"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.
