Scotty was taking way too long. Probably flirting with the cappuccino guy. He was a sucker for men in food service. Unfortunately, the Adonises he sought were seeking other Adonises and not bespectacled, concave-chested, fanboys like my Scotty.

Janice cocked her head sideways and pushed on her earpiece. “Yeah, I’ve got her right here?” Janis reported in a quavering voice. “She says she’s waiting for coffee?”

“Uh, Janis, has Brett Haney made an appearance?” I had yet to meet this “up and comer” who’d been cast at the last minute when, to everyone’s disappointment, Bruce Willis dropped out.

“I-I think he’s getting ready for his makeup test? Third trailer down?”

It was my first big studio film, a sixty-million-dollar futuristic action-adventure movie about space warriors who fall in love while battling for Earth’s survival. I was so nervous I’d taken a Valium before even getting out of bed. I wasn’t worried about the acting; my dialogue was limited to phrases like, “Hurry! Inside the pod transporter!” But Penny said the studio had “concerns.” First, I was too short. Second, I didn’t have enough “star power” to carry the picture now that Willis was out. Three, that I had a reputation for being “difficult”—a deadly label for an actress, especially a difficult one.

I’d shot six films in the three years since Circle of Life and had affairs in cities from Stockton to Stockholm, but none lasted. And while I managed to stay relatively sober when filming, I leaped off the wagon between jobs. On my last publicity junket, I had stolen the keys to my limousine and hit a parked motorcycle. That was in Portland. In Denver, I missed my morning TV appearance, having awoken in a hotel suite blocks from my own. I was well behaved in Dallas, but Tampa saw me ejected from two bars before the police escorted me to my hotel.

Penny had warned me to clean up my act. The director, Vilmar Boyson, was a consummate professional, and my co-star, this Brett Haney fella, was some down-home type who didn’t smoke or drink or pepper his conversations with words like “cocksucker.” I had promised Penny that as of today, I would turn over a new leaf.

Scotty came rushing over with my cappuccino, his short legs stuffed into tight chinos flooding above loafers.

“About fucking time,” I growled. “Where are your socks?” I demanded sounding exactly like my father. “And where’s my Sweet’N Low?”

“I put it in already,” he said patiently as if I were a badly behaved child in need of a nap. “Y’know,” he whispered, “if you’re trying to change your reputation, you’re not getting off to a great start.”

That was the problem with assistants, they were always around when you felt like confiding things.