Glamorama

  “Christian Bale.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Gil Bellows.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s famous in a, um, certain universe.”

  “You mean area code.”

  “You mean zip code. Proceed.”

  “Kevin Bacon.”

  “Fine, fine. But please, where’s Sandra Bullock?” I ask.

  “Her publicist said …” Beau pauses.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “She doesn’t know,” JD finishes.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “Victor, don’t scrunch your face up,” Beau says. “You’ve gotta learn that it’s more important to these people to be invited than to actually show up.”

  “No,” I snap, pointing a finger. “People just really need to learn how to embrace their celebrity status.”

  “Victor—”

  “Alison Poole said Sandra Bullock was coming, is coming—”

  “When did you talk to Alison?” JD asks. “Or should I even be asking?”

  “Don’t ask why, JD,” Beau says.

  “Oh shit.” JD shrugs. “What could be cooler than cheating on Chloe Byrnes?”

  “Hey, watch it, you little mo.”

  “Is it because Camille Paglia once wrote eight thousand words on Chloe and not once mentioned you?”

  “That bitch,” I mutter, shuddering. “Okay, let’s do the Ds.”

  “Beatrice Dalle.”

  “She’s shooting that Ridley Scott movie in Prussia with Jean-Marc Barr.”

  “Barry Diller.”

  “Yes.”

  “Matt Dillon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Cliff Dorfman.”

  “Who?”

  “Friend of Leonardo’s.”

  “DiCaprio?”

  “He will be wearing Richard Tyler and red velvet slippers and bringing Cliff Dorfman.”

  “Robert Downey, Jr.”

  “Only if he does his Chaplin! Oh please please get Downey to do his Chaplin!”

  “Willem Dafoe.”

  “Party.”

  “Michael Douglas.”

  “Not coming. But Diandra is.”

  “I have assiduously followed the shattered path of their marriage. Check.”

  “Zelma Davis.”

  “I do not think I can control myself much longer.”

  “Johnny Depp.”

  “With Kate Moss. Dinner, yes.”

  “Stephen Dorff.”

  “Stephen”—I start, hesitantly—“Dorff. I mean, why are these people stars?”

  “DNA? Dumb luck?”

  “Proceed.”

  “Pilar and Nesya Demann.”

  “Of course.”

  “Laura Dern.”

  “Yikes!”

  “Griffin Dunne.”

  “No party is complete.”

  “Meghan Douglas.”

  “Somebody needs to hose—me—down.”

  “Patrick Demarchelier.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim Deutsch.”

  “Who?”

  “A.k.a. Skipper Johnson?”

  “Oh right, right.”

  “Shannen Doherty is coming with Rob Weiss.”

  “A special couple.” I’m nodding like a baby.

  “Cameron Diaz.”

  “What about Michael DeLuca?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Let’s move on to the Ss.”

  “Alicia Silverstone is a yes.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  “Sharon Stone is a maybe, though it ‘looks likely.’”

  “On and on and on—”

  “Greta Scacchi, Elizabeth Saltzman, Susan Sarandon—”

  “Tim Robbins too?”

  “Let me cross-reference—um, wait, wait—yes.”

  “Faster.”

  “Ethan Steifel, Brooke Shields, John Stamos, Stephanie Seymour, Jenny Shimuzu—”

  “Okay, okay—”

  “David Salle, Nick Scotti—”

  “More, more, more—”

  “Sage Stallone.”

  “Why don’t we just invite the fucking Energizer bunny? Go on.”

  “Markus Schenkenberg, Jon Stuart, Adam Sandler—”

  “But not David Spade.”

  “Wesley Snipes and Lisa Stansfield.”

  “Okay, my man.”

  “Antonio Sabato, Jr., Ione Skye—”

  “She’s bringing the ghost of River Phoenix with her,” Beau adds. “I’m serious. She demanded that it be put on the list.”

  “That’s so fucking hip I want it faxed to the News immediately.”

  “Michael Stipe—”

  “Only if he doesn’t keep flashing that damn hernia scar.”

  “Oliver Stone, Don Simpson, Tabitha Soren—”

  “Oh boy, we’re in the hot zone now.”

  “G. E. Smith, Anna Sui, Tanya Sarna, Andrew Shue—”

  “And Elisabeth Shue?”

  “And Elisabeth Shue.”

  “Great. Okay, what are we playing during cocktails?” Beau asks as I start walking out the door.

  “Start with something mellow. An Ennio Morricone soundtrack or Stereolab or even something ambient. Get the idea? Burt Bacharach. Then let’s move on to something more aggressive but unobtrusive, though not elevator music.”

  “Space-age bachelor-pad Muzak?”

  “Mood sounds?” I’m flying down to the fourth floor.

  “Some Polynesia tiki-tiki or crime jazz.” JD flies after me.

  “Basically an ultralounge cocktail mix.”

  “Remember, you have a meeting with DJ X at Fashion Café,” Beau calls down. “At five!”

  “Any news from Mica?” I call up from the third floor, where it’s freezing and a couple of flies merrily buzz past.

  “No. But Fashion Café at five o’clock, Victor!” Beau shouts out.

  “Why hasn’t anyone found Mica yet?” I shout, moving farther down into the club.

  “Victor,” JD shouts from behind me. “Can you tell the difference between a platitude and a platypus?”

  “One’s a … beaver?”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh god, this is hard,” I moan. “Where’s my publicist?”

  22

  My father sent a car to “insure my presence” at lunch, so I’m now in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car trying to get Buddy at the News on my cell phone, the driver traversing noontime traffic on Broadway, sometimes stuck in place, heading down to Nobu, passing another poster of Chloe in a bus shelter, an ad for some kind of Estée Lauder light-diffusing makeup, and the sun glints so hard off the trunk of a limousine in front of us that it traumatizes my eyes with a hollow pink burn and even through the tinted windows I have to slip on a pair of Matsuda sunglasses, passing the new Gap on Houston, adults playing hopscotch, somewhere Alanis Morissette sings sweetly, two girls drifting along the sidewalk wave at the Town Car in slow motion and I’m offering the peace sign, too afraid to turn around to see if Duke and Digby are following. I light a cigarette, then adjust a microphone that’s hidden beneath the collar of my shirt.

  “Hey, no smoking,” the driver says.

  “What are you gonna do? Just keep driving. Jesus.”

  He sighs, keeps driving.

  Finally Buddy clicks on, sounds like accidentally.

  “Buddy—Victor. What’s the story?”

  “Confirm this rumor for me: Are you dating Stephen Dorff?”

  “Spare me, Buddy,” I groan. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “Shoot,” he sighs.

  I pause. “Wait. I just, um, hope I’m still not on your guys-I-wanna-fuck list.”

  “No, you already have a boyfriend.”

  “Stephen Dorff is not my goddamn boyfriend,” I shout.

  The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. I lean forward and bang on the back of his seat. “Is there like a divider or partition or something that separates me from you?”

  The driver shakes his head.

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nbsp; “What have you got, Victor?” Buddy sighs.

  “Baby, rumor has it that in your possession is a picture of, um, well, me.”

  “Victor, I’ve got about a million.”

  “No. A specific picture.”

  “Specific? A specific picture? I don’t think so, pookie.”

  “It’s of me and a, um, certain girl.”

  “Who? Gwyneth Paltrow? Irina? Kristin Herold? Cheri Oteri?”

  “No,” I shout. “Goddamnit—it’s of me and Alison Poole.”

  “You and Alison Poole? Doing—ahem—what?”

  “Having a little iced latte while playing footsie on the Internet, you raging fuckhead.”

  “Alison Poole—as in Damien Nutchs Ross’s girlfriend? That Alison Poole?”

  “She’s also fucking like half the Knicks, so I’m not alone.”

  “A naughty boy. Living on the edge. Not so nice.”

  “What is that—Bon Jovi’s greatest hits? Listen to—”

  “I assume this photo was taken with Mr. Ross’s and Miss Byrnes’ permission and approval, you nonethical little bastard.”

  “Me nonethical?” I choke. “Whoa—wait a minute. You peddled Robert Maxwell’s autopsy photos, you scumbag. You had fucking Polaroids of Kurt Cobain’s blown-apart skull. You had shots of River Phoenix convulsing on Sunset. You—”

  “I also gave you your first break in the media, you ungrateful little shit.”

  “And you’re totally, totally right. Listen, I wasn’t putting you down. I meant to say I was impressed.”

  “Victor, you get written about, mainly by me, for doing nothing.”

  “No, man, I mean it, take it to the limit, that’s my motto, so y’know—”

  “Successful sucking up requires talent. Or at least a species of charm that you simply do not possess.”

  “Bottom line: what can I give you in exchange for the photo?”

  “What have you got? And let’s make this fast. I’m about to be interviewed by ‘A Current Affair.’”

  “Well, um, what do you want to, like, know?”

  “Is Chloe dating Baxter Priestly and are you all involved in some kind of hot sicko threesome?”

  “Oh shit, man—no. For the last time—no,” I groan. And then, after Buddy’s suspicious pause, “And I’m not dating Stephen Dorff.”

  “Why is Chloe doing so much runway work this season?”

  “Oh, that’s easy: it’s her last year as a runway model. It’s her big farewell, so to speak,” I sigh, relieved.

  “Why is Baxter Priestly at all her shows?”

  I suddenly sit up and shout into the phone, “Who is this little shit?” Trying to relax, I shift modes. “Hey Buddy—what about, um, Winona?”

  “What about Winona?”

  “She’s, um, y’know, coming to the opening tonight.”

  “Well, that’s an auspicious start, Victor. Oh sorry, my ass just yawned. Who’s she with?” he sighs.

  “Dave Pirner and the Wrigley’s Doublemint gum heiress and the bassist from Falafel Mafia.”

  “Doing what? Where?”

  “At the Four Seasons, discussing why Reality Bites didn’t open bigger.”

  “My ass is yawning again.”

  I pause, staring hard out the window. “Hurley Thompson,” I finally say, hoping he’ll let it pass.

  “Now I’m vaguely enthralled.”

  “Um, oh shit, Buddy …” I stop. “This is totally not from me.”

  “I never reveal my sources, so please just tell your master what’s going on.”

  “Just that, y’know, Hurley’s, like, in town.”

  Pause. “I’m getting a little hot.” The sound of computer keys clicking, and then, “Where?”

  Pause. “Paramount.”

  “You’re stroking my boner,” Buddy says. “Why isn’t he in Phoenix shooting Sun City 3 with the rest of the cast?”

  Pause. “Um, Sherry Gibson …”

  “I’m getting hot. You’re getting me very very hot, Victor.”

  “She … dumped him …”

  “I’m rock hard. Continue.”

  “Because of … a freebasing problem. His.”

  “You’re gonna make me come.”

  “And he, um, beat … Sherry up.”

  “I’m coming, Victor—”

  “And so Sherry had to drop out of ‘Baywatch Nights’—”

  “I’m shooting my load—”

  “Because her face is all messed up—”

  “I’m coming I’m coming I’m—”

  “And he is now looking for a rehab clinic in the Poconos—”

  “Oh god, I’ve shot my load—”

  “And Sherry resembles a, um, oh yeah, ‘weepy raccoon.’”

  “I’ve shot my load. Can you hear me panting?”

  “You motherfucker,” I whisper.

  “This is cosmic.”

  “Buddy, I feel like we’ve become very close.”

  “Where’s Hurley’s brother? Curley?”

  “He hung himself.”

  “Who was at the funeral?”

  “Julia Roberts, Erica Kane, Melissa Etheridge, Lauren Holly and, um, Salma Hayek.”

  “Didn’t she date his dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So he was in and out of the picture?”

  “So no photo, Buddy?”

  “The photo of you and Alison Poole has vanished.”

  “For the record, what was it of?”

  “For the record? You don’t want to know.”

  “You know, Buddy, Alison just lost the role in the film version of The Real Thing,” I add, “for what it’s worth.”

  “Which is nada. Thank you, Victor. ‘A Current Affair’ has arrived.”

  “No—thank you, Buddy. And please, this was not from me.” I pause, then realize something and shout, “Don’t say it, don’t—”

  “Trust me.” Buddy clicks off.

  21

  Nobu before noon and I’m biting off half a Xanax while passing what’s got to be Dad’s limo parked out front, and inside: various executives from MTV, a new maître d’ being interviewed by “The CBS Morning News,” Helena Christensen, Milla Jovovich and the French shoe designer Christian Louboutin at one table, and at another Tracee Ross, Samantha Kluge, Robbie Kravitz and Cosima Von Bulow, and Dad is the thin Waspish dude wearing the navy-blue Ralph Lauren suit sitting in the second booth from the front doodling notes on a yellow legal pad, a folder lying thick and suspicious next to a bowl of sunomono. Two of his aides have the front booth. He should look middle-aged but with the not-too-recent facelift and since according to my sister he’s been on Prozac since April (a secret), everything is vaguely cool. For relaxation: hunting deer, an astrologer to deal with those planetary vibes, squash. And his nutritionist has stressed raw fish, brown rice, no tempura but hijiki is okay and I’m basically here for some toro sashimi, some jokey conversation and a charming inquiry about some cash. He smiles, bright caps.

  “Sorry, Dad, I got lost.”

  “You look thin.”

  “It’s all those drugs, Dad,” I sigh, sliding into the booth.

  “That’s not funny, Victor,” he says wearily.

  “Dad, I don’t do drugs. I’m in great shape.”

  “No, really. How are you, Victor?”

  “I’m a knockout, Dad. A total knockout. I’m rippin’. Things are happening. I’m in control of all the elements. You are laughing somewhat jaggedly, Dad, but I am in continuous flux.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’m staking out new territory, Dad.”

  “Which is?”

  I stare straight ahead. “The future.”

  Dad stares glumly back, gives up, looks around, smiles awkwardly. “You’ve become much more skillful, Victor, at expressing, um, your ambitions.”

  “You bet, Dad. I’m streamlined and direct.”

  “Thass wonderful.” He motions to Evett, the waiter, for more iced tea. “So where are you coming from?”
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  “I had a photo shoot.”

  “I hope you’re not doing any more of those naked Webster shots or whatever. Jesus.”

  “Near naked. Bruce Weber. I’m not trying to freak you out, Dad.”

  “Wagging your ass around like—”

  “It was an Obsession ad, Dad. You’re acting like it was some kind of porno movie.”

  “What’s your point, Victor?”

  “Dad, the point is: the—column—blocked—my—crotch.”

  He’s already flipping through his menu. “Before I forget, thank you for the, um, Patti Lupone CD you sent me for my birthday, Victor. It was a thoughtful gift.”

  I scan the menu too. “No sweat, dude.”

  Dad keeps glancing uneasily over at the MTV table, some of the executives probably making wisecracks. I resist waving.

  Dad asks, “Why are they staring over here like that?”

  “Maybe because you have ‘lost white guy’ written all over you?” I ask. “Christ, I need a glass of bottled water. Or a dry beer.”

  Evett comes over with the iced tea and silently takes our order, then moves uncertainly toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Nice-looking girl,” my dad says, admiringly.

  “Dad,” I start.

  “What?”

  I can’t really look at him. “That’s a guy, but whatever.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, that is a guy. He has that whole, y’know, boy-girl thing going.”

  “You’ve forgotten to take off your sunglasses.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” I take them off, blinking a couple of times. “So what’s the story, morning glory?”

  “Well, I’ve been keeping tabs on you.” He taps the folder ominously. “And whenever I think about my only son, my thoughts drift back to that conversation we had last summer about perhaps returning to school?”

  “Oh shit, Dad,” I groan. “I went to Camden. I barely graduated from Camden. I don’t even know what I majored in.”

  “Experimental Orchestra, as I recall,” Dad says dryly.

  “Hey, don’t forget Design Analysis.”

  My father’s gritting his teeth, dying for a drink, his eyes roaming the room. “Victor, I have contacts at Georgetown, at Columbia, at NYU for Christ sakes. It’s not as difficult as you might think.”

  “Oh shit, Dad, have I ever used you?”

  “I’m concerned about your career and—”

  “You know, Dad,” I interrupt, “the question that I always dreaded most at Horace Mann was whenever my counselor would ask me about my career plans.”