Imperial Bedrooms

"Are you happy?" she asks.

Startled, I say, "Yeah. Are you?"

She leans in. "I could be."

"What do you want to do?" I look at her straight on.

We spend an hour in the bedroom in the condo on the fifteenth floor of the Doheny Plaza. That's all it requires.

Afterward she says she feels disconnected from reality. I tell her it doesn't matter. I'm blushing when she tells me how nice my hands are.

The premiere is at the Village and the after-party, elaborate and fanciful, is at the W Hotel. (It was supposed to be at the Napa Valley Grille - because of overcrowding was moved to this less accessible but larger venue.) Forced to watch people pretend to yell and cry for two and a half hours can push you to a dark distance that takes a day to come back from, yet I found the movie well made and coherent (which is always a miracle) even though I often had to think awful thoughts in order to stay awake. I'm standing by the pool talking to a young actress about fasting and her yoga routine and how superstoked she is to be in a movie about human sacrifices, and the initial shyness - apparent in large, soft eyes - is encouraging. But then you say the wrong thing and those eyes reveal an innate distrust mixed with a lingering curiosity that everyone shares out here and she drifts off, and looking up at the hotel, encased in the crowd, clutching my phone, I start counting how many rooms are lit and how many aren't and then realize I've had sex with five different people in this hotel, one of them now dead. I take a piece of sushi from a passing tray. "Well, you did it," I tell the executive who allowed this movie to be made. Daniel Carter, who I've known since we were freshmen at Camden, is the director, but our friendship is worn out and he's been avoiding me. And tonight I see why: he's with Meghan Reynolds, so I can't offer the faked congratulations I prepared. Daniel sold his first script when he was twenty-two and has had no problems with his career since then.

"She's dressed like a teenager," Blair says. "I guess that's because she is one."

I glance over at Blair, then look back across the crowd at Meghan and Daniel.

"I'm not going there with you now."

"We all make choices, right?"

"Your husband hates me."

"No, he doesn't."

"There was a girl at your house, at the party ... " The need to ask about this is so physical I can't put a halt to it. I turn to Blair. "Never mind."

"I heard you had drinks with Julian last night," Blair says. She's staring at the pool, the title of the movie shimmering on the bottom in giant cursive lettering.

"You heard?" I light a cigarette. "How did you hear this unless Julian told you?"

Blair doesn't say anything.

"So you're still in touch with Julian?" I ask. "Why?" I pause. "Does Trent know?" Another pause. "Or is that just a ... detail?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"That I'm surprised you're actually talking to me."

"I just wanted to warn you about him. That's all."

"Warn me? About what?" I ask. "I've been through the whole Julian thing before. I think I can handle it."

"It's not a big hassle," she says. "If you can just do me a favor and not talk to him if he tries to make contact it would make everything a lot easier." And then for emphasis she adds, "I'd appreciate it."

"What's Julian doing these days? There was a rumor he was actually running a teenage hooker service." I pause. "It sounded like old times."

"Look, if you can just do this one thing I'd really appreciate it."

"Is this real? Or is this just an excuse to talk to me again?"

"You could have called. You could have ... " Her voice trails off.

"I tried," I say. "But you were angry."

"Not angry," she says. "Just ... disappointed." She pauses. "You didn't try hard enough."

For a few seconds we're both silent and it's a cold and minor variation on so many conversations we've had and I'm thinking about the blond girl on the veranda and I imagine Blair's thinking about the last time I made love to her. This disparity should scar me but doesn't. And then Blair's talking to a guy from CAA and a band begins playing, which I take as my cue to leave, but really it's the text I suddenly get that says I'm watching you that pushes me out of the party.

At the valet in front of the hotel, Rip Millar grabs my arm as I'm texting Who is this? and I have to yank my arm away since I'm so alarmed by his appearance. I don't recognize Rip at first. His face is unnaturally smooth, redone in such a way that the eyes are shocked open with perpetual surprise; it's a face mimicking a face, and it looks agonized. The lips are too thick. The skin's orange. The hair is dyed yellow and carefully gelled. He looks like he's been quickly dipped in acid; things fell off, skin was removed. It's almost defiantly grotesque. He's on drugs, I'm thinking. He has to be on drugs to look like this. Rip's with a girl so young I mistake her for his daughter but then I remember Rip doesn't have any children. The girl has had so much work done that she looks deformed. Rip had been handsome once and his voice is the same whisper it was when we were nineteen.