We dropped by Spago after a publicity party for the foreign press; a boring affair where I’d managed to consume only one glass of wine. I was practicing my restraint and control, professionally and in the bedroom.

“Hey there, Donny,” Brett greeted the maître d’ who ushered us over to one of Spago’s select tables. In the old days, Nicole would have to make a phone call just to get us in the door.

I’d given up trying to find her. The private detective I hired had come up empty-handed. I’d even contacted our high school reunion committee, but the only address they had was our old apartment in Hollywood.

“Go ahead and order,” I said to Brett. “I’m going to pee.”

He wagged his finger.

“Okay sorry, geez, powder my freaking nose.” I kissed his cheek and left him to order our usual goat cheese and sun-dried tomato pizza.

I was pulling down my underwear when the bathroom door slammed open. I peeked through the crack of the stall to discover a man in an oversized raincoat with two cameras wrapped around his thick neck. How the hell had he snuck past Donny?

I sighed. “Give me a break, mister.”

“Just one shot of you and Brett,” he begged. “Don’t be selfish.”

Paparazzi suffer the illusion that they are responsible for our success and that we celebrities should be more appreciative.

“Go away!” I yanked up my panties.

He aimed his camera “Come on out then,” he demanded.

“You’d better go before I scream,” I yelled. “One, two—”

“Ungrateful bitch!” He tore out the door.

“Thought you drowned,” Brett said when I stomped back to the table. The pizza had arrived, and he was happily chewing, oblivious to my frazzled state. “Wolfgang came over to say goodbye.” He motioned to our waiter, for refills on his Diet Coke.

“And a double Stoli,” I called.

“Please,” Brett called to the waiter and gave me a look of admonishment.

“I thought I said please,” I grumbled.

“What’s wrong, puddin’ pie?”

“Paparazzi.” I gnawed on a discarded crust while recounting the episode. “I don’t see the little rat around now. Either he’s hiding in the men’s room, or he’s camped outside.”

Brett chuckled. “You know what they say, ‘All publicity is good publicity.’”

“That’s crapola, Brett,” I retorted. “A dumbass saying invented by publicists to seem indispensable.”

“For Chris’sake.” I twisted around. “Where’s my drink?”

“Easy darling. Everyone’s gotta make a living,” Brett drawled.

“They’re bottom feeders, not factory workers,” I snapped.

“Well, just don’t let it ruin our evening.” He reached over and squeezed my hand.

“Uggh,” I grunted and squirreled my annoyance away. It pissed me off that Brett wasn’t upset. I mean, the guy had followed me into the bathroom. But it wasn’t worth pursuing. Whenever we argued, Brett went stony.