We headed over to my dusty Corolla, which I saw, to my dismay, was sporting a big white blob on the windshield, a love note from a bird with a serious gastrointestinal disorder.

“Excuse my car,” I said, as we got in. “I’m afraid it’s a mess.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” he said, plucking an Almond Joy wrapper from the passenger seat before he sat down.

I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Why the heck hadn’t I washed the car before the interview?

I turned on my new state-of-the-art stereo system, a gift I’d bought myself with my Big John earnings, hoping Stan would be so impressed with the quality of the sound, he wouldn’t notice the Big Gulp Slurpee cup at his feet.

And he did seem impressed.

“Great speakers,” he said, “for such a crummy car.”

Okay, so he didn’t say the part about the crummy car, but it had to have been on his mind.

It was a short drive to Westwood Gardens, most of which we spent making small talk and staring at the bird poop on the windshield.

I pulled up to the restaurant and handed the Corolla over to a valet. Normally I’d circle the block seventeen times looking for a parking space before springing for a valet, but I didn’t want to seem like a piker, especially when Stan said, “Don’t worry about the valet, Jaine. I’ll take care of him.”

I handed my keys to the valet and we headed inside.

Westwood Gardens is an upscale eaterie with exposed brick walls, flagstone floors, and rustic wrought-iron furniture. Very “My Year in Provence.” A reed-thin hostess/actress seated us at a cozy table for two by the window, overlooking the bustling Westwood street scene. Sizing up Stan as someone who could possibly give her a part in a play/movie/ commercial, she shot him a dazzling smile and drifted off.

“So,” Stan said, after we’d looked through our menus, “what looks good to you?”

Now this was a tricky question. What looked good to me was the steak sandwich with onion rings and thick-cut fries. But I couldn’t possibly allow myself to order it. I had an image to uphold. Women in Prada and Manolos simply do not order dishes that come with ketchup and A-1 sauce. Women in Prada and Manolos order dainty salads made of arugula and endive and other stuff I usually don’t touch with a ten-foot fork.

“I’ll have the chopped salad,” I said, with a sigh.

“Is that all?” Stan asked. “I’m going to have the steak sandwich. It’s fantastic. You really should get it, too.”

“But it’s an awful lot to eat,” I demurred.

Yeah, right. If he could only see me alone in my apartment plowing my way through a pepperoni pizza.

“Oh, go on,” he urged. “You only go round once, right?”