Glamorama
"Oh." He looks up, stares straight at me, blinks once or twice, then decides something. "You're in Hampstead."
"Oh yeah?" I say, relieved. "My friend Joaquin Phoenix-you know, River's brother?"
Bobby nods, staring intently.
"Well, he's shooting the new John Hughes movie in, um, Hampstead," I say, suddenly feeling ridiculous in this robe. "I think," I add, a little stressed.
"Oh, that's cool," Bobby says, turning back to the computer.
"Yeah, we saw him at the party last night."
"Hey, how was that party?" he asks. "I'm sorry I missed it."
"The party was, well..." Nervously, I try to explain. "Let's see, who was there? Well, it was in Notting Hill -"
"Of course," he says derisively, which almost puts me at ease.
"Oh gosh, I know, man, I know." Stuck, just staring at him as he glances back at the computer screen, I tighten the robe around me.
"It was for the painter Gary Hume, right?" he asks, coaxing.
"Oh yeah," I say. "But everyone knew it was really for Patsy and Liam."
"Right, right," he says, tapping three keys and rapidly calling onto the screen more airplane diagrams. "Who was there? What luminaries showed up?"
"Well, um, Kate Moss and Stella Tennant and Iris Palmer and I think Jared Leto and Carmen Electra and, um, Damon Albarn and... we drank orange punch and... I got pretty wasted... and there were lots of... ice sculptures."
"Yeah?"
"Where were you, man?" I ask, finally easing into a more comfortable vibe.
"I was in Paris."
"Modeling?"
"Business," he says simply.
"But not modeling?"
"No, that's all over," he says, checking something in a notebook that lies open next to the computer. "I completed that part of my life."
"Oh yeah man," I say, nodding. "I know what you mean."
"Really?" He grins, looking over his shoulder. "Do you?"
"Yeah." I shrug. "I'm thinking of calling it quits too."
"So what are you doing in London, then, Victor?" Bobby asks.
"Off the record?"
"It's a very rough life, right?"
"Man, it's so hard."
"Potentially devastating."
"I'm just kicking back and taking a breather."
"I think that's a smart move."
"Yeah?"
"It can ruin people. I've seen people destroyed."
"Me too, man. I am so with you."
"I have no stomach for it," he says. "I have absolutely no stomach for it."
"But... you have, like, a great stomach, man," I say, confused.
"What?" Bobby looks down at himself, realizes where I'm coming from and starts smiling, his confused expression turning sweet. "Oh, right. Thanks. Hmm."
"So when did you get in?" I ask, beginning the bonding process.
"This morning," he yawns, stretching. "How about you?"
"A couple days ago," I tell him.
"You came in from New York?"
"Yeah man."
"What's New York like these days?" he asks, concentrating on the screen again. "I'm rarely there. And what I read about I'm not sure I can handle. Maybe I'm just all grown up or something."
"Oh, y'know, it's all kind of, um, bogus, man," I say. "Young people are such idiots, you know what I'm saying?"
"People applauding madly as supermodels gyrate down runways? No thanks, man."
"Oh man, I am so with you."
"What do you do there?"
"The usual. Modeling. I helped open a club last week." I pause. "I'm up for a part in Flatliners II."
"God, it's freezing," he shouts again, hugging himself "Are you cold too?"
"I'm a little chilly," I concede.
He pads out of the room and from somewhere in the house he yells, "Where is the f**king heater in this place?" and then he calls out, "Should we start a fire?"
CDs scattered on top of one of the giant speakers include Pete Gabriel, John Hiatt, someone named Freedy Johnston, the las Replacements album. Outside, through glass doors, a small terrace is surrounded by a garden filled with white tulips, and tiny birds congregate on a steel fountain, and as the wind picks up and shadows star crossing the lawn they decide something's wrong and fly away in unison.