When the second assistant left, Barry opened the box right on his desk and pulled out a slice. As he took his first bite, he thought nothing was as satisfying as eating and working at his desk. Barry hated formal dinner parties like the one at the Tremonts’. They were mostly a colossal waste because ninety-nine percent of the time Clarice was the best-looking woman and he was far and away the most interesting man.

Except, Barry chuckled to himself as he slurped down another slice, that Samantha Acton is one hell of a classy woman. You don’t often come across someone who is that practically regal and hot. She has that thing like the great movie stars. Your eye just goes right to her and everyone else in the room drops dead.

A blob of oil fell on the sheet full of the weekend’s numbers.

“Fuck.” Barry slammed his hand on the table as he looked at the graphs. They weren’t even up to snuff in their key markets, like Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. Barry knew this was happening because the fucking critics were out to get him. He told Clarice the problem with critics is they are the kind of people who take the bus and fuckin’ hate him for his limousine.

Barry bit into his third slice when a wad of cheese splattered on his chin.

“Goddammit—fuck!” He picked up the box and crushed it into a wad of sauce, anchovies, and cheese, then tossed it across the room.

Clarice had told Barry that he probably should start meditating to control his stress. But he knew he wasn’t going to just fuckin’ sit around repeating some goddamn Indian word. There were only two things that he knew would break his tension: food or sex. Barry had no interest in drugs or alcohol and had nothing but disdain for anyone, especially actors, who did. He considered them both a sign of weakness and stupidity.

In the old days, he would have ordered another pizza. For a moment, it occurred to him to call Clarice, but she was probably with the kids at an Italian class, or Japanese math class, or at some Russian gold medalist skating rink. Barry made a point of appreciating how much Clarice did for the children. He wouldn’t offhandedly disturb the family routine.

“Yvonne. Yvonne!” he screamed into the phone. Get me Samantha Acton on the phone.”

“Who?” she called back.

“Call Judy Tremont’s. Say you need the address and phone number because I want to invite them both to a screening.”

Barry leaned back in his chair. He remembered the smell of Samantha’s hair. It wasn’t girlie like Clarice’s ever-present Coco by Chanel. He Googled Samantha on his computer and was delighted to see that once again, his hunch was right. She was the real deal, an American thoroughbred.