I wanted to believe her, but whenever Peter came over, she stomped around the apartment like she was raising dust out of a rug, trudging past us to the kitchen, making a big show of opening and closing cabinets and whining about how “I can’t find my fucking Wheat Thins.”

“Peter might have eaten some.”

“Do I bring people home who eat your food? Huh? Do I?”

She barely left our apartment now except to go to her job at the restaurant. “You need to get out more,” I encouraged her. “Take some classes, get a job you enjoy.”

But every suggestion I made was met with the same response. “Go live in your fantasy world, Jackie baby.”

We began leaving each other angry notes on the refrigerator, full of accusations and blame along with itemized receipts for our expenses. I was hurt and furious that Nicole wasn’t happy for me. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be throwing her a party. As the weeks rolled by, the tension between us thickened, neither of us daring to say what we were thinking—that the bonds of our childhood had been broken.

But I couldn’t worry about us anymore. I had a job and a boyfriend and new, fun friends who didn’t make demands on me, and a newfound devotion to acting class—Peter and I went to Cavallo’s together now—and interviews with E.T. and Soap Opera Digest.

I wound up doing the cowardly thing. Little by little, one sleepover at a time, I took my clothes and books and stuff to Peter’s house until finally, there was nothing of me left for Nicole to come home to.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

MORNING

DAY 40

Rupert Greenwald, aka the Australian, is the most ruthless of paparazzi. When not in disguise, he wears tan slacks and a safari jacket. He tracks his victims relentlessly, paying big bucks to whoever can furnish him with a good lead. He is particularly skilled at hunting down forgotten first spouses and babies given up for adoption. Family secrets are his specialty, his marksmanship evident in the number of divorces and lawsuits in which he is called to testify. He started at the London Mirror and now works freelance, a gun for hire. I first saw him when I moved in with Peter. I opened the back door and found him rummaging through our trash. He greeted me with a friendly “G’day, Jackie” as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I’d yelled.

“Care to comment on the engagement rumors?” he asked.

“I’m calling the cops!” I slammed the door.