“Don’t deflect. You turned Elliott Dunne down when he asked you for a date. Twice. You know I had my heart set on a big white wedding, little Cindy as a flower girl, and the twins as ring bearers.” She toyed with her amethyst pendant; she was wearing a pale mauve strapless gown. “So who is it? You might as well tell me. I’ll figure it out. Someone”—she frowned—“someone’s husband?”

I waved to Carleton Grimes, who had looked over from across the fountain. He nodded to me. He was with a bejeweled woman I assumed to be his wife. I laughed. “I’m having an affair with Carleton Grimes from Paragon Pictures.” That ought to shut her up.

“Isn’t he a little old for you? He looks forty, at least, and he’s not that good-looking, even with the Errol Flynn moustache.”

“He’s sophisticated. And, well, honestly, Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra have nothing on me and Carleton. A forbidden love affair. But oh, Irene, he . . .” I might have gone on at sexy length about my newly unleashed libido, but Carleton and his wife ambled over to us. He introduced his wife, and we all had the expected Hollywood exchange. I was beginning to understand Julia’s dictum on glamour—talk fast, laugh fluidly, gesture economically, and leave behind a shimmering wake. The “talk fast,” that was easy, but I certainly hadn’t mastered “laugh fluidly” or “gesture economically,” and only when I watched Carleton and his wife walk away from us did I realize that he had done exactly that. He was more accomplished than I gave him credit for.

“He’s not your usual pretty choice for a man,” said Irene critically. “Are you growing up at last?”

“Yes. I like them deep and dark and difficult these days. And that’s the truth.”

“Well, I’m going to tell anyone who will listen to me that you are having an affair with Carleton Grimes, and hope it will get back to his wife. That’ll put an end to it, and you’ll go out with Elliott Dunne.”

“Speaking of straying husbands, how is Gordon these days?”

“Like an angel.”

“I can’t quite picture that.”

“All right then, like a thoughtful husband.”

“Can’t picture that either.”

Irene’s cool laughter echoed with her shaking the ice cubes in her glass. “Wait till you get married, little sister. Love, honor, and obey. Well, maybe not for you; not obey anyway. You always make the rest of us look like we settled for the trolley car while you go off on a rocket.”

“Fly me to the moon,” I said with a laugh as the orchestra lit into the song the film was named for.