Glamorama

"Forget it. I knew it was a crazy question, forget it," I say, trying to smile, shaking my head. "So who's been sleeping in your bed?"

"I'm enjoying the art of being semi-single," she sighs.

"I'm seeing your face in a new light," I say, resting my chin in the palm of my hand, staring straight at her. "And you're lying."

"About what?" she asks hesitantly.

"About being single."

"How would you know?"

"Because girls who look like you are never single," I say faux-confidently. "Plus I know you, Jamie. You like guys too much."

She just stares at me, mouth open, and then starts laughing hysterically and doesn't stop cracking up until I ask, "Did you have cheekbones like that back at Camden?"

She takes a couple of deep breaths, reaches over to finish my martini and, flushed, panting, asks, "Victor, what do you expect me to say to that?"

"You dropped a bomb on me, baby," I murmur, staring at her.

Startled, pretending not to be, she asks, "I did what?"

"You dropped a bomb on me," I say. "You, like, affected me."

"When did this happen?"

"When we first met."

"And?"

"And now I'm in the same state."

"Well, get over it," she says. "Get over yourself as well."

"You're thinking something, though," I say, refusing to break eye contact, not even blinking.

"Yes, I am," she says finally, smiling.

"What are you thinking, Jamie?"

After a pause and looking directly back at me, she says, "I'm thinking you're a potentially interesting person who I might want to get reacquainted with."

"You've always been one of the fifty most inspiring women in the world to me."

"Would you like to get reacquainted, Victor?" she asks, daring me, lowering her eyes, then raising them back up, widening them.

Suddenly the way she says this and the look on her face-total sex-flusters me, and with my face burning, I try to complete a sentence but only "I, um, don't know..." comes out. I end up staring down at the table.

"Don't be shocked," she says. "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," she says after a while, studying me. "That's very good, Victor."

After the table has been cleared and we've split a dessert, she asks, "What are you thinking about?"

After a long pause, debating which way to go, I say, "I'm thinking, Does she still do drugs?"

"And?" she asks teasingly.

"And... does she have any on her right now?"

Smiling, getting into the spirit, Jamie says, "No." A slight pause.

"But I know where you can get some."

"Waiter?" I lift my hand. "Check, please?"

After he brings it, Jamie realizes something.

"You're actually paying?" she asks. "Oh my god."

"Hey baby, I'm flush," I say. "I'm on a roll. I'm happening."

Watching me slap down the appropriate amount of cash, including a giant tip, Jamie murmurs, "Maybe things really have changed."

1 0

As the Chemical Brothers' "Setting Sun" blasts out on cue we're back in Notting Hill at some industrial billionaire's warehouse-one of the more elaborate sets so far, which is really a massive series of warehouses within one enormous building-and it's a party for Gary Hume, though in actuality it's in honor of Patsy and Liam and getting in is hard if you're not like us but Jamie's whisked through a silver archway right behind Kate Moss and Stella Tennant by guards wearing headsets, and the feel of what's going on outside the warehouse is "just another giant media event" with the prerequisite camera vans parked in front, barricades, fans reaching out, fame, people's names on the back of jackets, kids looking at us thinking that's what we want to look like, thinking that's who we want to be. When I ask Jamie about the identity of the industrial billionaire she tells me he funds certain wars and is also a "friendly" alcoholic and then we bump into Patsy Palmer and Martine McCutcheson and we all end up telling Nellie Hooper how much we adore the new Massive remix as Damon Albarn kisses Jamie on both cheeks.

Inside: most of the vast empty spaces in the warehouse look like restaurant kitchens with giant windows steamed over and it's freezing because of all the mammoth ice sculptures on display and bands are playing on different floors (the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's in the basement) and everyone's doing Gucci poses while drinking Tsingtao beer but it's also a kind of Gap-T-shirt-and-Prada-penny-loafers night, no pitfalls, camcorders everywhere, Carmen Electra in a purple Alaia dress dancing with one of the ice sculptures, and sometimes the party's in black-and-white and sometimes it's in glaring color like in the new Quicksilver ads and the mood is all basically very antistyle and we're shivering like we're lodged in an iceberg somewhere that's floating off the coast of Norway or a place equally cold.