“Well, I’m tired of seeing you out and about with Charlie Frye these past few months.”

She and Gordon had met Charlie and me at the Cocoanut Grove a few times. Irene found him boring, but he was fine for me, good-looking, and a good dancer. He’s a good writer too, though not so wildly ambitious that he loves to work. We started dating after he invited me to a surfing competition (where he came in fifth). At first I thought Charlie was attracted to me on behalf of his scripts, and that might have had something to do with it, but now I sometimes wonder if it’s because he can leave his surfboard at my house when he goes home to his nasty Hollywood walk-up.

“Do you want to hear something funny about Charlie?” I whispered.

“Always.”

I lowered my voice and told her how making love with Charlie was like an athletic event, like he expected to feel a ribbon break across his chest as he crossed the finish line, especially since he insisted on having John Philip Sousa marches on the hi-fi. I hummed a few bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and Irene and I laughed so hard we started crying, and the waiter came over and asked if we needed assistance.

“No, no.” I waved him away. “We’re fine.”

Irene wiped her eyes and caught her breath. “Well, whatever you do, don’t bring Charlie Frye to the party.”

“Don’t worry. I never take writers to anything important. They drink too much. I’ll come with Jonathan. He’s always presentable.”

“He’s certainly collecting an unpresentable reputation. He might work more if there were fewer orgies at Casa Fiesta.”

“Oh, don’t believe what you read in the gossip columns. Anyway, actors need a whiff of scandal just to keep the publicity machine oiled so people don’t forget them.”

“Actors need to be up and in the makeup chair at five a.m. Without a hangover. If Jonathan wants serious roles, he should be a serious actor. I must run, I can’t be late for my meeting with the principal at Junior’s school.” She gathered up her purse and gloves. “Leon wants you to call him and thank him personally for the keys to the new office.”

“I can do that.”

“Now.” She reached into her handbag and gave me a dime and a piece of paper with the Tahoe number on it. She nodded toward the row of pay phones in the lobby. “Tell him you’re happy about his wedding. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Promise.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Call collect.”

Chapter Nine