Glamorama

by Bret Easton Ellis

  On the napkin is one word in giant garish purple letters: CUNT.

  Alison glances up briefly. She pushes Lauren’s hand away.

  Next to me, Chloe’s watching too and she lets out a little whimper.

  Damien lurches from the table.

  Lauren’s laughing gaily, walking away from Tim Hutton in mid-sentence. And then he notices the napkin on Alison’s back.

  Before Damien can get to Alison she’s already reaching behind her neck and she feels the napkin and pulls it off and slowly brings it in front of her face and her eyes go wide and she lets out a giant mama of a scream.

  She spots Lauren making her way out of the dining room and hurls a glass at her, which misses Lauren and explodes against the wall.

  Alison leaps up from her chair and races toward Lauren but Lauren’s out the door, heading up the stairs to the private VIP lounge that hasn’t opened yet.

  Damien gets to Alison and while he wrestles with her she starts sobbing hysterically and the napkin falls out of Alison’s hand and somebody takes it for a souvenir and then I’m standing and about to run after Lauren when Chloe grabs my arm.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “I’m going to try to, um, deal with this,” I say, gesturing helplessly at the door Lauren just breezed through.

  “Victor—”

  “What, baby?”

  “Victor—” she says again.

  “Honey, I’ll be back in twenty”—I check my wrist but there’s no watch and then I look back at her—“in like ten minutes.”

  “Victor—”

  “Honey, she needs some air—”

  “In the VIP lounge?” Chloe asks. “In the VIP lounge, Victor? She needs some air in the VIP lounge?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Victor—”

  “What?” I say, loosening my arm from her grasp.

  “Victor—”

  “Honey, we’re having a fly time,” I say, pulling away. “Talk to Baxter. Spin some damage control. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “I don’t care,” she says, letting go. “I don’t care if you come back,” Chloe says. “I don’t care anymore,” she says. “Do you understand?”

  Dazed, I can only nod my head and rush out of the room.

  “Victor—”

  We’ll slide down the surface of things …

  I find Lauren in the private VIP room on the top floor where earlier today I interviewed prospective DJs but now it’s empty except for the bartender setting up behind a stainless-steel slab. Holly just points over to a banquette, where Lauren’s feet are sticking out from beneath a tablecloth, one high heel on, one high heel hanging off a totally delectable foot, and a just-opened bottle of Stoli Cristall is standing on the table and when a hand reaches up the bottle disappears, then reappears noticeably less full. The high heel falls off.

  I wave my hand, dismissing Holly, and he shrugs and slouches out and I close the doors behind him as mellow music plays somewhere around us, maybe the Cranberries singing “Linger,” and I’m passing the antique pool table in the center of the room, running my hands along the soft green felt, moving over to the booth where Lauren’s splayed out. Except for candles and the very dim, very hip lighting and the chilly hues coming from the steel bar it’s almost pitch black in the lounge, but then one of the spotlights outside on the street beams through the windows, scanning the room before disappearing again, only to beam back moments later, again bathing everything around us in a harsh, metallic glow.

  “My psychiatrist wears a tiara,” Lauren says from beneath the patterned tablecloth. “Her name is Dr. Egan and she wears a giant diamond tiara.”

  I’m silent for a minute before I can say, “That’s … so depressing, baby.”

  Lauren struggles up out of the booth and, standing unsteadily, grabs the edge of the table for support, shakes her head to clear it and then dances slowly, gracelessly with herself across the raw concrete floor over to the pool table and I reach out and touch the strand of pearls I suddenly notice draped around her neck, trying to move with her.

  “What are you doing, Victor?” she asks, dreamily. “Dancing? Is that dancing?”

  “Squirming. It’s called squirming, baby.”

  “Oh, don’t squirm, lovebutton,” she pouts.

  “I think there’s quite a bit to squirm about tonight,” I say tiredly. “In fact, I think lovebutton’s squirming is totally justified.”

  “Oh god, Victor,” she groans, still swaying to the music. “You were such a cute, sweet, normal guy when I first met you.” A long pause. “You were so sweet.”

  After a minute without moving, I clear my throat. “Um, baby, I don’t think I was ever any of those things.” A realization. “Except for, um, cute, of course.”

  She stops dancing, considers this, then admits, “That’s probably the first honest thing you’ve probably ever said.”

  And then I ask, “Did you mean what you said down there?” Pause, darkness again. “I mean about us.” Pause. “And all that,” I add.

  I hand her the bottle of vodka. She takes it, starts to drink, stops, puts it on the pool table. The rays from the spotlight cross her face, illuminating it for seconds, her eyes closed, tearing, her head slightly turned; a hand is brought up to her mouth, and it’s curled.

  “What?” I carefully move the icy bottle of vodka off the pool table so it won’t leave a damp ring on the felt. “Is this all too bummerish?”

  She nods slowly and then moves her face next to mine and the sounds of horns from limos in gridlock and the relentless roar of the massive crowd outside is carried up in waves to where we’re stumbling around clutching each other and I’m muttering “Dump Damien, baby” into her ear as she pushes me away when she feels how hard I am.

  “It’s not that simple,” she says, her back to me.

  “Hey babe, I get it,” I say casually. “Lust never sleeps, right?”

  “No, Victor.” She clears her throat, walks slowly around the pool table. I follow her. “It’s not that. It’s just not that simple.”

  “You have … star quality, baby,” I’m saying, grasping, sending out a vibe.

  She suddenly rushes up to me and holds on, shivering.

  “Don’t you think everything happens for a reason?” she’s asking, breathing hard, moving against me. “Don’t you think everything happens for a reason, Victor?” And then, “Victor, I’m so scared. I’m so scared for you.”

  “The time to hesitate is through,” I whisper into her hair, pushing against her, easing her slowly against the pool table. “Okay, baby?” I’m whispering while kissing her mouth, my hands reaching down below her waist, and she’s whispering back “Don’t” and I’m reaching underneath her dress, unable to stop myself, not caring who sees us, who walks in through the door, immediately getting lost in the moment, my fingers grazing her panties, one finger slipping inside, touching first the hair there and then a crease and beyond that an entrance that I can actually feel dampen as my finger runs over it gently at first and then more insistently until another slips inside and Lauren’s pressing herself against me, her mouth locked onto mine, but I push her back because I want to see the expression her face is making and now she’s sitting on the pool table with both legs spread and raised up, her hands on the back of my neck grasping me closer, her mouth on my mouth again, making desperate noises that I’m making too but suddenly she pulls back, looking past me, and when I turn around, visible in the darkness of the VIP room is a silhouette of a man standing backlit against the windows that look over Union Square.

  Lauren quickly disengages herself from me.

  “Damien?” I ask.

  The silhouette starts moving closer.

  “Hey Damien?” I’m whispering, backing away.

  As the silhouette moves closer it raises a hand, holding what looks like a rolled-up newspaper.

  “Damien?” I’m whispering over and over.

  The spotlight beam moves across t
he room, scanning it again, slowly catching everything in its glare, and as it passes over the silhouette’s face, illuminating it, my mouth opens in confusion and then Hurley Thompson rushes at me, shouting, “You fucker!”

  His fist slams against the side of my face before I can raise my arm up and in the background Lauren’s crying out for me and after I manage to raise up my arms to block his blows Hurley changes position and starts lifting me up when each thrust of his fists reaches my stomach and chest and then I’m falling, gasping for help, and Hurley’s leaning down, pausing before he slaps my head with the rolled-up newspaper, hissing into my ear, “I know what you did, you fuck, I know what you said, you dumb fuck,” and then he steps on my face and when he’s gone I finally lift my head and through totally blurry vision I can make out Lauren standing by the exit and she flicks a switch and the room explodes with light and I’m shielding my eyes, calling out for her, but she doesn’t answer.

  Pages of the newspaper are scattered around me—it’s tomorrow’s News and on the page I’m looking down at, the blood drooling from my mouth staining the paper, is Buddy Seagull’s column, the headline reading HURLEY THOMPSON FLEES SC3 AMID RUMORS OF DRUGS AND ABUSE, and there’s a photo of Hurley and Sherry Gibson in “happier times” and on the bottom of the page in the boxed section called “What’s Going On Here?” is a photo whose graininess suggests it was taken with a telephoto lens and it’s of someone who’s supposed to be me kissing Lauren Hynde on the mouth, our eyes closed, a caption in bold letters reading IT BOY VICTOR WARD SMOOCHING ACTRESS HYNDE AT GALA PREMIERE—DOES CHLOE KNOW?, and blood dripping from my face keeps swirling all over the paper and I stagger up and when I look in the mirror above the bar I try to smooth things out but after touching my mouth and trying to slick my hair back I end up wiping blood all over my forehead and after trying to get it off with a napkin I’m running downstairs.

  We’ll slide down the surface of things …

  Everyone who was at the dinner has vacated the second floor and the space is now filled with other people. While I’m craning my neck, looking for someone familiar, JD appears and takes me aside.

  “Just let go,” I say uselessly.

  “Hold on. What happened to your head?” JD asks calmly, handing me a napkin. “Why is there blood on your tux?”

  “Nothing. I slipped,” I mutter, looking down. “That’s not blood—it’s an AIDS ribbon.”

  JD flinches. “Victor, we all know Hurley Thompson just pulverized you, so you don’t need to—”

  “Where’s Chloe?” I keep craning my neck, looking out across the room. “Where’s Chloe, JD?”

  JD breathes in. “That is, however, a problem.”

  “JD—don’t fuck with me!” I’m shouting.

  “All I saw was Hurley Thompson dropping a newspaper into Chloe’s lap. He leaned into her while he placed his hand in an ice bucket and whispered into her ear until her face—which was staring down at the paper Hurley Thompson dropped into her lap—fell, um, apart.”

  I’m just staring at JD wide-eyed, wondering at what point in the last ten seconds my hands started gripping his shoulders.

  “And?” I’m panting, my entire body goes clammy.

  “And she ran out and Hurley lit a cigar, very pleased with himself, and then Baxter Priestly ran after her.”

  I’m so alarmed by this that I must look really bashed-up, because JD looks into my face and whispers, “Jesus, Victor.”

  “Everything’s still sketchy, JD,” I’m saying while clutching the side of my stomach Hurley did the most damage to.

  “No,” he says. “It’s all clear to us.” He pauses. “It’s only sketchy to you.”

  “JD, Cindy Crawford always says—”

  “Who gives a shit what Cindy Crawford says right now?” JD yells. “What are you talking about?”

  I stare at him for a long time, confused, before I push him away and then I turn and race down the staircase, people rotating around me everywhere, cameras flashing, causing me to keep tripping into people who keep propping me up, until I’m finally on the first level, where there’s so much cigar and pot and cigarette smoke the air’s not breathable and I’m shoving people out of the way, constantly adjusting my focus, music booming out way too loud, minor chords crashing down around me, the Steadicam operator unable to keep up.

  Bursting out the door, I’m confronted by a crowd so enormous that everyone in it is hidden and when I appear everything grows calm and then, slowly at first, they start shouting my name and seconds later they’re screaming to be allowed in and I dive into the throng, pushing through it, constantly turning around, saying “Hello” and “Excuse me” and “You look great” and “It’s cool, baby,” and once I’m through the maze of bodies I spot the two of them down the block: Baxter trailing after Chloe, trying to subdue her, and she keeps breaking away, rocking the cars parked along the curb, hysterical, setting off their alarms each time she falls against one, and I’m taking in air in great gulps, panic-stricken but laughing too.

  I try to run past Baxter to get to Chloe but he whirls around when he hears me approaching and grabs my jacket, wrestling me against the wall of a building, shouting into my face while I’m helplessly staring at Chloe, “Get out of here, Victor, just leave her the fuck alone,” and Baxter’s smiling as he’s shouting this, traffic pulsing behind him, and when Chloe turns to glare at me, Baxter—who’s stronger than I ever could have imagined—seems secretly pleased. Over his shoulder Chloe’s face is ravaged, tears keep pouring from her eyes.

  “Baby,” I’m shouting. “That wasn’t me—”

  “Victor,” Baxter shouts, warning me. “Let it go.”

  “It’s a hoax,” I’m shouting.

  Chloe just stares at me until I go limp and finally Baxter relaxes too and a cab behind Chloe slows down and Baxter quickly breaks into a jog and when he reaches Chloe he takes her arm and eases her into the waiting cab but she looks at me before she falls into it, softening, slipping away, deflated, unreachable, and then she’s gone and a smirking Baxter nods at me, casually amused. Then total silence.

  Girls hanging out the window of a passing limousine making catcalls knock my legs back into motion and I run toward the club where security guards stand behind the barricades barking orders into walkie-talkies and I’m panting as I climb through the crowd and then I’m pulled by the doormen back onto the stairs leading up to the entrance, cries of grief billowing up behind me, steam from the klieg lights rising up into the sky and filling the space above the crowd, and I’m moving through the metal detectors again and running up one flight of stairs and then another, heading up to Damien’s office, when suddenly I slam into a column on the third floor.

  Damien’s escorting Lauren to a private staircase that will lead them down a back exit onto the street and Lauren looks like she’s breathing too hard—she actually seems thinner—as Damien talks rapidly into her ear even though her face is so twisted up it doesn’t seem like she can comprehend anything Damien’s saying as he closes the door behind them.

  I rush downstairs to the first floor again, alarmingly fast, struggling through the crowd, too many people passing by, indistinct faces, just profiles, people handing me flowers, people on cellular phones, everyone moving together in a drunken mass, and I’m pushing through the darkness totally awake and people just keep dimly rolling past, constantly moving on to someplace else.

  Outside again I push through the crowd avoiding anyone who calls my name and Lauren and Damien seem miles away as they vanish into a limousine and I shout “Wait” and I’m staring too long at the car as it disappears into the mist surrounding Union Square and I keep staring until some tiny thing in me collapses and my head starts clearing.

  Everything looks washed out and it’s cold and the night suddenly stops accelerating: the sky is locked in place, fuzzy and unmoving, and I’m stumbling down the block, then stopping to search my jacket for a cigarette, when I hear someone call my name and I look across the street at a limou
sine and Alison standing beside it, her face expressionless, and at her feet, on leashes, are Mr. and Mrs. Chow. When they see me their heads snap up and they start leaping, straining at their leashes excitedly, teeth bared, yapping, and I’m just standing there dumbly, touching my swollen lip, a bruised cheek.

  Smiling, Alison drops the leashes.

  6

  Florent: a narrow, bleak 24-hour diner in the meat-packing district and I’m feeling grimy, slumped at a table near the front, finishing the coke I picked up at a bar in the East Village sometime in the middle of the night where I lost my tie, and a copy of the News is spread out in front of me, open to the Buddy Seagull column I’ve been studying for hours, uselessly since it reveals nothing, and behind me something’s being filmed, a camera crew’s setting up lights. I had gone by my place at around 4 but someone suspiciously well coiffed—a handsome guy, twenty-five, maybe twenty-six—was hanging out in front of the building, smoking a cigarette like he’d been waiting there a very long time, and another guy—someone in the cast I hadn’t met yet—sat in a black Jeep talking into a cell phone, so I split. Bailey brings me another decaf frappuccino and it’s freezing in Florent and I keep blowing confetti off my table but whenever I’m not paying attention it reappears and I glare over at the set designer and continuity girl who stare back and restaurant music’s playing and each minute seems like an hour.

  “How’s it hanging, Victor?” Bailey’s asking.

  “Hey baby, what’s the story?” I mutter tiredly.

  “You doing okay?” he asks. “You look busted up.”