Was that what had happened? Margaret wondered. Sinatra was mercurial and the sudden engagement had seemed to surprise even his friends. After what she’d seen and heard, Margaret doubted Hollywood Nightlife’s version of events, though she knew, given the power of the tabloid, that it would be accepted as gospel. She supposed it wasn’t surprising that the breakup would be blamed on the less famous partner.

Smaller type highlighted the travails of lesser stars: “Did Bobby Darin Only Marry Sandra Dee to Get More Famous?” “Is Natalie Wood Ignoring the Woman Who Did Her Singing in West Side Story?” “Brigitte Bardot’s Latest to Be Directed by Her Ex!”

Where am I? Margaret wondered. Not long ago she was raising her kids, reading zoological journals, and helping Charlie steer his political career. She’d had a weird hankering to learn how certain cloven-hoofed animals of the Paleozoic were related to the modern equine and a few thoughts on how to restart her research, but she’d wait until her kids were in grade school to find out. But now, she was trying to figure out who might blackmail her husband with the body of a dead teenage girl, how she could get her father-in-law out of prison before he died there, and where she might track down her runaway niece. And she was contemplating it all from the shoddy restroom in the offices of a tawdry Hollywood scandal sheet.

And then she heard someone talking.

“What the hell, Charlotte!” blared a man’s voice.

Margaret carefully turned the handle to crack open the door and better observe. Tarantula had shown up in all his slime and hideousness, a camera hanging from a weathered strap around his doughy neck.

“We don’t pay you to lecture directors on red carpets,” he hissed. “I’m fucking serious here. If this happens again, there will be consequences!” Margaret couldn’t see his face, but Goode appeared chastened and perhaps even frightened. He began turning his ample frame toward the bathroom. Margaret ducked behind the door. Her heart skipped a beat. Was she even allowed to be in these offices?

“The toilet’s broken,” Goode said, answering the question. “I called the plumber.”

“Good fucking Christ,” Tarantula said, cursing at the floor. “I’ll be at McGill’s.” A few seconds later Margaret heard the metal door slam.

Margaret peeked her head out again. “Yikes,” she said.

“I’m so glad he bought the toilet excuse,” Goode said, exhaling. “Not sure what he’d have done if he found you in there.” She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. “Jesus, I’m fifty today.”

“Happy birthday,” said Margaret. “Let’s celebrate. Unless you have plans?”