"I never slept with Baxter Priestly, Victor," she shouts.
"Okay, okay," I'm saying.
"Oh Jesus, Victor," she says, turning away.
"Hey baby, what is it?"
"Four weeks ago? Remember? That day you came over?"
"What?" I'm asking, thinking, four weeks ago? "Yeah?"
Silence.
"That day you called me out of the blue?" she asks. "It was a Sunday and you called me, Victor. I'd just gotten back from Canyon Ranch. I met you at Jerry's? Remember? In SoHo? We sat in a booth in the back? You talked about going to NYU?" She pauses, staring at me wide-eyed. "Then we went back to my place..." She looks away. She softly says, "We had sex, then you left, whatever." She pauses again. "You were having dinner that night with Viggo Mortensen and Jude Law and one of the producers of Flatliners II and Sean MacPherson was in town with Gina and I didn't really want to go and you didn't invite me-and then you never called... That week I read that you had dinner at Diablo's-maybe it was a Buddy Seagull column-and you and Damien had patched things up and then I ran into Edgar Cameron who said he had had dinner with you at Balthazar and you guys had all gone to Cheetah afterwards and... you just never called me again and... oh forget it, Victor-it's all in the past, right? I mean, isn't it?"
Four weeks ago I was on a ship in the middle of an ocean.
Four weeks ago on that ship there was blood pooled behind a toilet in the cabin of a doomed girl.
Four weeks ago I was in London at a party in Notting Hill.
Four weeks ago I was meeting Bobby Hughes. Jamie Fields hugged me while I stood screaming in a basement corridor.
Four weeks ago I was not in New York City.
Four weeks ago an impostor arrived in Chloe's apartment.
Four weeks ago on that Sunday he undressed her.
I'm saying nothing. Reams of acid start unspooling in my stomach and I'm vibrating with panic.
"Baby," I'm saying.
"Yeah?"
I start getting dressed. "I've gotta go."
"What?" she asks, sitting up.
"I've gotta get my stuff," I say in a controlled voice. "I'm moving out of the house. I'm coming back here."
"Victor," she starts, then reconsiders. "I don't know."
"I don't care," I say. "But I'm staying with you."
She smiles sadly, holds out a hand. "Really?"
"Yeah," I say. "Really. I'm totally, totally sure of it."
"Okay." She's nodding. "Okay."
I fall on the bed, wrapping my arms around her. I kiss her on the lips, stroking the side of her face.
"I'll be back in an hour," I say.
"Okay," she says. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"No, no," I'm saying. "Just wait here. I'll be right back."
At the door, something shifts in me and I turn around.
"Unless... you want to come with me?" I ask.
"How long will you be?" She's holding the script again, flipping through it.
"An hour. Probably less. Maybe forty minutes."
"Actually," she says, "I think I'm supposed to stay here." "Why?"
"I think I'm supposed to shoot a scene."
"What am I supposed to do?" I ask.
"I think"-Chloe squints at the script and then, looking up-you're supposed to go."
"And then?" I ask.
"And then?" Chloe says, smiling. "Yeah."
"You're supposed to come back."
7
There's no need to punch in the code to deactivate the alarm system in the house in the 8th or the 16th. The door leading into the courtyard just swings open.
Walking quickly through the courtyard, I grab my keys out of the Prada jacket I'm wearing but I don't need them because that door's open too. Outside, it's late afternoon but not dark yet and the wind's screaming is occasionally broken up by distant thunderclaps.
Inside, things feel wrong.
In the entranceway I lift a phone receiver, placing it next to my ear. The line is dead. I move toward the living room.
"Hello?" I'm calling out. "Hello?... It's me... It's Victor..."
I'm overly aware of how silent and dark it is in the house. I reach for a light switch. Nothing happens.
The house smells like shit, reeks of it-damp and wet and fetid-and I have to start breathing through my mouth. I pause in a doorway, bracing myself for a surprise, but the living room is totally empty.
