“Dr. Sorrel, I presume? Barry Manning.” He extended a hand. As he did so, his pale gray eyes flicked over her—an inspection that, from most men, would have been straightforwardly sexual, but from him, seemed more neutral, perhaps simply professional. “What do you think, C.C.? Our distinguished guest is the world’s leading authority on the abuse of women, the evil that lurks in the hearts of men, et cetera, yet here she stands, painted like a scarlet woman.”

It was his voice, Jenna realized, that saved Barry from being a comic figure. With his moon-round face and orange skin, he resembled a jack-o’-lantern. He stood no more than five feet six—an inch or two shorter than she—but his voice was deep, resonant, commanding. At the same time, it was almost a parody of itself. How can you be offended at anything I say, it asked, when I sound so absurdly authoritative?

“Don’t the men on your show wear makeup, Mr. Manning?” she asked conversationally, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Sure they do. I do myself. In fact, we’ve never had a man refuse makeup. What was it, C.C., three weeks ago? —we had the president of the Hell’s Angels. No complaint. As often as that crew bathes, he’s probably still wearing the stuff.” “I’ll bet you didn’t suggest to the president of the Hell’s Angels that he looked like a scarlet woman.”

Manning laughed somewhat theatrically. “Touché! We’ve got a live one, C.C.”

“Five minutes to air,” said Courteney. “I’ll be in the booth.”

“So, what happens now?” Jenna asked Manning. The butterflies were now in full flutter. “Is there anything I need to know? I’ve never been on the radio.”

“TV?”

“No.”

“Aha! A virgin. Sorry. Figure of speech. But, seriously, there’s nothing to it. C.C. will give us a countdown, the red light will come on, I’ll introduce you, ask you about your book, you’ll tell me about your book, we’ll take some questions, you’ll answer, I’ll make some comments, and it’ll all be over before you know it. Forty people in the audience. You’ve been at bigger cocktail parties. In fact, that’s the best way to think of it: as if you’re at a party where you meet people, and they ask about what you do. It’s just talk. No need to lecture.”

Jenna breathed deeply. “All right. Let’s go.”

“Whoa! We’ve got four minutes—an eternity in this business, as you’d know if you’d ever had to fill up that much dead air. Let me ask you something. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? I mean, why my show? Why not Donahue or one of those other sensitive types?