Glamorama

The guy nods and lifts the rope while whispering something into a walkie-talkie and I'm whisked up the steps, and just inside the door a young-model type with the dress code down pat ('70s Vivienne Westwood and a fake-fur coat) and obviously immediately infatuated leads me to the VIP room through various corridors and walkways blinking with infrared lights, fashion students trancing out on flickering patterns splattered across the walls, and lower in the club it's suddenly more humid and we're passing groups of teenagers united over computer screens and dealers peddling tabs of Ecstasy, and then the floor drops away and we're on a steel catwalk and beneath us a giant dance floor teems with a monster crowd and we pass a DJ booth with four turntables and some legendary DJ spinning seamless ambient drum and bass-rhythmic and booming-along with his apprentice, who's this widely praised Jamaican kid, and their set is being played live on various pirate radio stations throughout England tonight and all the gold-electric light strobing out of control everywhere causes the rooms we keep moving through to spin around and I'm about to lose my balance just as my guide ushers me past two hulking goons and into the VIP room and when I try to make conversation with her-"Quite a popular venue, huh?" -she just turns away, muttering "I'm booked."

Behind the curtains it's a mock-airport lounge but with discoey;, white lights and burgundy velvet booths, a giant poster stretches across a black wall with the word BREED in purple spectral lettering and dozens of UK record-company executives in Mad Max gear hang out with tattooed models from Holland and managing directors from Polygram share bananas and sip psybertronic drinks with magazine editors and half of a progressive British hip-hop act wearing schoolgirl uniforms is dancing with modeling agency bookers along with ghosts, extras, insiders, various people from the world at large. Paparazzi hunt for celebs. It's freezing in the VIP room and everyone's breath steams.

I order a Tasmanian beer from the bug-eyed bartender wearing a velour tuxedo who unashamedly tries to sell me a joint laced with Special K as he lights my cigarette, wild fluorescent patterns spiraling across the mirrored wall behind him while Shirley Bassey sings the "Goldfinger" theme and an endless reel of Gap ads flashes on various video monitors.

In the mirrored wall I immediately spot the Christian Bale-looking guy who followed me into Masako yesterday standing next to me and I whirl around and start talking to him and he's annoyed and pulling away but the director takes me aside and hisses, "Sam Ho's an Asian, you nitwit."

"Hey man, I know, I know," I say, holding my hands up. "It's cool. It's cool."

"Then who is that?" the director asks, nodding over at the Christian Bale guy.

"I thought he was in the movie," I say. "I thought you guys casted him."

"I've never seen him before in my life," the director snaps.

"He's a buddy of, um, mine," I say, waving over at him. The Christian Bale guy looks at me like I'm insane and turns back to his beer.

"Over there," the director says. "Sam He's over there."

A fairly beautiful Asian kid about my age, slight with blond hair and black roots, wearing sunglasses, sweaty and humming to himself, leans against the bar waiting for the bartender, repeatedly wiping his nose with the hand that's waving cash. He's wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, inside-out Levi's 50 1 s, a Puffer jacket and Caterpillar boots. Sighing to myself, thinking, Oh dear, I make my way over to where Sam He's standing and the first time I glance at him he notices and smiles to himself but then the bartender glides by, ignoring him, causing Sam to start dancing up and down in a frustrated jig. Sam lowers the sunglasses and glares at me as if it's my fault. I look away but not before noticing the word SLAVE tattooed on the back of his hand.

"Oh, stop being so elusive," he groans theatrically, in a heavy accent.

"Hey, are you Sam Ho?" I ask. "Like, the model?"

"You're cute but I think also brain-fried," he says without looking at me.

"Far out," I say, undeterred. "Isn't this place great?"

"I could quite happily live here," Sam says, bored. "And it's not even rave night."

"It's changing the definition of what a hip night out means, huh?"

"Stop holding out on me, baby," Sam shouts at the bartender as he races by again, juggling three bottles of Absolut Citron.

"So what's the story?" I'm asking. "When's Fetish Evening?"

"Every evening is Fetish Evening in clubland, darling," Sam groans, and then, glancing sideways at me, asks, "Am I being sought after?" He checks out my wrist. "Nice arm veins."