Glamorama

Glamorama Page 89

"That picture wasn't us," I say, suddenly alert. "I don't know how, Lauren, but that wasn't-"

"Are you sure?" she asks, cutting me off.

"Oh come on," I yell, my voice getting higher. "What's the story, Lauren? I mean, Jesus, this is like a nightmare and you're taking it so-"

"I don't know, Victor, but I'm sure you'll wake up and figure it all out," she says. "I wouldn't necessarily bet on it but I think you'll figure it all out. In the end."

"Jesus, you sound like you don't want to ruin the surprise for me."

"Victor," she's sighing, "I have to go."

"It's not me, Lauren," I stress again. "That might be you. But that's not me."

"Well, it looks like you, Victor. The paper says it's you-"

"Lauren," I shout, panicking. "What in the hell's happening? Where in the f**k did that photo come from?"

"Victor," she continues calmly. "We cannot see each other anymore. We cannot talk to each other anymore. This relationship is terminated."

"You're saying this like you've just completed some kind of f**king assignment," I cry out.

"You're projecting," she says sternly.

"I urge you, baby, one last time to reconsider," I say, breaking down. "I want to be with you," I finally say.

"Trust me, Victor," she says. "You don't."

"Baby, he gets his shirts tailored-"

"Frankly I couldn't care less," she says. "Those are things you care about. Those are the things that make you decide a person's worth."

After a long pause I say, "I guess you heard about Mica."

"What about Mica?" she asks, sounding totally uninterested.

"She was, um, murdered, baby," I point out, wiping my nose.

"I don't think that was a murder," Lauren says carefully.

After another long pause I ask, "What was it?"

Finally, solemnly, she says, "It was a statement," giving it more meaning than I'm capable of understanding.

"Spare me, Lauren," I whisper helplessly.

She hangs up.

The camera stops rolling and the makeup girl drops a couple glycerin tears onto my face and the camera starts rolling again and just like in rehearsals I hang the phone up in such a way that it drops out of my hand, swinging by its cord, and then carefully, gently, I lift it up, staring at it. We don't bother reshooting and it's on to the next setup.

3

Chloe actually lets the doorman buzz me up after the director tells Ashton to give me the rundown so that I'm prepared for the following scene, which is basically that when Chloe skipped the shows she was supposed to do today it caused some kind of horrible ruckus and since "Hard Copy," "Inside Edition," "A Current Affair," "Entertainment Tonight" and "Nightline" have been calling all morning Chloe is heading to Canyon Ranch for two weeks with Baxter Priestly and in the elevator the director, getting fed up with me, hisses "Look anguished" and I try to but I'm just vaguely unhappy and when I glance uncertainly at the camera it rises up as the elevator doors open and follows me into the darkness of the hallway that leads to Chloe's loft.

Inside the apartment it's freezing, even with all the lights burning; the windows are covered with huge sheets of ice, and frost layers the kitchen cabinets and the giant glass coffee table, the floor slippery in places. The phone keeps ringing, competing with the TV in Chloe's bedroom, and as I walk in to turn it down a promo for this afternoon's "Patty Winters Show" appears, the host cradling a severely deformed four-year-old while Bette Midler sings "From a Distance" on the sound track, and then it's back to a soap opera, where a character says to another character, "That wasn't nice," and I move slowly over to the bathroom but Chloe isn't in there. The tub is full of suds and there are two empty containers of Ben Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream sitting by the sink, next to the retainer Chloe uses to bleach her teeth, which sits beside a large hand mirror that with a twinge of panic I'm about to inspect, but then Chloe walks into the bedroom and I whirl around and the phone keeps ringing.

She's on a cellular, listening to someone, and looking remarkably composed, she glances over at me as she walks toward the bed, on top of which sits the set of Gucci luggage Tom Ford sent for her birthday, and she says something into the phone I can't hear, then clicks off, and I reconsider opening my arms and saying "Ta-da!" but instead ask "Who was that?" and then, when there isn't an answer, "That's not your phone."