Glamorama

"Warhol," I say softly, hurt. "Baby..."

She gets up off the bed and moves into the bathroom, splashes water on her face, then rubs Preparation H under her eyes. "The fashion world is dying anyway," Chloe yawns, stretching, walking over to one of her walk-in closets, opening it. "I mean, what else can I say?"

"Not necessarily a bad thing, baby," I say vaguely, moving over to the television.

"Victor-whose mortgage is this?" she cries out, waving her arms around.

I'm looking for a copy of the Flatliners tape I left over here last week but can only find an old Arsenio that Chloe was on, two movies she was in, Party Mountain with Emery Roberts and Teen Town with Hurley Thompson, another documentary about breast-implant safety and last week's "Melrose Place." On the screen now, a commercial, grainy fuzz, a reproduction of a reproduction. When I turn around, Chloe is holding up a dress in front of a full-length mirror, winking at herself.

The dress is an original Todd Oldham wraparound: not-so-basic black-slash-beige dress, strapless, Navajo-inspired and neon quilted.

My first reaction: she stole it from Alison.

"Um, baby..." I clear my throat. "What's that?"

"I'm practicing my wink for the video," she says, winking again. "Rupert says I wasn't doing it right."

"Uh-huh. Okay, I'll take some time off and we'll practice." I pause, then carefully ask, "But the dress?"

"You like it?" she asks, brightening up, turning around. "I'm wearing it tomorrow night."

"Um... baby?"

"What? What is it?" She puts the dress back in the closet.

"Oh honey," I say, shaking my head. "I don't know about that dress."

"You don't have to wear it, Victor."

"But then neither do you, right?"

"Stop. I can't deal with-"

"Baby, you're gonna look like Pocahontas in that thing."

"Todd gave me this dress especially for the opening-"

"How about something simpler, less multicult? Less p.c., perhaps? Something closer to Armani-ish?" I move toward the closet. "Here, let me choose something for you."

"Victor." She blocks the closet door. "I'm wearing that." She suddenly looks down at my ankles. "Are those scratches?"

"Where?" I look down too.

"On your ankles." She pushes me onto the bed and inspects my ankles, then the red marks on my calves. "Those look like dogs did this. Were you around any dogs today?"

"Oh baby, all day," I groan, staring at the ceiling. "You don't even know."

"Those are dog scratches, Victor."

"Oh, those?" I say, sitting up, pretending to notice them too. "Beau and JD groveling, mauling at me... Do you have any, um, Bactine?"

"When were you around dogs?" she asks again.

"Baby, you've made your point."

She stares at the scratches once more, passively, then silently gets into her side of the bed and reaches for a script sent to her by CAA, a miniseries set on another tropical island, which she thinks is dreadful even though "miniseries" is not a dirty word. I'm thinking of saying something along the lines of Baby, there might be something in tomorrow 's paper that might, like, upset you. On MTV one uninterrupted traveling Steadicam shot races through an underfurnished house.

I scoot over, position myself next to her.

"It looks like we've got the new space," I say. "I'm meeting with Waverly tomorrow."

Chloe doesn't say anything.

"I could open the new place, according to Burl, within three months." I look over at her. "You're looking vaguely concerned, baby."

"I don't know how good an idea that really is."

"What? Opening up my own place?"

"It might destroy certain relationships."

"Not ours, I hope," I say, reaching for her hand.

She stares at the script.

"What's wrong?" I sit up. "The only thing I really want right now at this point in my life-besides Flatliners II-is my own club, my own place."

Chloe sighs, flips over a page she didn't read. Finally she puts the script down. "Victor-"

"Don't say it, baby. I mean, is it so unreasonable to want that? Is it really asking anyone too much? Does the fact that I want to do something with my life bore the shit out of you?"

"Victor-"

"Baby, all my life-"