Glamorama

Glamorama Page 12

"Why, Alison? Why did you have to attack me at a movie premiere?" I wail.

"It takes two, you naughty boy."

"Not when you've knocked me unconscious and are sitting on my face."

"If I was sitting on your face no one will ever know it was you." She shrugs, gets up, grabs the coconut. "And then we'll all be saved-la la la la."

"That's not when the picture was taken, baby." I follow her into the bathroom, where she punches four holes in the coconut with the screwdriver and then leans over the Vivienne Tam-designed sink and pours the milk from the shell over her head.

"I know, I agree." She tosses the husk into a wastebasket and massages the milk into her scalp. "Damien finds out and you'll be working in a White Castle."

"And you'll be paying for your own abortions, so spare me." I raise my arms helplessly. "Why do I always have to remind you that we shouldn't be seeing each other? If this photo gets printed it'll be time for us to wake up."

"If this picture gets printed we'll just say it was a weak moment." She whips her head back and wraps her hair in a towel. "Doesn't that sound good.

"Jesus, baby, you've got people out there watching your apartment."

"I know." She beams into the mirror. "Isn't it cute?"

"Why do I always need to remind you that I'm basically still with, y'know, Chloe and you're still with Damien?"

She turns away from the mirror and leans against the sink. "If you dump me, baby, you'll be in a lot more trouble." She heads toward the closet.

"Why is that?" I ask, following her. "What do you mean, Alison?"

"Oh, let's just say rumor has it that you're looking at a new space." She pauses, holds up a pair of shoes. "And we both know that if Damien knew that you were even contemplating your own pathetic club-slash-eatery while you're currently being paid to run Damien's own pathetic club-slash-eatery, therefore insulting Damien's warped sense of loyalty, the term `you're f**ked' comes vaguely to mind." She drops the shoes, leaves the closet.

"I'm not," I insist, following her. "I swear I'm not. Oh my god, who told you that?"

"Are you denying it?"

"N-no. I mean, I am denying it. I mean..." I stand there.

"Oh never mind." Alison drops the robe and puts on some panties. "Three o'clock tomorrow?"

"I'm swamped tomorrow, baby, so spare me," I stammer. "Now, who told you I'm looking at a new space?"

"Okay-three o'clock on Monday."

"Why three o'clock? Why Monday?"

"Damien's having his unit cleaned." She tosses on a blouse.

"His unit?"

"His"-she whispers-"extensions."

"Damien has-extensions?" I ask. "He's the grossest guy, baby. He is so evil."

She strides over to the armoire, sifts through a giant box of earrings. "Oh baby, I saw Tina Brown at 44 today at lunch and she's coming tomorrow sans Harry and so is Nick Scotti, who-I know, I know-is a has-been but just looks great."

I move slowly back toward the frost-covered window, peer past the venetian blinds at the Jeep on Park.

"I talked to Winona too. She is coming. Wait." Alison pushes two earrings into one ear, three into another, and is now pulling them out. "Is Johnny coming?"

"What?" I murmur. "Who?"

"Johnny Depp," she shouts, throwing a shoe at me.

"I guess," I say vaguely. "Yeah."

"Goody," I hear her say. "Rumor has it that Davey's very friendly with heroin-ooh, don't let Chloe get too close to Davey-and I also hear that Winona might go back to Johnny if Kate Moss disappears into thin air or a smallish tornado hurls her back to Auschwitz, which we're all hoping for." She notices the half-smoked cigarette floating in the Snapple bottle, then turns around, holding the bottle out to me accusingly, mentioning something about how Mrs. Chow loves kiwi-flavored Snapple. I'm slouching in a giant Vivienne Tam armchair.

"God, Victor," Alison says, hushed. "In this light"-she stops, genuinely moved-"you look gorgeous."

Gaining the strength to squint at her, I say, finally, "The better you look, the more you see."

Chapter Two

Back at my place downtown getting dressed to meet Chloe at Bowery Bar by 10 I'm moving around my apartment cell phone in hand on hold to my agent at CAA. I'm lighting citrus-scented votive candles to help mellow the room out, ease the tension, plus it's so freezing in my apartment it's like an igloo. Black turtleneck, white jeans, Matsuda jacket, slippers, simple and cool. Music playing is low-volume Weezer. TV's on-no sound-with highlights from the shows today at Bryant Park, Chloe everywhere. Finally a click, a sigh, muffled voices in the background, Bill sighing again.