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 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.