Glamorama

But I'm realizing that the computer was on when I came in.

I fall toward the computer, flicking it back on, and lunge again toward the chair.

Bobby and Bentley walk into the living room, followed by members of the French film crew, including the director and the cameraman.

My head rests on my knees and I'm breathing hard.

A voice-I'm not sure which one-asks, "What are you doing here?"

I don't say anything. It's winter in here.

"Victor?" Bobby's asking, carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I felt sick," I say, gasping, looking up, squinting. "I don't feel well." A pause. "I ran out of Xanax."

Bentley glances at Bobby and, while walking by me, mumbles disinterestedly, "Tough shit."

Bobby looks over at the director, who's studying me as if making a decision. The director finally nods at Bobby: a cue.

Bobby shrugs, flops onto a couch, unknots his tie, then takes off his jacket. The shoulder of his white Comme des Garcons shirt is lightly flecked with blood. Bobby sighs.

Bentley reappears and hands Bobby a drink.

"What happened?" I ask, needing to hear myself. "Why did you leave the party?"

"There was an accident," Bobby says. "Something... occurred."

He sips his drink.

"What?" I ask.

"Bruce Rhinebeck is dead," Bobby says, looking past me, taking another sip of his drink with a steady hand.

Bobby doesn't wait for me to ask how this happened but I wasn't going to ask anything anyway.

"He was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Bethune." Bobby sighs, doesn't elaborate. "For what it's worth."

I stay where I'm sitting for as long as I can without going totally insane, but then the director motions for me to stand, which I do, wobbling.

"I'm... going to bed," I say and then, pointing with my finger, add, Upstairs."

Bobby says nothing, just glances at me indifferently.

"I'm... exhausted." I start walking away. "I'm fading."

"Victor?" Bobby asks suddenly.

"Yeah?" I stop, casually turn around, relax my face.

"What's that?" Bobby asks.

I'm suddenly aware that my body is covered with damp sweat and my stomach keeps unspooling reams of acid. "What?" I ask.

"Sticking out of that pocket?" He points at my jacket.

I look down innocently. "What's what?"

Bobby gets off the couch and walks over so quickly he almost collides into me. He rips the piece of paper that's bothering him out of my jacket.

He inspects it, turning it over, and then stares back at me.

He holds the page out, his mouth turned downward, sweat sprinkled across his temples, the bridge of his nose, the skin under his eyes. He grins horribly: a rictus.

I take the page from him, my hand moist and trembling.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Go to bed," he says, turning away.

I look down at the page.

It's the call sheet for tomorrow that the first AD handed out as I left the party on Rue Paul Valery.

"I'm sorry about Bruce," I say hesitantly, because I don't mean it.

Upstairs. I'm freezing in bed, my door locked. I devour Xanax but still can't sleep. I start masturbating a dozen times but always stop when I realize that it's getting me nowhere. I try to block out the screaming from downstairs with my Walkman but someone from the French film crew has slipped in a ninety-minute cassette composed entirely of David Bowie singing "Heroes" over and over in an endless loop, another crime with its own logic. I start counting the deaths I haven't taken part in: postage stamps with toxin in the glue, the pages of books lined with chemicals that once touched can kill within hours, the Armani suits saturated with so much poison that the victim who wears it can absorb it through the skin by the end of a day.

At 11:00 Tammy finally twirls into the room, holding a bunch of white lilies, her arms dotted with sores, most of them concentrated in a patch in the crook of her elbow. Jamie trails behind her. I've read the scene and know how it's supposed to play. When Jamie is told of Bruce's death she simply says "Good" (but Jamie knew what was going to happen to Bruce Rhinebeck, she knew in London, she knew when we arrived in Paris, she knew the first afternoon she played tennis with Bruce, she knew from the beginning).

When Tammy is told she gazes at Bobby vapidly, puzzled. On cue Jamie takes the lilies out of Tammy's hand as it relaxes, losing its grip. "Liar," Tammy whispers and then she whispers "Liar" again and after she's able to process Bobby's weak smile, the French crew standing behind him, the camera filming her reaction, she feels like she's dropping and in a rush she starts screaming, wailing interminably, and she's not even wondering anymore why Bobby walked into her life and she's told to go to sleep, she's told to forget Bruce Rhinebeck immediately, she's told that he murdered the French premier's son, she's told that she should be grateful that she's unharmed, while Bentley (I swear to god) starts making a salad.