Her mother gives her a mock-demure smile. “Who doesn’t love attention?” she purrs. She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder. She looks past Lulu, into space. “Some days it can be a little much,” she says. “Some days—but then, it used to bother me more when I was younger. Now if I’m not on set, no one looks at me at all. I’m too old for that.” Her gaze shifts back to Lulu, frank and certain. “So no. I don’t think about stopping. At least not for that reason. I could do without the hours. And some of these directors—well, you know how it is. This town.”

Lulu relaxes into the familiarity of her mother’s monologue on how disgusting the men are in Hollywood. She’s heard it all her life, and she’s always thought of it as a brag: her mom’s way of reminding everyone that she’s still hot enough to get hit on every time she goes to work.

Tonight, though, for the first time, she can hear the nerves in her mother’s voice as she delivers it. This apartment, this dinner, all the things she can give Lulu, which she worries aren’t enough—they all depend on money, which depends on those men still wanting to look at her.