“I’m ever so sorry. I got waylaid at Faaarrah’s,” Edward sighed. His breath smelled rancid like fruity wine. “I’m stressing! Pleeease tell me there are no problems?” He surveyed the room. Camera equipment was splayed over tarp-covered rugs. A red vinyl backdrop had been erected in one corner.

“Um, well,” I pulled Edward to the side and lowered my voice. “Jean-Marc is set on my wearing this teensy silver lamé number, and I think it’s wrong for the image I’m projecting.”

“Why don’t you slip it on and let us have a look.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Sweetums, no one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But you don’t want them to think you’re difficult, do you?”

He had struck at my professional jugular. “No, of course not.”

“Have you a bar in this palace?”

I pointed to the corner of the living room.

“Love the white on white, by the way. Very Old Hollywood. Oh hello, bonjour, everyone!” Edward mingled his way to the bar while I ducked behind the shoji screen the stylist had placed by the piano. I stepped into the skimpy silver dress, aided by Gwen, a young, prodigiously competent wardrobe assistant.

“Aggh, it’s too tight,” I complained, as she struggled with the zipper. I’d been juice fasting for three days with no visible results except an increasingly bad temper.

“We have a girdle,” Gwen said, dumping a steaming heap of Miracle Grow on my already massive insecurities.

“A-a girdle?” I sputtered. “I don’t need a fucking girdle.”

Through the shoji panels, the shadows of Jean-Marc and Edward parried back and forth in intense conversation. If only Brett was here to charm everyone. He’d left that morning for Burbank Studios to do voice-overs for Patches and Pistols. “Sugar catches more flies than vinegar,” Brett always said. In my hands, the situation was fermenting.

Gwen gave another pull at the zipper.

“Ow! You're pinching me,” I snapped.

“Soreee.” Gwen flinched, her cheeks flushing.

I sucked in my stomach, held my breath, and squirmed, wriggling back and forth as Gwen tugged the zipper over my hips. At last, she yanked the bottom of the micro-mini down until it rested at the top of my thighs.

“There!” Gwen exclaimed, victorious. She placed a pair of five-inch silver stilettos by my feet. I stepped into them and turned to the mirror. I resembled a magician’s assistant.

Jean-Marc, Edward, and the Swanky team swiveled as I hobbled out into the living room.

“Do a twirl,” Edward said with a slurp on his scotch. He motioned a circle with his index finger.

I twirled. “Ghastly, right? No offense, Jean-Marc.”

“And no offense to you, dear one,” Edward said, “but I think you look deee-vine.”

“C’est bon,” said Evette, the translator.

“Voila!” Jean-Marc said, clapping his hands.

The makeup and hair team descended on me, powdering, combing, pinning.