Authors: Bret Easton Ellis
Glamorama (14 page)
“It doesn’t matter: people totally lock on to the hair.”
“Speaking of: George Stephanopoulos.”
“Who? Snuffleupagus?”
“No. George—”
“I heard you, I heard you,” I groan dismissively. “
Only
if he’s coming with someone recognizable.”
“But Victor—”
“Only if”—I check my watch—“between now and nine he gets back together with Jennifer Jason Leigh or Lisa Kudrow or Ashley Judd or someone more famous.”
“Um—”
“Damien will have a fit, JD, if he shows up solo.”
“Damien keeps reminding me, Victor, that he wants a little politics, a little class.”
“Damien wanted to hire MTV dancers and I talked him out of
that,”
I shout. “How long do you think it’ll take me to make him eighty-six that little Greek?”
JD looks at Beau. “Is this cool or useless? I’m not sure.”
I clap my hands together. “Let’s just finish the late RSVPs.”
“Lisa Loeb?”
“Oh, this will certainly be a glittering success. Next.”
“James Iha—guitarist from Smashing Pumpkins.”
“Billy Corgan would’ve been better, but okay.”
“George Clooney.”
“Oh, he’s so alive and wild. Next.”
“Jennifer Aniston and David Schwimmer?”
“Blah blah blah.”
“Okay, Victor—we need to go over the Bs, and Ds, and the Ss.”
“Feed me.”
“Stanford Blatch.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Grow up, Victor,” JD says. “He owns like half of Savoy.”
“Invite whoever owns the other half.”
“Victor, the Weinstein brothers love him.”
“That guy is so gross he’d work in a pet store just so he could eat free rabbit shit.”
“Andre Balazs?”
“With Katie Ford, yes.”
“Drew Barrymore?”
“Yes—and dinner too.”
“Gabriel Byrne?”
“Without Ellen Barkin, yes.”
“David Bosom?”
“Okay, but party only.”
“Scott Benoit?”
“Party only.”
“Leilani Bishop.”
“Party.”
“Eric Bogosian.”
“Has a show. Can’t make dinner. Will come to the party.”
“Brandy.”
“Jesus, Beau, she’s sixteen.”
“‘Moesha’ is a hit and the record’s gone platinum.”
“She’s in.”
“Sandra Bernhard.”
“Party only.”
“Billy, Stephen and/or Alec Baldwin.”
“Dinner, party only, dinner.”
“Boris Becker.”
“Uh-huh. Oh my god, this is sounding more and more like a Planet Hollywood opening you’d never want to eat at,” I sigh. “Am I reading this fax right?
Lisa Bonet
?”
“If Lenny Kravitz comes, she won’t.”
“Is Lenny Kravitz coming?”
“Yes.”
“Cross her off.”
“Tim Burton.”
“Oh god I’m hot!”
“Halle Berry.”
“Check.”
“Hamish Bowles.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Toni Braxton.”
“Yes.”
“Ethan Brown?”
“Oh, I don’t care what’s real anymore,” I moan, and then, “Party only.”
“Matthew Broderick.”
“Dinner if he’s with Sarah Jessica Parker.”
“Yes. Antonio Banderas.”
“Do you know what Antonio said to Melanie Griffith when they first met?”
“‘My
deeck
is
beeger
than Don’s’?”
“‘So you are Melanie. I am Antonio. How are you doing?’”
“He’s got to stop telling interviewers that he’s ‘not silly.’”
“Ross Bleckner.”
“Check.”
“Michael Bergin.”
“Check it out—right, guys?”
“David Barton?”
“Oh, I do hope he comes with Suzanne wearing something cute by Raymond Dragon,” I squeal. “Party only.”
“Matthew Barney.”
“Yes.”
“Candace Bushnell.”
“Yes.”
“Scott Bakula.”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca Brochman.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Kahlúa heiress.”
“Fine.”
“Tyra Banks.”
“It’s all I can do to just hold myself until I calm down.”
“Yasmine Bleeth.”
“I am
shuddering
with pleasure.”
“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
D
s.”
“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
S
s.”
“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.
“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—”