And so, faster than you can say MasterCard, I was at Nordstrom spending money I didn’t have on a fabulous slinky black crepe de chine dress with sexy side slits and sequinned spaghetti straps. With its clean lines and body-slimming cut, I looked practically thin. True, buying it put my checking account into cardiac arrest, but I’d fix that as soon as I got my first Union National paycheck.

Maybe when Andrew saw me in it, he’d forget about all the embarrassing incidents of the past two weeks—my pantyhose on his desk, my face stuffed with burrito, and the ghastly Men’s Room Incident. Maybe he’d take one look at me and see only the cool sophisticated writer/editor of his dreams.

I took the escalator down to cosmetics to splurge on some new blush. I was standing there at the MAC counter, dabbing on something called Plum Foolery, lost in a fantasy of Andrew and me dancing cheek to cheek at the Stratford Hotel, when suddenly my fantasy came to a screeching halt. Was I hallucinating, or did I just see Marty’s face reflected behind me in the makeup mirror? I whirled around and saw a stocky man hurrying out the main entrance. I raced after him, but by the time I got out into the mall courtyard, he was gone.

After last night, I didn’t know what to think. Was my imagination in overdrive again? Was that just another big guy on his lunch break?

Or was Marty Meyers stalking me?

I was so discombobulated when I got back in my car, I almost forgot it was Friday, the day of my lunch date with Pam. It’s a miracle I didn’t get into an accident on the drive over to the restaurant; my eyes were practically glued to the rearview mirror the entire trip. But no one seemed to be tailing me. No one I could see, anyway.

The Farm House is an upscale showbiz hangout in Santa Monica, packed with industry insiders at lunchtime. There are two rooms: an enclosed patio, a leafy sun-drenched haven where the movers and shakers sit. And The Other Room, where the peasants are seated. Don’t get me wrong. The Other Room is damn nice; in fact, a lot nicer than the “A” list patio on a hot day when the sun beating down through the skylights makes things a little too saunaish for my tastes. And besides, it’s light-years nicer than my usual lunch destination, Chez Burger King.

Pam was already seated in The Other Room when I got there, a bottle of champagne chilling at her elbow.

“I ordered some bubbly,” she said, wrapping me in a warm hug. “To celebrate my theatrical debut as a talking ketchup packet. Gosh, I can’t remember the last time I drank champagne that didn’t have a screw-top cap.”

“Congratulations, Pam,” I said, forcing a smile.