Glamorama

Inside the tote bag Jamie might have slipped the vial into: a Gucci snakeskin wallet, a miniature Mont Blanc fountain pen, an Asprey address book, Calvin Klein sunglasses, a Nokia 9000 cell phone, a Nars lip gloss, a Calvin Klein atomizer and a Sony ICD-50 portable digital recorder that I stare at questioningly until I'm cued to press Play and when I do, I hear my voice echoing hollowly in the empty space at Le Caprice.

"I um, don't know..."

"Don't be shocked. I'm not saying let's f**k. I'm just saying maybe we can get... reacquainted."

"Hey, nothing shocks me anymore, baby."

"That's good... That's very good, Victor."

A voice above me, someone hanging over the banister wearing a Gucci tux, someone way too exquisitely handsome and my age, a guy who might or might not be Bentley Harrolds, the model, totally drunk, his tumbler filled to the brim with clear liquid dangling precariously from a hand attached to a sagging wrist:

"Oh, what a circus," he groans. "Oh, what a show."

I immediately turn off the recorder and drop it back into Jamie's tote bag, then look up at Bentley, flashing a sexy grin that causes Bentley's eyes to widen and then he's leering at me, blood rushing to his head turning his face crimson, and still hanging over the banister, he slurs, "You certainly don't make a mundane first impression."

"And you're Bentley Harrolds," I say and then, gesturing toward the glass, "Hey bud, what are you drinking?"

"Er..." Bentley looks at his hand and then back at me, his eyes crossed with concentration. "I'm sipping chilled Bacardi," and then, still staring down at me: "You're full-frontal gorgeous."

"So I've been told," I say, and then, "How gorgeous?"

Bentley's moving down the staircase and now he's standing over me, swaying back and forth, flushed.

"You look like Brad Pitt," Bentley says. "After he's just wrestled a large... furry... bear." Pause. "And that gets me hot."

"Just give me a minute to calm down."

"What were you doing going through Jamie Fields' tote bag, by the way?" Bentley asks, trying to sit, but I'm scooting all over the couch, making it virtually impossible. He gives up, sighs, tries to focus.

"Um, I suppose you don't want to hear about my strenuous workout in the Four Seasons gym this morning instead, huh?"

A long pause while Bentley considers this. "I... might"-he gulps-"faint."

"You wouldn't be the first."

The Japanese guy keeps swigging bourbon and glancing over at me, then nudges another Japanese guy, who waves him away and goes back to watching "Friends," chewing down on a carton of Hagen-Dazs Chocolate Midnight Cookies. With a grunt, Bentley squeezes down next to me on the lime-green couch and-concentrating on my arms, chest and legs-finally has to admit something.

"I'm capable of being thrilled by you, Victor."

"Ah, I thought you recognized me."

"Oh, you're recognizable, all right," Bentley guffaws.

"Well, that's me."

Bentley pauses, considers something. "Can I ask you something, Victor?"

"Shoot."

Bentley shakes his head side to side slowly and in a low voice warns, "Oh, you shouldn't suggest that."

"I meant"-I clear my throat-"go ahead."

Bentley clears his throat lightly, then asks, totally serious, "Are you still dating Stephen Dorff?"

Jamie suddenly flops down between us as I'm coughing up the tequila punch, taking in air. "There's a croquet game on the sixth floor and accessories on five," she says, kissing Bentley on the cheek.

"Hello, darling," Bentley says, kissing her back.

"Why are you choking?" Jamie asks me. "Why is he choking?" she asks Bentley, and then, "Oh Bentley, what did you do?"

"Moi?" Bentley whines. "Oh, just asked a personal question that got exactly the kind of response that satisfied me immensely."

"I didn't answer any question," I croak, wiping my mouth.

"Well, give Bentley an answer now, baby," Bentley says.

Playing along-but also panicked-I shrug. "Maybe it's true."

Bentley takes this in calmly, then, totally deadpan, his eyes closed with pain and longing, asks, "Would you move in with me, please?"

"How disco, baby," I say, recovering. "But I'm, um"-I glance over at Jamie, who seems like she could care less-"involved."