Merilee was flushed and brimming with the manic energy that often arrives in one’s second trimester. She’d had a morning swim, and she and Sidney hadn’t fought all day. In the car on the way, he’d let her turn on KRLA and hadn’t complained or shushed her when she sang “Daydream Believer.” Now surveying the wealthy patrons who occupied the marble-floored, velvet-draped hall with its tall ceilings and ornate fixtures, she felt confident progress had been made. No one could accuse her of not blending in. Her hair was cut and blown dry in the most current style. She had on a new cocktail gown, the most expensive she could find that covered most of her chest, which, like the rest of her body, was getting larger by the day. She’d memorized every one of the wives’ names, their rank and file, plus who did their nails, cut their hair, and what their husbands did at the studio. She also knew from Sidney a few other things about the husbands that their wives didn’t know. But Merilee was not about to tattle. Besides, men needed recreation. Merilee understood all about that. She herself had once been the recreational type.

“Um, Rita? I was just saying—”

“Were you speaking to me?” Rita Sanderson blinked as if she had only just realized Merilee was there. She lay a slice of Brie on a cracker and slipped it neatly past her red lips, then shot a glance at her best friend, Marge Calloway, an athletic woman with cropped salt and pepper hair and large shoulders made larger by the unfortunate cut of her gown.

“Yes.” Merilee took a deep breath and reminded herself to stay steady. After all, Rita was old and probably hard of hearing. She leaned in closer. “I said I heard you bought a brand-new house.”

Rita shuffled back a step. “Yes, dear, we sold Roxbury and moved to the hills.”

A frosty woman on the eve of her second facelift, Rita Sanderson sat on the board of a dozen charities, and had neither time nor interest in befriending a young, naturally blonde, former waitress for God’s sake, even if she was married to Sidney Goldstein! The Sandersons were old money Republicans, along the lines of the Rockefellers or the Bloomingdales. It was alleged that Rita and Nancy Reagan were third cousins by marriage.

“I’d hardly call the house ‘brand new’ however,” Rita chortled.

“It was built by Chaplin,” Marge added.

“Is he the architect?” Merilee asked, munching rapidly on a carrot stick. The smell of the pâte was making her nauseous.

“Charlie Chaplin. You have heard of Charlie Chaplin, haven’t you?” Marge honked a laugh, gave her drink a swizzle, and made disbelieving eyes at Rita. Then she motioned across the room at her husband Gerald and mouthed, “More foie gras.”