I am no longer the girl I was two years ago, speechless as Irv Rakoff pressed up against my butt, but right now, I can’t help but think of Diana Jordan. At a Casa Fiesta party, Diana told everyone that her recent elevation from sword-and-sandal to an earthy Bad Girl role in a new MGM noir picture happened because Mr. Moore (yes, Jonathan’s awful father) got her on his couch, and, as she said, “All I had to do was moan.” Then, to demonstrate, she leaned back and moaned. Very convincing. Should I lean back and moan in exchange for this opportunity? (I can all but hear Charlie: Do it, Roxanne, it’s great for me. If you care for me, Roxanne—and I know you do—lie down with Larry Sanford.) In the world I live in, sex is a kind of currency. I very definitely remove Larry’s hand from my knee. But if I am honest with myself, I wonder if I’m acting on principle or because Larry Sanford is small potatoes, and his orange couch is really appalling. If it were Jack Warner . . . ? “Sorry, Larry. No go. I can take this script somewhere else.” But he pushes me back on the couch, rummages all over my blouse, yanking off the buttons while his cigar-breath covers my face, my mouth, until I can turn my head away. Larry grunts, one hand goes up under my skirt. I’m pinned there beneath him. I struggle to free my right arm. I smack his head, his ear, and then again, hard enough to make him cry out in pain. I slither out from underneath him and kick the coffee table over. Ashtray and cigar go flying.

Larry gives a rough laugh and sits up. “Well, it was worth a try. No hard feelings.”

“Sure, Larry,” I say casually, though I am trembling, sweating. I’d never let this bastard guess how much he has rattled me.

“Rethink my offer, Roxanne.” Larry ambles back to his desk while he plays with his pants.

I put Charlie’s script in my briefcase and snap it shut. I see one of the buttons from my blouse on the floor, but will not deign to bend over and pick it up.

“Your agency is barely getting by. Who else but me is going to buy your rotten little scripts?”

“Television, Larry,” I say with a lot more bravado than I feel. “Why should anyone pay to go to a Saturday matinee serial when they can stay home and watch the same thing for free on television?”

“Get out.”