“Love you too.” I pressed the button. “Hello?”

“You are going back to work, my friend.”

“Penny?”

“I found the script, Jackie. It starts shooting on October sixth.”

“October?” I started sweating. That was six weeks away. I would have to lose fifteen pounds. Stop drinking. Get in shape. “Uh, great. What’s it about?” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Courtroom drama. Robert Verona is starring. You play a woman on trial for a murder she committed in self-defense. It’s a supporting role but we can showcase your talent. No nude scenes, no special effects. I have a firm offer. They’re sending over the script. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.”

I hung up the phone and turned to Nicole, who was drinking coffee at the kitchen counter and writing in the journal her therapist had told her to keep.

“I got a job.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nicky! Did you hear me?” I asked loudly.

“Yes! That’s great, Jax,” she said, matching my tone. She put down her pen and faced me. “Dr. Baxter thinks I should try this Prozac stuff everyone is raving about.”

“I hear you can’t have orgasms on it,” I said, annoyed.

“I could care less about sex.”

“You and Brett would make a great match. Anyway, they’re sending the script over. I don’t have to do it.”

Nicole snorted, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What? It’s not even a starring role.”

Nicole stared at me. I stared back. For the first time since she’d returned, I felt the old tension. Then she shook her head and chuckled. “I love you, Jackie, but you are such an idiot sometimes.”

INT. JACKIE AND BRETT’S HOUSE

DAY

1997

Jackie Gold Picked for Plum Spot in First Degree read the headline in the Hollywood Reporter. Jackie Gold Tapped for Upcoming Verona Pic ran on the front page of Variety.

Swanky Magazine wanted me for a photo spread to be shot by Jean-Marc Ricard, the famous French photographer. He’d photographed everyone from Jackie O to Meryl Streep. It was a great honor to be counted among his subjects.

With my publicist on maternity leave, the agency was sending her assistant. I vaguely remembered Edward, a harmless sycophant; balding, with a pudgy body and a shiny waxed face. He rushed into my house late, just as Jean-Marc, his translator Evette, and several other of the Swanky crew finished setting up in my living room.

“Edward, is that you behind those Foster Grants?” I joked. He wore wraparound shades and a silk Hawaiian shirt that hung considerably shorter in front of his egg-shaped frame. I took his hands in greeting. They felt like empty socks. We air-kissed.