Blast of light. Stench of perfume.

Lipstick and dark glasses, unreadable.

Unrecognizable.

But chic!

Gucci boots, Armani trench.

Cruella Deville from Beverly Hills.

Beware all you stim-puppies.

I’d like to grab her streaked mane, knock that head against the bed rails, and wrap my IV tubes around her neck.

The heart monitor beeps faster and faster. Holy Mother of Joe. If this doesn’t wake me up nothing will. Talk about your coma-stim!

Pierre rushes in, bumping Nicole out of the way. “Step out now,” he commands.

He moves to my side, glances at my blood pressure and checks my I.V.s to make sure they are flowing. As my heart monitor continues its rapid beeping, he lifts my limp wrist and takes my pulse, his eyes focused intently on the wall clock. With Nicole out of the room, my heart rate gradually drops back to normal, and after several more minutes, Pierre sighs, gently places my arm back on the bed, and makes a note on my chart.

“Weird,” he mutters. Pierre opens the door to look for my visitor, but she’s gone.

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

INT. JACKIE AND BRETT’S HOUSE

DAY

I was upstairs making room in the new gym when I heard the intercom buzz.

“Arzelda, it’s the dumbbells, let them in!” I shouted to our housekeeper. “And for Chris’sake, tell them to take off their shoes!”

I had ordered custom workout equipment from Switzerland as a birthday surprise for Brett. I didn’t know what exactly made them special, but the complete package cost almost as much as the steam room I’d installed. In the last year, my “hobby” had become my passion. Our six-car garage overflowed with furniture and art. And with Penny still looking for my “break out role,” decorating had become my raison d’etre. Unfortunately, I was running out of rooms, and with Brett on location in Arizona, I still had an abundance of time to fill.

He’d been offered the lead in Double Barreled when Richard Gere dropped out at the last moment.

“I can’t create a character that quickly,” Brett had protested when Penny called with the news.

“What do you need to know? He walks tall and carries a gun,” Penny retorted.

“That’s just it, it’s a bunch of guys riding around, shooting people.”

“It’s six million.”

“It’s plot-driven. I want to do something more substantial than action films.”

“Wake up, sweetie,” Penny chortled. “That’s where the longevity is for men.”

“Too bad we can’t swap careers,” I said later that night while I rubbed his shoulders. I was sick of waiting around to be offered something “substantial.” I was dying to do a nice, shallow action picture with weapons and cool costumes.

“Okay.” He was lying on his stomach with his nose buried in the script. “But I’m going to find a way to make this character meaningful.”