Glamorama

"The proverbial show is on the proverbial road, dude," I assure him.

"I just like to keep-abreast," he says, winking at Chloe.

After he leaves I finish the joint, then look at my watch but I'm not wearing one so I inspect my wrist instead.

"He's strange," Chloe says. "And I need some soup."

"He's a nice guy, babe."

Chloe slouches in the booth, looks at me disgustedly.

"What? Hey, he has his own coat of arms."

"Who told you that?"

"He did. He told me he has his own coat of arms."

"Spare me," Chloe says.

Chloe picks up the check and in order to downplay the situation I lean in to kiss her, the swarming paparazzi causing the kind of disturbance we're used to.

28

Stills from Chloe's loft in a space that looks like it was designed by Den Flavin: two Toshiyuki Kita hop sofas, an expanse of white-maple floor, six Baccarat Tastevin wineglasses-a gift from Bruce and Nan Weber-dozens of white French tulips, a StairMaster and a free-weight set, photography books-Matthew Rolston, Annie Leibovitz, Herb Ritts-all signed, a Faberge Imperial egg-a gift from Bruce Willis (pre-Demi)-a large plain portrait of Chloe by Richard Avedon, sunglasses scattered all over the place, a Helmut Newton photo of Chloe walking seminude through the lobby of the Malperisa in Milan while nobody notices, a large William Wegman and giant posters for the movies Butterfield 8, The Bachelor Party with Carolyn Jones, Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. A giant fax sheet taped above Chloe's makeup table lists Monday 9am Byron Lars, 11am Mark Eisen, 2pm Nicole Miller, 6pm Ghost, Tuesday 10am Ralph Lauren, Wednesday 11am Anna Sui, 2pm Calvin Klein, 4pm Bill Blass, 7pm Isaac Mizrahi, Thursday 9am Donna Karan, 5pm Todd Oldham and on and on until Sunday. Piles of foreign currency and empty Glacier bottles litter tables and countertops everywhere. In her refrigerator the breakfast Luna has already prepared: ruby-red grapefruit, Evian, iced herbal tea, nonfat plain yogurt with blackberries, a quarter of a poppy- seed bagel, sometimes toasted, sometimes not, Beluga if it's a "special day." Gilles Bensinion, Juliette Lewis, Patrick Demarchelier, Ron Galotti, Peter Lindbergh and Baxter Priestly have all left messages.

I take a shower, rub some Preparation H and Clinique Eye Fitness under my eyes and check my answering machine: Ellen Von Unwerth, Eric Stoltz, Alison Poole, Nicolas Cage, Nicollette Sheridan, Stephen Dorff and somebody ominous from TriStar. When I come out of the bathroom with a Ralph Lauren fluffy towel wrapped around my waist, Chloe is sitting on the bed looking doomed, hugging her knees to her chest. Tears fill her eyes, she shudders, takes a Xanax, wards off another anxiety attack. On the large-screen TV is a documentary about the dangers of breast implants.

"It's just silicone, baby," I say, trying to soothe her. "I take Halcion, okay? I had half a bacon sandwich the other day. We smoke."

"Oh god, Victor." She keeps shuddering.

"Remember that period you chopped off all your hair and kept dyeing it different colors and all you did was cry?"

"Victor, I was suicidal," she sobs. "I almost overdosed."

"Baby, the point is you never lost a booking."

"Victor, I'm twenty-six. That's a hundred and five in model years."

"Baby, this insecurity you've got has to, like, split." I rub her shoulders. "You're an icon, baby," I whisper into her ear. "You are the guideline." I kiss her neck lightly. "You personify the physical ideal of your day," and then, "Baby, you're not just a model. You're a star." Finally, cupping her face in my hands, I tell her, "Beauty is in the soul."

"But my soul doesn't do twenty runway shows," she cries out. "My soul isn't on the cover of f**king Harper's next month. My soul's not negotiating a Lancome contract" Heaving sobs, gasps, the whole bit, the end of the world, the end of everything.

"Baby..." I pull back. "I don't want to wake up and find you've freaked out about your implants again and you're hiding out in Hollywood at the Chateau Marmont, hanging with Kiefer and Dermot and Sly. So y'know, um, chill out, baby."

After ten minutes of silence or maybe two the Xanax kicks in and she concedes, "I'm feeling a little better."

"Baby, Andy once said that beauty is a sign of intelligence."

She turns slowly to look at me. "Who, Victor? Who? Andy who?" She coughs, blowing her nose. "Andy Kaufman? Andy Griffith? Who in the hell told you this? Andy Rooney?"