“Thank you, darling,” I said easily, as though I had not just experienced the collapse of my whole world.

Everything was fine. I was fortified, fixed! I could thank the crew, schmooze with Vilmar, and the studio schmucks. I turned my face into Brett’s shoulder, snorting him, smoking him, drinking him in.

Around midnight, Brett and I trickled our way out of the party, tossing compliments like confetti, making promises to people we would never see again that we would see them again soon. Then, at last, we were seated in Brett’s red Mustang, driving out the Paramount gates.

Cruising down the Coast Highway, Brett’s hands locked on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. I’d started the ride chatty and upbeat but since leaving the party, Brett had barely spoken a word. Instead, he hummed along to some godawful country twang on the radio leaving me once again nervous and unsure of his feelings for me. I picked up the car phone Brett had recently installed and fiddled with the buttons.

“No reception here,” Brett grunted.

“Oh, I wasn’t calling anyone, I was just… Is that Garth Brooks?” I asked, hoping to engage him.

“Clint Black.”

“Oh.” I had exhausted my knowledge of country musicians, so we lapsed back into silence.

We approached Oxnard when Brett leaned over me, pushed in the car lighter, opened the glove compartment, and took out a pack of Marlboros.

I watched stupefied as he lit up and inhaled. All this time I’d been acting like good girl Laura on Little House on the Prairie and he was a closet smoker? I decided to stay in character until I figured out what was going on.

“Why, Barney Macahaney! When on earth did you pick up that filthy habit?” I chided.

“I hope you’re not disappointed in me, Jackie. I’ve been under a tremendous amount of pressure.” He rolled down his window and exhaled the smoke outside. Then to my utter astonishment, he reached under his seat and pulled out a pint of whiskey.

Was there a hidden camera? Was I being pranked? Brett had told me he was a Mormon-raised teetotaler who neither smoked nor drank. He had not had even a sip of champagne at the wrap party. What was happening? And who was this other guy? More importantly, why the hell had I turned myself inside out to make him think I was squeaky-clean if I could have been dancing on the bar all along!

With one hand Brett broke the seal and slugged from the bottle. Then he settled the pint between his legs.

“I figured tonight being the end of the movie and all. I hope you’re okay with this?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded.