Heading back to my office after my yogurt break, I passed a framed cover of TV Guide from earlier in the month. “Maggie Black” was the cover story. Haley Caldwell, the actress who played Maggie on Flesh and Bone, was posed as provocatively as possible for a TV coroner who was dressed in something she would wear to perform an autopsy. She stared out at me, and with her dark hair and blue eyes, even I had to admit there was a bit of a resemblance between us. I’d already taken a lot of shit when the article came out, because TV Guide had taken some behind-the-scenes photos for the story and run a shot of me working with the other writers with the caption “Maggie Black’s alter ego?” That probably earned me a couple of extra twigs in Evil Janet’s coffee can.

Haley did look great on the cover. The network was always trying to get us to sex her up. We’d get notes like, “Can’t she dress a little fleshier?” But there were only so many scenes you could write about finding dead bodies on the beach that would necessitate “Maggie” wearing a tank top on the job.

Haley was a typical actress success story; she had toiled away for years on daytime television, which led to a role as “the best friend” on a hit sitcom. She thought she would forever be designated the best friend, the Rhoda. But then she had a brow lift, full body lipo, a chemical peel, and hair extensions (the best extensions, the kind made from the hair of virgins in India). Haley was her very own episode of Extreme Makeover. Her publicist attributed her metamorphosis to her macrobiotic diet and her newfound devotion to Ashtanga Yoga.

Haley was cool, although she had her diva moments; after all, she was a star and this show made millions for the network. We just had to be careful with close-ups right after her regular Botox, collagen, and Restylane injections. The bruises would read on camera for an entire week.

Back at my desk, I started trying to make the normal chaos of my work space not so embarrassing. I thought about calling Dave to see where he was, but restrained myself, because a third call was just plain desperate.

I tried to focus at the computer screen, feeling tired and overwhelmed.

“Hi, princess.” Azita poked her head in the doorway. “Did you see that sick T-shirt of Tommy’s?”

I rolled my eyes. “I know. Sick.”

“Well, besides that . . . Look who I found!” she trumpeted, pulling Dave by the hand into my office.

“Hey, baby. You ready?”