If it were anyone else, I’d have yanked that three-hundred-dollar white silk pillow out from under their heads. But this was my oldest, dearest best friend.

“Nicky you were right about Peter, about everything,” I cried.

“No, I was awful, I was such a bitch,” Nicole sobbed.

“We were both pretty awful,” I conceded.

“I’ll never be that way again.”

“Me, neither.”

We held each other tightly. Two girls in candy necklaces joined for life by a rusted Carter for President pin. The timing could not have been better. Now, I had someone with whom I could share confidences, not to mention movies, coffee, bikini waxes!

I unknotted the strands of Nicole’s matted hair with my fingers, wiped the tears from her wet brown eyes, and smoothed the furrow between her brows. They needed waxing. I would make her an appointment.

It felt good to talk!

We stayed in our pajamas, eating, drinking, smoking, catching up on each other’s lives. It was no wonder I couldn’t find her; she’d been living in Atlanta of all places with Steffi’s sister and had gotten involved with a musician who had neglected to inform her he had a wife and kids in another state until they all showed up at his house one morning.

“Oh, honey, that’s awful.”

“I think my picker is broken, Jackie. I mean, I’m a magnet for these guys.”

“So, where’s your mom?”

“Steffi’s living on a boat in Florida with some old guy she met last summer. And Merilee? Have you seen her at all?”

“Merilee who?” I snorted.

I filled Nicole in on Daddy’s endeavors at the studio and Anna’s social life. Then I backtracked to Peter and my being fired from Circle.

“Wow, I had no idea.”

“Well, you must have read about it.”

“Well, yeah, of course. But, I mean, after all you did for them. What they put you through!”

Here was the sympathy I’d longed for, the understanding and appreciation. I wanted to throw my arms around her and never let go.

Saturday morning, Brett’s limo pulled into the driveway. He’d called on the way to say he wasn’t feeling well. I ran up to greet him with a glass of fresh orange juice and a smile that for once held no punishment for his having been away.

He waved me off and staggered past me into the house. “I’m freezing,” he croaked, getting into bed. “Do I have a fever?”

I felt his forehead. “You’re a little warm,” I said cheerfully, tucking him in.

“I feel like I’m going to die.” He pulled the comforter up around his neck and shivered.

“I’ll make you some soup,” I said, starting for the door.

“Ohhhh,” he whimpered. “Wait, Jackie. Can you hand me my script?” Brett waved one arm above the bedsheets. “I can’t reach it.”