Laura tried to decide how to frame it. “I know, but he wasn’t the only one. My family is pretty certain I’m making a huge mistake.”

“Los Angeles,” said Polly owlishly, “is often the wrong choice, but it’s never a mistake.” She tapped the end of her nose and then pointed at Laura.

“What does that mean?” Laura asked.

“Wait and see,” said Polly. “Everyone comes here for one thing and usually ends up finding another.” She grinned, then looked at her phone. “Crap, I have to go back. Where are you parked?”

Laura laughed. “I take the bus, remember?”

Polly stared at her. “And it brought you right here?”

Laura nodded. “Honestly, Polly, you should expand your horizons a bit. Public transportation is better for the planet, cheaper, easier . . . you should try it.”

They started walking back to the bookstore, and Polly shook her head. “I already drive an electric car, and I love it like a brother. It’s my traveling capsule hotel of happiness.” She looked at Laura. “You don’t really like driving, do you?” Before Laura had a chance to say anything, Polly added, “Speaking of Bob . . .”

“We weren’t,” said Laura, surprised Polly had been able to tell how uncomfortable she’d been in the car the night before.

Polly ignored her. “He and I are having a small interpersonal beef right now and you need to pick a side.”

Laura shrugged at her and said, “Your side, of course. What’s the beef about?”

“Daisy.”

“Daisy who?”

“The pug.”

“OK, yes. I met her this morning. She’s very . . .”

“Plump? Rubenesque? Well covered?” said Polly. “She appreciates fine dining, it’s true. She’s always slept in my room, or at least she did until Impossibly Handsome Bob showed up.”

“Why do you call him that?” asked Laura. “I mean, apart from the fact that it’s accurate.”

Polly wrinkled her brow. “It’s what Nina calls him. I guess I caught it from her. Anyway, a few weeks ago I came downstairs around eleven to get a snack and a glass of water. Normally”—she stressed the word—“normally, that was when Daisy would follow me upstairs and settle in for the night. She’s like a professional hot-water bottle, that dog. She goes under the covers and I rest my toes on her and love her deeply. But that night I came down in time to see madam swishing into Bob’s room, with him holding the door open like a velvet rope.” They had reached the store and Polly paused outside the window. “I said, Hey, Daisy sleeps with me, and he said—”

“Wait,” said Laura. “You said that to him?”

Polly was indignant. “Yes! Daisy is my dog.”

“Literally?”

“No, of course not literally.” Polly was unabashed. “But emotionally. And he had the balls to say, I noticed it’s hard for her to get up the stairs. I got her a heating pad.”