Mick followed the publicist in her gray suit, who murmured into her mouthpiece, “I’ve got Talford. Heading your way.” They ducked through the thick velvet curtain at the back. A male publicist was waiting by a door with a big grin on his face. “Fantastic movie, sir. Great job!” He saluted Mick as he opened the door, then stood at attention, his skinny chest puffed out as if Mick were a five-star general. Mick nodded his thanks as they hurried by, his mouth dry. He hated the aftermath of movie screenings, having to go on a stage, try to sound intelligent, answer idiotic questions. The door closed behind them, and for a split second he was tempted to stay there, in that dark corridor that would lead to the backstage of the theater. Better yet, he glanced at the red glowing emergency exit sign. He could sneak out now, go to Musso and Frank Grill, sit in a booth in the back, have a glass of wine, slather their delicious sourdough bread with butter, and dig into a chicken pot pie.

Mick trailed his fingertips along the metal push bar on the door as they passed the exit, longing to run.