I hadn’t told anyone about the letter, not even Nicole. I was ashamed. Ashamed that I had a mother who was such a mess, ashamed that it bothered me. Most of all I was ashamed because I was filthy, dirty rich, and I had no intention of sending her a penny. Let her suffer. She left me when I was eight years old, why should I take responsibility for her now? Let her find another lover to pay her rent. I am not her daughter anymore. I am a motherless child. It’s right to deny her. Karmic justice, some would say. Mirabelle living with her father was not a surprise. Good news, though it pricked my guilt about not contacting her.

“I see.” He took out his prescription pad and scribbled furiously. I must be getting an arsenal. I smiled to myself. Well, great. I could use a little time off before filming got underway, a nice period of bedrest enhanced by tranquilizers sounded lovely to me. I would emerge refreshed. He finished writing and handed me the paper.

The smile dropped off my face. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the name of a psychiatrist. He’s excellent. Happens to be my brother-in-law.”

A shrink? No way. Therapy might be working for Nicole, but I didn’t have time to go into my whole life with some stranger. Maybe one day but…

“Not now,” I told Dr. Koblin.

“Fine,” he said. “Bathe in Aveeno. The hives eventually go away on their own.” He headed for the door.

“Don’t I get a prescription or something?” I raised my voice a trifle hysterically. He kept walking.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT: HOSPITAL ROOM

DAY 50

She’s back.

Nicole closes the door and steps toward me, casting her shadow, blocking the sunlight, robbing me of my vitamin D. She wears a gray Armani suit and an apricot silk blouse tightly tucked into a pencil skirt. “Dressed to Kill” as they say. I can’t help but admire the presentation. Once I would have picked it out and bought it for her. Now I’d like to throw her out on her Jimmy Choo’s. I bet she was a hit with the paparazzi, swooping through the hospital doors, veiled behind her Gucci sunglasses, here for the Grand Goodbye.

I’m just dying to hear her apology.

She clears her throat. “I was thinking about our weekends at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

But first, ladies and gentlemen, one last trip down memory lane.

“Remember that time you got so drunk I put you in the shower and forgot to turn the water off and everything flooded, and we told your Dad and Anna the maids did it?”

Cue the shared laughter. Weren’t we just too much?