"Chloe," I say, my voice hoarse.
She turns around, ready to smile at whoever just said her name, but when she sees it's me she seems confused and she doesn't say anything.
People are swarming around us and I start crying, wrapping my arms around her, and in a haze I realize she's hugging me back.
"I thought you were in New York," she's saying.
"Oh baby, no, no," I'm saying. "I'm here. I've been here. Why did you think that?"
"Victor?" she asks, pulling back. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, baby, I'm cool," I say, still crying, trying not to.
Upstairs, at Chloe's request a PR person maneuvers us to a bench in the VIP section, which looks out over the rest of the party. Chloe's chewing Nicorette, carefully blotting her lipstick, and gold and taupe brow color has been applied to the outer corners of her eyes and I keep grabbing her hand, clutching it, and sometimes she squeezes back.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Oh great, great." Pause. "Not so great." Another pause. "I think I need some help, baby." I try to smile.
"It's not drugs... is it?" she asks. "We're not being bad... are we?"
"No, no, no, not that, I just-" I smile tightly, reach out again to rub her hand. "I just missed you so much and I'm just so glad you're here and I'm just so sorry for everything," I say in a rush, breaking down again.
"Hey, shhh, what's bringing this on?" she asks.
I can't talk. My head slips from my hands and I'm just sobbing, tears pouring out.
"Victor? Is everything okay?" she asks softly. "What's going on?"
I take in a giant breath, then sob again.
"Victor, what's wrong?" I hear her ask. "Do you need any money? Is that it?"
I keep shaking my head, unable to speak. "Are you in trouble?" she asks. "Victor?" "No, no, baby, no," I say, wiping my face.
"Victor, you're scaring me."
"It's just, it's just, this is my worst suit," I say, trying to laugh.
"Wardrobe dressed me. The director insisted. But it's just not fitting right."
"You look nice," she says, relaxing a little. "You look tired but you look nice." She pauses, then adds sweetly, "I've missed you."
"Oh baby..."
"I know I shouldn't but I do."
"Hey, hey..."
"I left about a dozen messages on your machine in New York last week," she says. "I guess you never
got them."
"No." I clear my throat, keep sniffling. "No, I guess I didn't."
"Victor-"
"So are you seeing anyone?" I ask, hope cracking my voice apart. "Did you come here with anyone?"
"Please. No unpleasant questions. Okay?"
"Hey, come on, Chloe, just let me know."
"Victor, Jesus," she says, pulling back. "We already talked about that. I'm not seeing anyone."
"What happened to Baxter?" I ask, coughing.
"Baxter Priestly?" she asks. "Victor-"
"Yeah, Baxter." I wipe my face with my hand, then wipe my hand on my pants, still sniffling.
"Nothing. Why?" Chloe pauses, chewing tensely. "Victor, I'm suddenly really, really worried about you."
"I thought he was in the same movie," I blurt out. "I thought his part got bigger."
"He's been written out," she says. "Not like that should mean anything to you."
"Baby, listen, I'm just so happy to see you."
"You're shaking," she says. "You're really shaking."
"I'm just... so cold," I say. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, the shows," she says, staring at me strangely.
"Yeah, yeah." I reach for her hand again. "What else?"
"I'm also narrating a documentary on the history of the negligee."
"That's so cool, baby."
"Some might say," she concedes. "And yourself? What are you doing in Paris?"
"I'm just, um, moving on to the next project, y'know?" I say.
"That's... constructive."
"Yeah. Go figure," I say. "I don't have a master plan yet."
At the entrance of the VIP section, at the top of the steel staircase, Bobby is conferring with Bertrand, who is jabbing his finger at where Chloe and I are sitting while he angrily leans into Bobby and Bobby just nods "understandingly" and makes a calming motion with his hand, which Bertrand pushes away disgustedly. Bobby sighs visibly and as he starts making his way over to us, he's joined by Bentley.
