Backstage is freezing, camcorders surrounding everyone, personal trainers are French-inhaling sloppily wrapped joints and a very mean-streaky teenager who starred in Poltergeist 5: The Leg stands, debating, by a table lined with champagne bottles. I'm vaguely listening as Jamie talks with Linda Evangelista about how neither one of them was cast in the latest blockbuster, about a sunrise in Asia, about Rupert Murdoch. Barely able to smile when Linda taps my shoulder and says, "Hey Vic, cheer up," I down another glass of champagne, concentrating on the models rushing around us, the smell of shit again rising up everywhere, my arm and one side of my neck falling asleep.
A runway has been set up over the downstairs swimming pool for a fashion show by a famous Japanese designer just out of rehab and the show opens with a video of the designer's boyfriend's last trip to Greenland, a voice-over blah-blahs about his communion with nature and then the sounds of cold, icy winds are whooshing behind us, melding into Yo La Tengo, and as all the lights become very white the models, led by Jamie, start strolling barefoot down the catwalk toward a giant gray screen and I'm watching her on a small video monitor backstage along with Frederic Sanchez and Fred Bladou, who produced the music for the show, and to communicate my appreciation I'm tapping a foot. They don't notice.
At the party afterwards I'm posing for the paparazzi-as instructed-with Johnny Depp and then Elle Macpherson and then Desmond Richardson and Michelle Montagne and then I'm sandwiched between Stella Tennant and Ellen Von Unwerth, a strained goofy expression lining my features. I even give a brief interview to MTV Taipei but the smell of shit is causing my eyes to water, a black stench filling my nose, and I have to break away from the photo ops to down another glass of champagne, and when my vision returns to normal and I'm able to breathe calmly through my mouth I spot the actor playing the French premier's son.
He's lighting a cigar with a very long match, waving away a fly while chatting with Lyle Lovett and Meg Ryan, and without really even trying I find myself approaching him, suddenly aware of just how completely tired I am. One brief movement-I reach out and touch his shoulder, quickly withdrawing the hand.
He turns laughing, in the middle of a joke he's telling, the smile turning hard when he sees it's me.
"What do you want?" he asks.
"I need to talk to you," I say quietly, trying to smile.
"No you don't." He turns away, starts gesturing.
"Yeah man, I do," I say, touching his shoulder again. "I think it's important that we talk."
"Get out of here," he says impatiently. Having lost Lyle and Meg to their own conversation, he says something harsh in French.
"I think you're in danger," I say quietly. "I think if you keep seeing Tammy Devol you will be in danger. I think you're already in danger-"
"I think you are an idiot," he says. "And I think you are in danger if you don't leave here now."
"Please-" I reach out to touch him again.
"Hey," he exclaims, finally facing me.
"You've got to stay away from them-"
"What? Did Bruce send you?" He sneers. "How pathetic. Tell Bruce Rhinebeck to be a man and talk to me himself-"
"It's not Bruce," I'm saying, leaning into him. "It's all of them-"
"Get the f**k away from me," he says.
"I'm trying to help you-"
"Hey, did you hear me?" he spits. "Is anybody there?" He taps a finger rudely against my temple with such force that my eyes flutter and I have to lean up against a column for support.
"Just f**k off," he says. "Get the f**k out of here."
Suddenly Jamie grabs my arm and pulls me away from the actor, hissing into my ear "That was stupid, Victor" as we move through the crowd.
"Au revoir, dude," the actor calls out, mimicking the cliched accent of a young American.
"That was so stupid," Jamie hisses again, keeps repeating it as she pulls me through the crowd, stopping three, four, eleven times to pose for photos.
Outside the Ritz the Christian Bale guy is at the base of the verdigrised column in the Place Vendome but I don't say anything to Jamie, just nod sadly at him as he glares at us. I follow Jamie as we walk along the iron gate leading to the Cour Vendome. A policeman says something to Jamie and she nods and we turn along the south edge of the plaza. She's cursing, unable to get to our car, and I'm trailing behind her, swallowing constantly, eyes tearing up, my chest sore and constricted. The Christian Bale guy is no longer at the base of the column. Finally Jamie leans into the window of a nondescript black BMW that brought us here and lets it go.
