“And now, the moment you have been waiting for . . . Mick Talford and his producer, Paul Peterson.” The Academy president gestured to the wings, where they were waiting.

“It’s showtime,” Peterson said, slinging a sweaty arm companionably around Mick’s shoulders. “Let’s go do the old razzle-dazzle, my friend.”

Mick took a breath, as if about to plunge into an ice-cold pond, donned the bad-boy Mick Talford swagger and attitude that felt like an ill-fitting suit, and then strode out into the bright lights and onto the stage.

3

“Rachel . . .” The woman at the employment agency glanced down at the form on her clipboard. “Jones?”

Sarah got to her feet. “Yes,” she said. “That would be me.”

“I’m Ellen Davis. This way, please.”

Sarah followed the woman into her office, mouth dry.

Ms. Davis flipped to the next page on her clipboard. Sarah could see over her shoulder that the woman was now reading the fake CV and reference letters Sarah had typed and printed at the public library that morning.

“Have a seat.” Ms. Davis gestured to a chair in front of her desk as she rounded it and sat down.

As Sarah sat, she surreptitiously slid her palms down along her thighs so the black dress pants could erase the slight dampness before clasping her hands in her lap.

The woman flipped to the last page, scanned it, then placed the clipboard on the desk in front of her. “Everything seems in order,” she said. “Your scores on the technical skills test were quite impressive. I don’t foresee a problem getting you placed. What sort of hours are you interested in working?”

“I’m pretty flexible. And it doesn’t have to be office work. Basically, I’ll take whatever job you have available.”

“Nights? Weekends? Long hours okay?”

“Sure.”

“Huh . . . Interesting. Actually—” Ms. Davis’s fingers rapped a quick staccato on the desk as if she were playing descending scales on the piano.

“But I’m not interested in stripping or escort work or anything like that,” Sarah hastily added. This was Hollywood after all. Best to make sure the woman hadn’t gotten the wrong idea.

Ms. Davis didn’t look up, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Of course. Not to worry. We don’t handle that kind of ‘work placement.’ ” Then she swiveled slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, focused on her computer screen. “Ah! Here we go.” A huff of air that could have been laughter escaped her lips. “Well . . . it’s worth a try,” she murmured. “Lord knows, he’s burned his way through all my other options.” Her birdlike gaze moved away from the screen to settle on Sarah’s face, taking in the dark-rimmed glasses. Luckily, the woman’s perusal didn’t linger on the mousy brown hair Sarah had re-dyed in the bathroom sink of the motel room last night.