Glamorama

"Who was here?" I'm asking, flinging open the bathroom door.

"Victor, calm down," Chloe says.

"Where is he?" I'm asking, opening a closet door, slamming it shut. "Who was here?"

"Bobby Hughes came over," she says, shivering, sitting down on a high-back chair in front of a desk where she was writing something in a large spiral notebook. She crosses her legs and stares at me sternly.

"What did he want?" I ask, calming down.

"He just wanted to talk." She shrugs. "He wanted to know where you were-"

"What did he say?"

"Victor-"

"Just answer me, goddamnit. What did he say?"

"He wanted to talk," she says, shocked. "He wanted to have some champagne. He brought some by. He said it was to patch things up with you-whatever that means. I said no thank you, of course, and-"

"Did you really?"

A long pause. "I just had half a glass." She sighs. "He wanted me to save it for you. It's over there in the ice bucket."

"And"-I breathe in-"what else?" Relief washes over me so hard that tears blur my vision.

"Nothing. It was fine. He was celebrating-what, I don't know." She pauses, signifying something. "He was sorry he missed you-"

"Yeah, I bet," I mutter.

"Victor, he's..." She sighs, then decides to go with it. "He's worried about you."

"I don't care," I say.

"I said he's worried about you," she exclaims.

"Where is he?"

"He had to go," she says, clutching herself, shivering again.

"Where?"

"I don't know, Victor," she says. "There was a party somewhere. There was another party somewhere;"

"What party? Where?" I ask. "It's very important, Chloe."

"I don't know where he went," she says. "Listen, we had some champagne, we chatted briefly and then he went off to a party. What's wrong with you? Why are you so frightened?"

Silence.

"Who was he with, baby?" I ask.

"He was with a friend," she says. "Someone who looked like Bruce Rhinebeck but I don't think it was Bruce."

A long pause. I'm just standing in the middle of the suite, my arms at my sides. "Bruce Rhinebeck?"

"Yeah, it was weird. He kind of looked like Bruce. But something was off about the guy. The hair was different or something." She grimaces, rubs her stomach. "The guy said his name was Bruce but he didn't give a last name, so who knows, right?"

I'm just standing there.

"This isn't happening," I murmur.

Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

"What's not happening?" she asks, annoyed.

Bruce Rhinebeck was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Bethune, and Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

"That wasn't Bruce Rhinebeck, baby."

"Well, it looked like Bruce Rhinebeck," Chloe says. This sounds too harsh and she moves into a gentler mode. "That's all I'm saying, okay? Victor, just calm down." She grimaces again.

I start pulling luggage out of the closet.

She turns around. "What are you doing?"

"We're getting out of here," I say, throwing the Gucci luggage on the bed. "Now."

"Out of where, Victor?" Chloe asks impatiently, shifting around in the chair.

"Out of Paris," I say. "We're going back to New York."

"Victor, I have shows tomor-"

"I don't care," I shout. "We're getting the hell out of here."

"Victor, I'm worried about you too," she says. "Sit down for a minute. I want to talk."

"No, no-I don't want to talk," I'm saying. "I just want to get out of here."

"Stop it," she says, doubling over. "Just sit down."

"Chloe-"

"I have to use the bathroom," she says. "But don't pack anything. I want to talk to you."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I don't feel well," she mutters.

"Did you eat anything?" I ask, suddenly concerned.

"No, I just had that champagne."

I glance over at the ice bucket, at the bottle of Cristal lodged in it, the empty champagne flute sitting on the desk.

She gets up from the desk. I watch her.

She brushes past me.

I'm staring at the glass and then I'm moving toward it.