KEITH URBAN: G'day, babe.
NICOLE KIDMAN: Hello, sir. How can I help you?
KEITH: Ha! Cute, Nic.
NICOLE: ... Keith? My goodness, without your chest showing I didn't recognize you!
KEITH: I know, right? I didn't either. I had to write my name on the mirror before I got dressed.
NICOLE: Well, it's nice to see you, as I hate to do these things alone.
KEITH: I know! If only I'd gotten here sooner to give you some advice.
NICOLE: On?
KEITH: Well, I'm not sure about the dress, love.
NICOLE: But you love me in blue!
KEITH: I do, love, but I don't always love you in sparkles that from a distance look like some rogue Christmas tree tinsel is holding your breasts for ransom. Or lace.
NICOLE: I wish you'd mentioned that at home, when I popped out of the closet and said, "Sweetie, how are you on tinsel hostage situations?"
KEITH: Also, the hemline. You've got great legs! You can go a LITTLE higher, you know?
NICOLE: I AM A LADY.
KEITH: I don't mean Tila Tequila high, silly. Just, you know, a tiny bit more Reese Witherspoon than Diane Keaton, that's all.
NICOLE: Well. Next time you swan out with your shirt open to your waxed navel, YOU WILL HEAR ABOUT IT.
KEITH: It's only fair, love. It's only fair.