Waiting was excruciating, but Brett promised we’d go away right after the movie ended, and with that big ol’ Texas-sized carrot dangled in front of me (his thin Mylar space suit left nothing to the imagination), I concentrated my energy on making myself irresistible. I bought enough lingerie to outfit a fleet of prostitutes and waxed, scrubbed, and sloughed my body so when the time came for my unveiling, Brett would not be disappointed.

At exactly 8:35 p.m. on our final day of filming, Vilmar called out, “That’s a wrap, folks!” A half-hour later, strapped into five-inch heels and squeezed into a tight, black mini-dress, I returned to the sound stage, now magically transformed with paper lanterns and space-theme decorations. A band was tuning up, and the festivities were already in full swing. We planned to spend the required time at the wrap party and then drive up the coast to the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, where Brett had booked our suite.

Despite my excitement about the weekend, my stomach was upset, and I felt anxious. I was desperate for a drink or at least a joint, but it was out of the question. For twelve weeks, I hadn’t had any alcohol or even smoked a cigarette. It had been hard but worth the sacrifice. Brett was a gentleman, polite and decent to all he encountered, and I resolved to be the kind of woman he deserved. I thought I might be in love. I had no idea where Brett stood. For all I knew, we would go to Santa Barbara, have wild sex and that would be it.

Popping a couple of Tums, I took a deep breath and headed into the throng, weaving through the crowd to where Brett stood with several crewmembers and Vilmar. I waved but he continued nodding and laughing at something Vilmar had said. I pressed myself into him to let him know I was there and then laughed along as if I’d heard whatever they were saying. I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away to shake hands with the lighting director.

“Hey.” I tapped him gently on the shoulder, and he held up his forefinger in an impatient “one-minute” gesture. My ego stung from the dismissal. I stood paralyzed, arms locked against my sides as Brett reached past me, again and again, to shake hands with several mucky mucks from the studio. I felt heartsick. My world was grinding to a stop like an old movie projector choking on a strip of film.

“Great work, fella,” one said.

“Oh, well, I had Jackie for inspiration.” Brett circled his arm around my waist and pulled me close. He flashed his million-dollar smile at me. His blue eyes were warm and sparkling. Blood rushed back into my veins. Air pumped into my lungs. I sprang to life. Lights, sound, action!