I dropped into my lowest register and did my best to channel Mrs. Carmichael’s smoker voice. “This is Betty Johnson in Studio Seven. I have my assistants coming in and I’d like their names on the list, please.”

David paused, and I could hear him checking his computer. “Betty Johnson?”

“Makeup artist.”

David did a few more clicks, checking out my story. I mentally crossed my fingers that news of Betty’s demise hadn’t hit the studios yet. Finally, the guard piped up in my ear again, “Your assistants’ names, Ms. Johnson?”

“Tina Bender and Calvin Dean.”

“They’ll be on the list, just have them come to the south entrance.”

“Thank you, David,” I said, before snapping my phone shut with a click of satisfaction.

I looked up to find Cal shaking his head at me.

“What?”

“Do you ever tell the truth?”

“Once. In fourth grade. It was overrated.”

“I’m serious. You’re beginning to worry me,” he said as he pulled into traffic.

“Yeah, like you’re honest all the time.”

“I try to be.”

“Seriously? You never tell your girlfriend she looks hot in that unflattering dress?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You never called in sick to work when you were really heading to the Lakers game?”

“Self-employed.”

“Not once have you ever told your mother that her dried-out Sunday meatloaf was culinary perfection?”

“Don’t eat beef, remember?”

I slouched in my seat, conceding defeat. “You’re no fun.”

Cal gave me a lopsided grin, his eyes taking on a devilish glint over the rim of his sunglasses. “Oh, trust me, I can be plenty of fun.”

The way my cheeks suddenly filled with heat, I totally believed him. I’m sure there were stick-figure bimbos all over Hollywood who had swooned under that very same grin.

I quickly looked away, clearing my throat. “Well, when we get to the studio, just leave the talking to me, okay, Honest Abe?”

“You got it, boss.”

Sunset Studios was like a miniature city plunked down in the middle of Hollywood and enclosed by a ten-foot-high brick wall. Outside the gates, panhandlers, men wearing five coats and pushing shopping carts and ladies of the evening (or in our case, afternoon…somehow even worse) stood at every corner. Inside, the place was so clean and wholesome looking, it fairly sparkled. Which was a sure sign 99 percent of it was fake.