The lucky bastard. Only in the last year did she realize what a gift she’d given Ted by letting him contend solely with his artistic vision. She’d seen up close the way his talent doubled between the first two films. And there’d been so many films since then, nearly one a year. His set pieces were better now, his visual grammar sharper, his understanding of the interplay of light and sound that much deeper. That focus of his, really, was what she’d wanted when she’d hired Alicia. She’d wanted a partner to back her up, tracking all the names so that she would be free to be simply the director, the one with the vision. But she couldn’t afford that level of service. She’d have to nudge herself.

The night of The Starfighter premiere, she’d nudged Ted in the side as Jerry lingered at the door to the Chateau Marmont. “Go,” she’d whispered into her martini, telling him with her eyes to kiss the ring. Ted had shuffled toward his honored guest, shoulders round, fingertips trailing. He still hadn’t learned how to stand up straight, how to hold the heat of a moment inside himself. It didn’t matter. The party’s center of gravity had shifted from the balcony to the bar in the living room, where multiple assistants rushed to get both men a drink.

Phoebe had been grateful to be left alone then on the balcony. She’d looked out at the lights across the city. That gorgeous night—why couldn’t she enjoy it? It was her achievement as much as Ted’s. She should have been flying. She should have been snorting a line of coke off the banister or giggling in the ear of someone important. Instead, she felt stuck like that beat-up hatchback down below, stalled at a red light.

And then suddenly, she had company. She turned around and there was Jerry, assistant in tow, reaching into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He flicked his eyes at the door and the assistant scattered.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Jerry said, though they’d hardly spoken before. It was the first time they’d been alone together.

“Thank you,” Phoebe said. The red dress was so tight you could see her belly button, but the girl in the store had sworn it was a perfect fit. Phoebe had paid full price for it at the Beverly Center, not realizing the designer would have loaned it to her if he’d known where she was wearing it, and with whom.

“I like your suit,” she said to Jerry to repay the compliment. It might have been the same dark suit he always wore. Phoebe felt as if she’d congratulated a number two pencil for being yellow.

“What are you out here for? It’s your movie, too, right?”

“Are you here to congratulate me?” she asked.