirrups, its scrotum and anus completely exposed, both arms locked back behind its head, which is held up by a rope connected to a hook in the, ceiling.

Somebody wearing a black ski mask is sitting in a swivel chair next to the examination table, screaming at the mannequin in what sounds like Japanese.

Bruce sits nearby, staring intently at a metal box, his hands poised over the two levers that protrude from either side.

Bentley Harrolds camcords the proceedings—the camera aimed solely at the mannequin.

I'm smiling, confused, weirded out at how focused Bentley seems and shocked at how gruesome and inauthentic the waxwork looks.

The figure in the black ski mask keeps shouting in Japanese, then signals to Bruce.

Bruce nods grimly and moves his hand to a lever, pressing it, causing lights to flicker, and in a flash my eyes move from the wires connected to the box over to where they have actually been inserted into gashes and cuts on what I'm just realizing are the mannequin's nipples, fingers, testicles, ears.

The mannequin springs grotesquely to life in the freezing room, screeching, arching its body up, again and again, lifting itself off the examination table, tendons in its neck straining, and purple foam starts pouring out of its anus, which also has a wire, larger, thicker, inserted into it. Bunched around the wheels on the table legs are white towels spotted heavily with blood, some of it black. What looks like an intestine is slowly emerging, of its own accord, from another, wider slit across the mannequin's belly.

There is, I'm noticing, no camera crew around.

I drop the Evian bottle, startled, causing Bentley to glance over at where I'm standing.

Behind me, Jamie screams, "Get him out of here!"

Sam Ho is making noises I have never heard another person make before, and in between these arias of pain he's screaming, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," and the figure in the swivel chair rolls out of view of the camcorder and takes off the ski mask.

Sweaty and exhausted, Bobby Hughes mutters—I'm not sure to whom—the words "Kill him" and then, to Bentley, "Keep rolling."

Bruce stands and with a small sharp knife swiftly slices off Sam Ho's penis. He dies screaming for his mother, blood shooting out of him like a fountain until there's none left.

Somebody cuts the lights.

I'm trying to leave the room but Bobby blocks my exit and my eyes are closed and I'm chanting "please man please man please man," hyperventilating, breaking out into sobs. Someone who might be Jamie is attempting to hug me.

1

"Victor," Bobby's saying. "Victor, come on . . . come on, man, it's cool. Stand up—that's it."

We're in one of the ash-gray bedrooms upstairs. I'm on the floor hugging Bobby's legs, convulsing, unable to stop myself from moaning. Bobby keeps feeding me Xanax and for short stretches of time the shuddering subsides. But then I'm in the bathroom—Bobby waiting patiently outside—vomiting until I'm just gagging up spit, retching. When I'm through I lie there in a fetal position, my face pressed against the tiles, breathing erratically, hoping he'll leave me alone. But then he's kneeling beside me, whispering my name, trying to prop me up, and I keep clutching him, weeping. He places another pill in my mouth and leads me back into the bedroom, where he forces me to sit on the bed while he leans over me. Sometime during all this my shirt came off, and I keep clawing at my chest, grabbing myself so hard that patches of skin are reddened, on the verge of bruising.

"Shhh," he says. "It's okay, Victor, it's okay."

"It's not okay," I blurt out, sobbing. "It's not okay, Bobby."

"No, it is, Victor," Bobby says. "It's cool. You're gonna be cool, okay?"

"Okay," I'm sniffling. "Okay okay man."

"Good, that's good," Bobby says. "Just keep breathing in like that, just relax."

"Okay man, okay man."

"Now listen to me," Bobby says. "There are some things that you need to know." He's handing me a tissue, which I can't help tearing apart the second my fingers touch it.

"I just want to go home," I'm whimpering, shutting my eyes tight. "I just want to go home, man."

"But you can't," Bobby says soothingly. "You can't go home, Victor." Pause. "That isn't going to happen."

"Why not?" I ask, like a child. "Please, man "Because—"

"I swear to God I won't tell anyone, Bobby," I say, finally able to look at him, wiping my eyes with the tattered Kleenex, shuddering "I swear to God I won't say anything." again.

"No, you won't," Bobby says patiently, his tone changing slightly. "I know that. I already know that, Victor."

"Okay I'll go, okay I'll go," I say, blowing my nose, sobbing again.

"Victor," Bobby begins softly. "You were—hey, look at me."

I immediately look at him.

"Okay, that's better. Now listen to me." Bobby breathes in. "You were the last person Sam Ho was seen alive with."

He pauses.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asks.

I'm trying to nod.

"You were the last person seen with Sam Ho—okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"And when his body is discovered, traces of your semen will be found in him, okay?" Bobby's saying, nodding slowly, his eyes radiating patience, as if he were talking to a little kid.

"What? What?" I can feel my face crumpling again and suddenly I'm crying, pushing him away. "That didn't happen, that didn't happen, man, that can't—"

"Think back to what happened the other night, Victor," Bobby says, holding me tight, resting his head on my shoulder.

"What happened? What happened, man?" I say, suddenly hugging him, smelling his neck.

"You were in bed with Jamie, remember?" he says softly. "That will be the last time that ever happens." Pause. He hugs tighter.

"Do you hear me, Victor?"

"But nothing happened, man," I sob into his ear, shivering. "I swear nothing happened, man—"

A flash. My loud orgasm, its intensity, how I came all over my hands, my stomach, onto Jamie, how she wiped me off with her own hands, her careful exit, the angle she held her arm up as she left the room, the way I shielded my eyes from the light in the hallway, how I spun into sleep.

"Did you hear me, Victor?" Bobby asks, pulling gently away. "Do you understand now?" Pause. "Okay? Do you understand that nothing will ever happen between you and Jamie again?"

"I'll leave, man, it's okay, man, I'll leave, I won't tell anyone—”

"No, Victor, shhh, listen to me," Bobby says. "You can't go."

"Why not, man, just let me go, man—”

"Victor, you can't go anywhere "I want to go, man—"

"Victor, if you attempt to leave we will release photos and a videotape of you having sex with the ambassador's son—”

"Man, I didn't—"

"If you go anywhere they will be sent directly to—”

"Please help me, man—”

"Victor, that's what I'm trying to do."

"What . . . ambassador's son?" I ask, choking. "What in the fuck are you talking about, Bobby?"

"Sam Ho," Bobby says carefully, "is the Korean ambassador's son."

"But—but how . . . I didn't . . . I didn't do anything with him,"

"There are a lot of things you're going to have to reconcile, Victor," Bobby says. "Do you understand?"

I nod dumbly.

"You shouldn't be shocked by any of this, Victor," Bobby says. "This is expected. This was in the script. You shouldn't be surprised by any of this."

“But. . ." I open my mouth but my head falls forward and I start crying, silently. "But . . . I am, man."

“We need you, Victor," Bobby's saying, stroking my shoulder. "There are so many people who are afraid to move forward, Victor, who are afraid to try things." He pauses, continues stroking. "Everybody's afraid of changing, Victor." Pause. "But we don't think you are."

"But I'm a—" I gasp involuntarily, trying to ward off tiny waves of black panic from morphing into nausea. "But I'm a . . . really very together person, Bobby."

Bobby feeds me another small white pill. I swallow gratefully.

"We like you, Victor," he says softly. "We like you because you don't have an agenda." Pause. "We like you because you don't have any answers.

I gag reflexively, wipe my mouth, shudder again.

Outside it's almost dusk again and night sounds are registering and tonight there are parties we have to attend and in rooms throughout the second floor the rest of the houseguests are taking showers, getting dressed, memorizing lines. Today there were massages and Tammy and Jamie had their hair done at a salon that's so chic it doesn't even have a name or a phone number. Today there was a shopping expedition at Wild Oats in Notting Hill, which produced a crate of Evian water and Moroccan takeout that still sits in the salmon-hued kitchen. Today the Velvet Underground played throughout the house and on the computer in the living room various files were erased and mounds of information on disk were being terminated. Today the gym was washed and sterilized and towels and clothing were shredded and burned. Today Bentley Harrolds went to the Four Seasons along with Jamie Fields and they checked me out, retrieved my belongings, tipped various porters, made no arrangements with the front desk concerning how anyone might find me. Today travel plans were finalized and right now luggage is being packed since we are leaving for Paris tomorrow. Somewhere in all this a body was discarded and a videotape of its torture was sent to the appropriate address. Today the film crew left a message with the address of a house in Holland Park and instructions to meet them there no later than 9:00 tonight.

Clothes—a simple black Armani suit, a white Comme des Garçons shirt, a red Prada vest—lie across an ash-gray divan in the corner of the room. Bobby Hughes is wearing slippers and pouring mint tea from a black ceramic pot that he sets back down on a chrome table. Now he's choosing which Versace tie I should wear tonight from a rack hanging in a walk-in closet.

When we hug again, he whispers insistently into my ear.

"What if one day, Victor"—Bobby breathes in, holding me tighter—"what if one day you became whatever you're not?"

0

First we sipped Stolis at Quo Vadis in Soho for some European MTV benefit, then we arrived at the party in Holland Park in two Jaguar XK8s, both of them red and gleaming, parked at conspicuous angles in front of the house. People definitely noticed and started whispering to each other as the six of us walked in together and at that precise moment Serge Gainsbourg's "Je T'Aime" started playing continuously for the rest of the evening. There was no discernible center at the party, its hosts were invisible, guests had to come up with strained explanations as to why they were there and some had completely forgotten who had invited them, no one really knew. Emporio Armani underwear models moved through a crowd consisting of Tim Roth, Seal, members of Supergrass, Pippa Brooks, Fairuza Balk, Paul Weller, Tyson, someone passing around large trays of osso buco. Outside there was a garden filled with roses and below tall hedges children dressed in Tommy Hilfiger safari shirts were drinking candy-colored punch made with grenadine and playing a game with an empty bottle of Stolichnaya, kicking it along the expanse of plush green lawn, and beyond them, just night. Smells floating around inside the house included tarragon, tobacco flowers, bergamot, oak moss. "Possibly," I muttered to someone.

I was slouching in a black leather armchair while Bobby, in a suit he found on Savile Row, kept feeding me Xanax, whispering the sentence "You'd better get used to it" each time he departed. I kept petting a ceramic cat that was perched next to the armchair I was frozen in, occasionally noticing an oversized book lying on the floor with the words Designing with Tiles on its cover. There was an aquarium filled with cumbersome black fish that struck me as essential. And everyone had just gotten back from L.A. and people were heading to Reykjavík for the weekend and some people seemed concerned about the fate of the ozone layer while others definitely did not. In a bathroom I tranced out on a bar of monogrammed soap that sat in a black dish while I stood on a shaggy wool carpet, unable to urinate. And then I was biting off what was left of my fingernails while Sophie Dahl introduced me to Bruce and Tammy before they drifted off to dance beneath the hedges and there were giant banana fronds situated everywhere and I just kept wincing but Sophie didn't notice.

Almost always in my line of vision, Jamie Fields somehow managed to completely avoid me that night. She was either laughing over a private joke with Amber Valletta or shaking her head slightly whenever a tray of hors d'oeuvres—almojabanas specially flown in from a restaurant in San Juan—was offered and she was saying "I do" to just about anything that was asked of her. Bentley stared as an awkward but well-bred teenage boy drinking pinot noir from a medium-sized jug developed a crush on me in a matter of seconds and I just smiled wanly at him as he brushed stray bits of confetti off the Armani jacket I was wearing and said "cool" as if it had twelve os in it. It wasn't until much later that I noticed the film crew was there too, including Felix the cinematographer, though none of them seemed fazed, and then a small patch of fog started parting and I realized that maybe none of them knew about Sam Ho and what happened to him, the freakish way he died, how his hand twitched miserably, the tattoo of the word SLAVE blurring because of how hard his body vibrated. Bobby, looking airbrushed, handed me a napkin and asked me to stop drooling.

"Mingle," Bobby whispered. "Mingle."

Someone handed me another glass of champagne and someone else lit a cigarette that had been dangling from my lips for the past half hour and what I found myself thinking less and less was "But maybe I'm right and they're wrong" because I was yielding, yielding.