Scooter looks at his cigar wonderingly.

"Do to that what you did to get this job," I tell him. "Suck on it."

Scooter goes pale. "How... did you know?"

"David-remove the nicotine patch," Didier calls out from behind the camera.

"My girlfriend sees this," Scooter moans, "and she's gonna think I'm g*y."

"You still with Felicia?" Rick asks him.

"No, this is some girl I met in the bathroom in the lobby of the Principe di Savoia," Scooter says blankly. "I was lost and she looked like Sandra Bullock. Or so they say."

"What's her name?" David asks.

"Shoo Shoo."

"Shoo Shoo what?"

"No apparent last name."

"How did you lose the CK job, man?" Nikitas asks him.

"Calvin got pissed," Scooter says. "I cut my hair, but it's considerably more, er, complex than that."

Silence, a considerable pause, heavy nodding, the camera crew from "Fashion File" still circling.

"Believe me," I say, holding up my hands, "Calvin and I have tussled many a time." I do a few more bicep curls. "Many a time."

"He gave you pretty good seats for the show, though," David says, stretching his calf muscles.

"That's because Chloe was in it," Rick says.

"I wasn't at the Calvin Klein show," I say calmly, then shout, "I wasn't at the f**king Calvin Klein show."

"There's a picture of you at the show in WWD, baby," Rick says. "You're with David and Stephen. In the second row."

"Someone find me that photo and you shall be proven wrong," I intone, rubbing my biceps, freezing. "Second row my ass."

One of the twins is reading today's WWD and cautiously hands it to me. I grab it and find the photos taken at yesterday's shows. It's not a clear photograph: Stephen Dorff, David Salle and myself, all wearing '50s knit shirts and sunglasses, slouching in our seats, stone-faced. Our names are in bold type beneath the photo, and after mine, as if an explanation was necessary, the words "It Boy." A bottle of champagne topples from a table, someone calls out for a shawalla.

So what's the story, Victor?" David asks. "Let me get this straight. You weren't at the show? You're not in that photo? Let me guess-that's Jason Gedrick."

"Isn't anybody going to ask how the club's going?" I finally ask, thrusting the paper back at the twin, suddenly indignant over this fact.

"Um, how's the club going, Victor?" the other twin asks."

"I want to rock-'n'-roll all night and party every day."

"Why wasn't I invited to the opening?" Rick asks.

"I-want-to-rock-'n'-roll-all-night-and-party-everyday." I grab the WWD back from the twin and study the photo again. "This must be a mistake. This must be from another show. In fact, that must be Jason Gedrick."

"What other shows have you been to this week?" someone asks.

"None," I finally murmur.

"When you stop orbiting around Jupiter, let us know, okay?" David says, patting me on the back. "And Jason Gedrick's in Rome shooting Summer Lovers II, baby."

"I'm in the here and the now, baby."

"That's not what I hear," Nikitas says, crunching.

"I'm not really interested in what information you're able to process," I tell him.

"Everything cool with you and Baxter and Chloe?" David asks this casually and Nikitas and Rick manage sly grins, which of course I notice.

"It's so cool it's icy, baby." I pause. "Er... what do you mean, O Wise One?"

The three of them seem confused and their expressions lead me to believe that they expected an admission of some kind.

"Um, well...," Rick stammers. "It's, well, y'know..."

"Please," I groan. "If you're going to hand out shitty gossip about me, at least make it fast."

"Did you ever see the movie Threesome?" David ventures.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh."

"Story is that Chloe, Baxter and Victor are intrigued by that premise."

"We are not speaking of Baxter Priestly, are we, gentlemen?" I ask. "Surely we are not speaking of that little mo waif."

"He's the mo?"

"I mean, I know you're a hip guy, Victor," David says. "I think it's like cool, really cool."