Glamorama

Glamorama Page 63

"I'll vacate only after we chat."

She considers this and, grimacing, forces herself to ask quickly, "Okay-how was the Oldham show?"

"Very major," I say, slouching around the room. "Chatted with Elsa Klensch. The usual."

"How is Elsa?" she asks, still glaring.

"Elsa and I are both Capricorns so we get along very nicely," I say. "Is it cold in here or is it just me?"

"And otherwise?" she asks, waiting.

"It was, er, very, very-oh yeah-important"

"Important?" Lauren asks semi-dubiously.

"Clothes are important, baby."

"They eventually clean furniture, Victor."

"Hey," I exclaim. "Lighten up, baby."

"Victor, you've got to get out of here."

"What were you doing?" I ask, moving around the room, taking the whole apartment in. "Why weren't you at the show?"

"I had a photo shoot promoting a terrible movie I'm in with Ben Chaplin and Rufus Sewell," she hisses, barely able to contain herself. "Then I took a bubble bath and read an article on the impossibility of real emotion on the Upper East Side in New York magazine." She stubs out the cigarette. "This was a draining conversation, yet one I'm glad we had. The door's over there in case you've forgotten."

She walks past me, down a hallway covered with a Berber-style woven carpet and Moroccan embroidered pillows stacked against the walls and then I'm in her bedroom, where I flop on the bed, leaning back on my elbows, my feet barely touching the floor, watching as Lauren stalks into the bathroom and begins toweling her hair dry. Behind her a poster for some indie film starring Steve Buscemi hangs above the toilet. She's so annoyed-but maybe in a fake way-that I have to say, "Oh come off it, I'm not so bad. I bet you hang out with guys who say things like 'But what if I want a new Maserati' all the time. I bet your life is filled with that." I stop, then add, "Too."

She picks up a half-empty glass of champagne by the sink, downs it.

"Hey," I say, pointing at the framed poster. "You were in that movie?"

"Unfortunately," she mutters. "Notice where it's hanging?"

She closes her eyes, touches her forehead.

"You just finished a new movie?" I ask softly.

"Yes." Suddenly she searches through an array of Estee Lauder jars, Lancome products, picks up a L'Occitane butter massage balm that Chloe also uses, reads the ingredients, puts it down, finally gives up and just looks at herself in the mirror.

"What's it about?" I ask as if it matters. "It's kind of like Footloose," she says, then pauses and delicately whispers, "But set on Mars." She waits for my reaction.

I just stare at her from the bed. A longish silence. "That's so cool, baby."

"I wept on the set every day."

"Did you just break up with someone?"

"You-are-a-dunce."

"I'm waiting to see if I'm getting a role in Flatliners II," I mention casually, stretching.

"So we're in the same boat?" she asks. "Is that it?"

"Alison Poole told me you were doing pretty well."

She swigs from a nearby bottle of Evian. "Let's just say it's been lucratively tedious."

"Baby, I'm sensing that you're a star."

"Have you seen any of my movies?"

Pause. "Alison Poole told me you were doing-"

"Don't mention that cunt's name in this apartment," she screams, throwing a brush at me.

"Hey baby," I say, ducking. "Come here, baby, chill out."

"What?" she asks, irritably. "Come where?"

"Come here," I murmur, staring straight at her. "Come here," I say, patting the comforter.

She just stares at me lying on the bed, my shirt pulled up a little, showing off my lower abs, my legs slightly spread. Sometime during all of this my jacket came off.

"Victor?"

"Yeah?" I whisper.

"What does Chloe mean to you?"

"Come here," I whisper.

"Just because you're a gorgeous guy doesn't give you any more rights than...," she falters, picks up: "... anyone else."

"I know, baby. It's cool." I sit up, gazing at her, never breaking eye contact. She moves toward me.

"Come on," I say. "That's it."

"What do you want, Victor?"