Imperial Bedrooms - By Bret Easton Ellis Page 0,8

because he had a small role in Concealed.

"I don't really want to know." I'm staring at the traffic on Melrose. "I didn't stay long. I had another party to go to." And suddenly I remember the blond girl walking out of the shadows in Bel Air. I'm surprised she has stayed with me, and that her image has lingered for so long.

"How do you think it went?" she asks.

"I thought you were great," I say. "I told you that."

She laughs, pleased. She could be twenty. She could be thirty. You can't tell. And if you could, everything would be over. Destiny. "Destiny" is the word I'm thinking about. The actress murmurs a line from The Listeners. I made sure the director and producer had no interest in her for the role she auditioned for before asking her out. This is the only reason she's with me at lunch and I've been here so many times and I realize there's another premiere tonight and that I'm meeting the producer in Westwood at six. I check my watch. I've kept the afternoon open. The actress drains the glass of champagne. An attentive and handsome waiter fills it up again. I've had nothing to drink because something else in the lunch is working for me. She needs to take this to the next level if anything's ever going to pan out for her.

"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