Inside the tote bag Jamie might have slipped the vial into: a Gucci snakeskin wallet, a miniature Mont Blanc fountain pen, an Asprey address book, Calvin Klein sunglasses, a Nokia 9000 cell phone, a Nars lip gloss, a Calvin Klein atomizer and a Sony ICD-50 portable digital recorder that I stare at questioningly until I'm cued to press Play and when I do, I hear my voice echoing hollowly in the empty space at Le Caprice.
"I um, don't know..."
"Don't be shocked. 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... That's very good, Victor."
A voice above me, someone hanging over the banister wearing a Gucci tux, someone way too exquisitely handsome and my age, a guy who might or might not be Bentley Harrolds, the model, totally drunk, his tumbler filled to the brim with clear liquid dangling precariously from a hand attached to a sagging wrist:
"Oh, what a circus," he groans. "Oh, what a show."
I immediately turn off the recorder and drop it back into Jamie's tote bag, then look up at Bentley, flashing a sexy grin that causes Bentley's eyes to widen and then he's leering at me, blood rushing to his head turning his face crimson, and still hanging over the banister, he slurs, "You certainly don't make a mundane first impression."
"And you're Bentley Harrolds," I say and then, gesturing toward the glass, "Hey bud, what are you drinking?"
"Er..." Bentley looks at his hand and then back at me, his eyes crossed with concentration. "I'm sipping chilled Bacardi," and then, still staring down at me: "You're full-frontal gorgeous."
"So I've been told," I say, and then, "How gorgeous?"
Bentley's moving down the staircase and now he's standing over me, swaying back and forth, flushed.
"You look like Brad Pitt," Bentley says. "After he's just wrestled a large... furry... bear." Pause. "And that gets me hot."
"Just give me a minute to calm down."
"What were you doing going through Jamie Fields' tote bag, by the way?" Bentley asks, trying to sit, but I'm scooting all over the couch, making it virtually impossible. He gives up, sighs, tries to focus.
"Um, I suppose you don't want to hear about my strenuous workout in the Four Seasons gym this morning instead, huh?"
A long pause while Bentley considers this. "I... might"-he gulps-"faint."