I’m just trying not to cry again while standing behind Bobby. On the computer screen: designs for a device, a breakdown of the components that make up the plastic explosive Remform, prospective targets. Jamie’s in the kitchen, carefully reading Tammy’s prescription while pulling a bottle of Evian out of the refrigerator.
“How’s she doing?” Jamie asks Bobby.
“If it’s any consolation?” he asks back. “Better.”
Jamie walks past me blindly and moves slowly up the spiral staircase, maneuvering around crew members, thinking maybe she should feel more for me than she really does but my fear doesn’t move her, it’s isolated, it’s not hip, it doesn’t sing.
I’m touching Bobby’s shoulders because I need to.
He stretches away from me, mutters “Don’t” and then, “That’s not a possibility anymore.”
A long silence, during which I try to learn something.
“You look thin,” Bobby says. “When’s the last time you worked out? You’re looking too skinny. Slightly whitish too.”
“I just need some sleep, man.”
“That’s not an explanation,” Bobby says. “You need a motivational workshop.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, my voice cracking.
But Bobby might as well be submerged in a pool. We might as well be having a conversation underneath a waterfall. He doesn’t even need to be in this room. He’s just a voice. I might as well be talking on the phone with someone. I could be viewing this through a telescope. I might as well be dreaming this. Something hits me: but isn’t that the point?
Bobby walks silently into the kitchen.
“Things are, um, falling apart,” I’m saying. “And no one’s acting like they are.”
“What’s falling apart?” Bobby says, walking back up to me. “I think things are right on schedule.”
Pause.
“What … schedule?” I’m asking. “What … things?” Pause. “Bobby?”
“What things?”
“Yeah … what things?”
“Just things.” Bobby shrugs. “Just things. Things about to happen.”
Pause.
“And … then?”
“And then?”
“Yeah … and then?”
“And then?”
I’m nodding, tears spilling down my face.
“And then? Boom,” he says serenely, lightly slapping my face, his hand the temperature of an icicle.
On cue from upstairs: Jamie starts screaming.
Even within the artfully lit shadows of the bathroom Tammy Devol and Bruce Rhinebeck shared, you can easily make out the bathtub overflowing with dark-red water, Tammy’s floating face, its shade a light blue, her eyes open and yellowish. Our attention is also supposed to be drawn to the broken Amstel Light bottle that sits on the tub’s edge and the groovy patterns her blood made on the tiled walls as it shot out of her veins. Tammy’s slashed wrists have been cut to the bone—but even that wasn’t “enough,” because somehow she managed to slice her throat open very deeply
(but you know it’s too deep, you know she couldn’t have done this, though you can’t say anything because you know that scenes are filmed without you and you know that a different script exists in which you are not a character and you know it’s too deep)
and because it smells so much like what I imagined a room covered in blood would smell like and Jamie’s screaming so loudly, it’s hard to start piecing things together, make the appropriate connections, hit that mark, and I can’t stop gasping.
It’s the things you don’t know that matter most.
Two propmen, both wearing dust masks, swiftly force themselves past us and lift Tammy nude from the tub, her wrists and neck looking like they burst open outward, and a large purple dildo slides out of her cunt, splashing back into the bloody bathwater. My eyes are homing in on her navel ring.
Jamie has backed out of the bathroom and into Bentley’s arms. She struggles, hugs him, pulls away again. She holds a hand to her mouth. Her face is red, like it’s burning.
In a corner of the bedroom Bobby is talking to the director, both of them motionless except for an occasional nod.
Jamie tries to get away from Bentley and shambles madly toward Tammy’s bedroom but she’s blocked because another propman, also wearing a dust mask, is hauling a mattress soaked with blood down the hallway, to be burned in the courtyard.
Jamie stares at the stained mattress in horror—at its truth—and Bentley holds on to her as she flings herself at Tammy’s bed, Bentley falling with her, and screaming, she lunges for the script on Tammy’s nightstand and hurls it at Bobby and the director. She struggles with a pillow, absurdly. Her screaming intensifies, is a variation on the earlier screaming.
Bobby glances over at Jamie, distracted. He watches passively, trying to listen to something the director is telling him while Jamie scratches at her face, makes gurgling noises, pleads with anyone who will listen.
I can’t form a sentence, all reflexes zapped. I’m feebly reaching out a hand to steady myself, cameras swinging around us, capturing reactions.
Bobby slaps Jamie across the face while Bentley continues holding on to her.
“No one cares,” Bobby’s saying. “I thought we agreed on that.”
Jamie makes noises no one can translate.
“I thought we agreed on that,” Bobby’s saying. “You understand me? No one cares.” He slaps her across the face, harder. This time it gets her attention. She stares at him. “This reaction of yours is useless. It carries no meaning with anyone here and it’s useless. We agreed that no one would care.”
Jamie nods mutely and just as it seems she’s going to relax into the moment, she suddenly freaks out. Bentley is panting with exertion, trying to wrestle her down, but he’s laughing because he’s so stressed out, and someone from the crew keeps rationalizing, frivolously, “No one could have saved her.” I’m trying to move the other way, gracefully aiming for the door. I’m trying to wake up momentarily by turning away from this scene, by becoming transparent, but also realizing that the Halcion prescription Jamie picked up was meant not for Tammy but only for herself.
17
Midnight and I’m drinking Absolut from a plastic cup, overdressed in a black Prada suit with Gucci boots and eating Xanax, a cigarette burning between my fingers. A party at a massive new Virgin megastore that maybe Tommy Hilfiger has something to do with sponsoring; there’s a stage, there’s supposed to be bands, there’s an Amnesty International banner, there’s supposed to be the ubiquitous benefit concert (though right now the Bangles’ “Hazy Shade of Winter” is blasting over the sound system), there’s loads of negativity. There’s the lead singer from the Verve, there are two members from Blur wearing vintage sneakers, there’s Andre Agassi and William Hurt and three Spice Girls and people milling around holding guitars, there are the first black people I’ve seen since I’ve been in France, there’re a lot of major dudes from Hollywood (or not enough, depending on who you ask), there are trays of ostrich on tiny crackers, opossum on bamboo skewers, shrimp heads tied up in vines, huge plates of tentacles draped over clumps of parsley, but I really can’t keep anything down and I’m looking for a leather sofa to fall into because I can’t tell if people are really as disinterested as they appear or just extremely bored. Whatever—it’s infectious. People keep swatting away flies when they aren’t busy whispering or lurking. I’m just saying “Hi.” I’m just following directions. It’s really an alarming party and everyone is a monster. It’s also a mirror.
And then a giant intake of breath. Uncertain of what I’m seeing.
On the edge of the crowd, beyond the crowd, perfectly lit, cameras flashing around her, surrounded by playboys, her hair sleek and dark gold, is a girl.
Chloe.
Everything rushes back and it knocks me forward, stunned, and I start pushing through the crowd dumbly, adrenaline washing through me, my breath exhaling so hard I’m making noises and Elle Macpherson glimp
ses me and tries reaching over to say “Hi” but when she sees how freaked out I look—face twisted, gasping—something dawns on her and she decides to ignore me.
At the precise moment Elle turns away I see Bertrand Ripleis across the record store, his eyes focused as if on a target, grimly advancing toward Chloe.
Frantic, I start making swimming motions, butterfly strokes, to facilitate my way through the crowd, knocking into people, but it’s so packed in the Virgin megastore that it’s like moving upward and sideways across a slope and Chloe seems miles away.
It’s shocking how fast Bertrand Ripleis is moving toward her and he’s practicing smiles, rehearsing an intro, a way to kiss her.
“No, no, no,” I’m muttering, pushing forward, the party roaring around me.
Bertrand suddenly gets stuck, first by a waiter holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres, who Bertrand angrily knocks away, and then by an unusually insistent Isabelle Adjani, straining to keep up his side of the conversation. When he glances over, sees how much ground I’ve covered, he pushes her aside and starts cutting across to Chloe laterally.
And then I’m reaching out, my hand falling on Chloe’s shoulder, and before even looking at her—because there’s so much anxiety coursing through me—I glance over in time to see Bertrand suddenly stop, staring at me blank-faced until he retreats.
“Chloe,” I say, my voice hoarse.
She turns around, ready to smile at whoever just said her name, but when she sees it’s me she seems confused and she doesn’t say anything.
People are swarming around us and I start crying, wrapping my arms around her, and in a haze I realize she’s hugging me back.
“I thought you were in New York,” she’s saying.
“Oh baby, no, no,” I’m saying. “I’m here. I’ve been here. Why did you think that?”
“Victor?” she asks, pulling back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, baby, I’m cool,” I say, still crying, trying not to.
Upstairs, at Chloe’s request a PR person maneuvers us to a bench in the VIP section, which looks out over the rest of the party. Chloe’s chewing Nicorette, carefully blotting her lipstick, and gold and taupe brow color has been applied to the outer corners of her eyes and I keep grabbing her hand, clutching it, and sometimes she squeezes back.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Oh great, great.” Pause. “Not so great.” Another pause. “I think I need some help, baby.” I try to smile.
“It’s not drugs … is it?” she asks. “We’re not being bad … are we?”
“No, no, no, not that, I just—” I smile tightly, reach out again to rub her hand. “I just missed you so much and I’m just so glad you’re here and I’m just so sorry for everything,” I say in a rush, breaking down again.
“Hey, shhh, what’s bringing this on?” she asks. I can’t talk. My head slips from my hands and I’m just sobbing, tears pouring out.
“Victor? Is everything okay?” she asks softly. “What’s going on?” I take in a giant breath, then sob again.
“Victor, what’s wrong?” I hear her ask. “Do you need any money? Is that it?”
I keep shaking my head, unable to speak.
“Are you in trouble?” she asks. “Victor?”
“No, no, baby, no,” I say, wiping my face.
“Victor, you’re scaring me.”
“It’s just, it’s just, this is my worst suit,” I say, trying to laugh. “Wardrobe dressed me. The director insisted. But it’s just not fitting right.”
“You look nice,” she says, relaxing a little. “You look tired but you look nice.” She pauses, then adds sweetly, “I’ve missed you.”
“Oh baby …”
“I know I shouldn’t but I do.”
“Hey, hey …”
“I left about a dozen messages on your machine in New York last week,” she says. “I guess you never got them.”
“No.” I clear my throat, keep sniffling. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
“Victor—”
“So are you seeing anyone?” I ask, hope cracking my voice apart. “Did you come here with anyone?”
“Please. No unpleasant questions. Okay?”
“Hey, come on, Chloe, just let me know.”
“Victor, Jesus,” she says, pulling back. “We already talked about that. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“What happened to Baxter?” I ask, coughing.
“Baxter Priestly?” she asks. “Victor—”
“Yeah, Baxter.” I wipe my face with my hand, then wipe my hand on my pants, still sniffling.
“Nothing. Why?” Chloe pauses, chewing tensely. “Victor, I’m suddenly really, really worried about you.”
“I thought he was in the same movie,” I blurt out. “I thought his part got bigger.”
“He’s been written out,” she says. “Not like that should mean anything to you.”
“Baby, listen, I’m just so happy to see you.”
“You’re shaking,” she says. “You’re really shaking.”
“I’m just … so cold,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, the shows,” she says, staring at me strangely.
“Yeah, yeah.” I reach for her hand again. “What else?”
“I’m also narrating a documentary on the history of the negligee.”
“That’s so cool, baby.”
“Some might say,” she concedes. “And yourself? What are you doing in Paris?”
“I’m just, um, moving on to the next project, y’know?” I say. “That’s … constructive.”
“Yeah. Go figure,” I say. “I don’t have a master plan yet.”
At the entrance of the VIP section, at the top of the steel staircase, Bobby is conferring with Bertrand, who is jabbing his finger at where Chloe and I are sitting while he angrily leans into Bobby and Bobby just nods “understandingly” and makes a calming motion with his hand, which Bertrand pushes away disgustedly. Bobby sighs visibly and as he starts making his way over to us, he’s joined by Bentley.
With maximum effort I light a cigarette. Exhaling, I make a face and hand the cigarette to Chloe.
“No, I’m not smoking anymore,” she says, smiling, taking the cigarette from me and dropping it into a nearby beer bottle. “I shouldn’t even be chewing this stuff,” she says, making a face.
Bobby and Bentley get closer, casually determined.
“We can’t talk here,” I’m saying. “I can’t talk here.”
“It’s really loud,” she says, nodding.
“Listen.” I breathe in. “Where are you staying?”
“At Costes,” she says. “Where are you staying?”
“I’m just, um, just staying with some people.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Hughes,” I say because I can’t get away with a lie.
“Oh really?” she says. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“And Jamie Fields. I went to Camden with her. But they’re a couple. Bobby and Jamie are a couple.”
“You don’t need to explain, Victor.”
“No, no, no, it’s not like that,” I keep insisting. “They’re together. I’m just staying at their place.”
A careful pause. “But didn’t you use to date her?” Chloe asks.
“Yeah, yeah, but she’s with Bobby Hughes now,” I say.
“What’s he like?” Chloe asks, and then, “Victor, you’ve got to calm down, you’re freaking me out.”
“I’m not seeing Jamie Fields,” I say. “I have no interest whatsoever in Jamie Fields anymore.”
“Victor, you don’t need to explain,” Chloe says. “I said it’s okay.”
“I know, I know.” My eyes are wet and blinking.
“So what’s the address?” she asks. “Where you are?”
I’m too afraid to give it out so I just tell her the name of a street in the 8th.
“Posh,” she says, and then, uneasily, “People live there?”
“So I’ll c
all you, okay?”
Suddenly Chloe looks up at someone behind me and, smiling widely, jumps off the bench and shouts, “Oh my god—Bentley!”
“Chloe baby,” Bentley cries out, swingerish, as he grabs her in a giant hug.
She’s squealing happily, spinning around, Bobby silently waiting on the sidelines, listening patiently to their requisite small talk. I force myself to acknowledge Bobby’s presence as he continues to stare at Chloe, his eyes black and waxy, but then Chloe’s smiling at him and suddenly cameras are flashing all around us and as the four of us stand together, pretending we’re not posing casually for the paparazzi, Bobby lifts Chloe’s hand up.
“How gallant,” Chloe whispers mock-seriously as Bobby kisses her hand and when he lifts that hand to kiss it the urge to knock his face away almost destroys me and I fall back on the bench, defeated.
Bobby’s saying, “We’re sorry we have to take him away from you.” He gestures vaguely at me.
This moves me to say, “I think I’m being accosted.”
“It’s okay,” Chloe says. “I have a show tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s leave, Victor,” Bentley says. “Come on, guy.”
“Leave for what?” I ask, refusing to get up from the bench. “It’s midnight.”
“No it’s not,” Bobby says, checking his watch.
“Leave for what?” I ask again.
“We have a dinner party we’re late for,” Bobby explains to Chloe. “Plus a really shitty band’s about to play. It’s a good opportunity to split.”
“Baby.” Bentley’s kissing Chloe again. “We are definitely partying while you’re here. That is a promise.”
“It’s great to see you again, Bentley,” Chloe says, and then to Bobby, “And it’s nice to finally meet you.”
Bobby blushes on cue. “And you,” is all he says but it’s so loaded with references that I start shaking uncontrollably.
Glamorama Page 50