Glamorama

Glamorama Page 72

MTV (long pause): "Did you... understand the question?"

ME: "What do you mean by that?"

MTV: "Aren't there things going on-"

ME (pissed): "Maybe you've misunderstood my answers."

MTV: "Okay, forget it, um-"

ME: "Just move to the next question."

MTV: "Oh, okay-"

ME: "Shoot."

MTV (really long pause, then): "Have you ever wished that you could disappear from all this?"

8

Having no idea where my keys are I rush up to Chloe's realizing we're running late (also thinking, That's cool) and Lauren Hynde opens the door and we stare at each other blankly until I say "You look... wonderful tonight" and she suddenly looks like she's shot through with something like pain or maybe something else like maybe something by Versace and she opens the door wider so I can enter Chloe's apartment where grunged-out Baxter Priestly's sitting on the island in the kitchen with a mullet haircut and Oakley eyewear and he's rolling a joint laced with Xanax and the Sci-Fi Channel is on in the background with the sound turned down and swanky dreampop coming from two ten-thousand-dollar speakers plays over it and Chloe's standing next to Baxter eating a peppermint patty in the Todd Oldham dress and listening to Baxter say things like "I saw a bum with really great abs today" and thirteen bottles of mineral water are in various stages of emptiness on a marble countertop next to faxes sent that say I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING and the dozen French white tulips that I supposedly sent Chloe are in a giant crystal vase that someone named Susan Sontag gave her.

"You possess repartee in abundance, my friend," I mutter, slapping Baxter's shoulder, startling him out of his inanity, leaning in to kiss Chloe in the same movement, waiting for someone to comment on how chic I look. Behind me Lauren Hynde lingers by the door and Chloe says something like "The limo's waiting on the street" and I nod okay and move sullenly into our bedroom, making sure Chloe catches the scowl I hurl at Baxter while he continues deseeding.

In my closet: white jeans, leather belts, leather bomber jacket, black cowboy boots, a couple of black wool crepe suits, a dozen white shirts, a black turtleneck, crumpled silk pajamas, a high-class  p**n o movie I've watched hundreds of times starring people who look just like us. I'm pretending to go through stuff until Chloe walks in seconds after I've crouched down inspecting a pair of sandals I bought in Barcelona at a Banana Republic.

"What's the story?" I finally ask. "Where's my three-snap blazer?"

"About what?" she asks back, tightly.

"Wasn't he a head in a Mr. Jenkins ad, baby?"

"I told you he was coming."

"What do you think that antifashion look costs?" I ask. "Two thousand bucks? Three thousand bucks?"

"Forget about it, Victor." She's searching for a pair of sunglasses to wear.

"Far out."

"Victor," she starts. "What are you looking for?"

"My hair gel." I walk away from the closet and brush by her into the bathroom where I start gelling my hair, slicking it back. My beeper goes off and I ignore it. When it goes off again I wash my hands and find out it's Alison and I'm wondering how everything got so f**ked up, but checking out my profile calms me down and I take a few deep breaths, complete a couple of seconds of some deep-sea visualization and then: ready to go.

"The tux looks nice," Chloe says, standing in the bathroom door, watching me. "Who was that?" Pause. "On the beeper?"

"Someone at the club." I just stand there and then I look at my watch and then move back to the bed where I rummage through the Comme des Garcons bag so the clothes can go to Chloe's dry cleaners. Absently I find the hat Lauren gave me, all scrunched up.

"What's that?" I hear Chloe ask.

"Oops, wrong hat," I say, tossing it back in the bag, a Bullwinkle impression that used to make her laugh but now she doesn't get and she's not really looking at the hat but thinking other thoughts.

"I really want things to work out," Chloe says hesitantly. "Between us," she clarifies.

"I'm mad about you." I shrug. "You're mad about me." I shrug again.

"Don't do this, Victor."

"Do what?"

"I'm happy for you, Victor," she says, strained, just standing there in front of me, exhausted. "I'm really happy for you about tonight."