The bartender offered to pour me a glass and I nodded for him to go ahead. I cast my eyes over Troy’s shoulder and around the room. The restaurant was beautiful, with linen tablecloths and candles everywhere and soft lighting. Even on a Saturday night, the place seemed empty, with only a few couples scattered among the tables. Maybe I should call it more intimate than empty. There were no windows. I had expected there to be a great ocean view. I reminded myself that the actual ocean was blocks away from this location, even if it was on Ocean Drive. Go figure! I saw that all the tables featured very cute salt and pepper shakers. I was glad my purse was big enough to accommodate them when I left.

“Hey,” Troy began. “I didn’t want to call and cancel on you, so I thought I’d show up early. I was hoping maybe we could skip dinner . . . because I have to go take care of this work problem.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We’re just having this issue with the new pages for a script, and one of the actors isn’t happy. There’s this fund-raiser over at Brian Robinson’s house, and I was thinking if we swung by there and made an appearance I could take care of it. Then we can bail and the night is ours.”

“Oh, okay, sure. I understand.” I was so disappointed. I wanted those salt and pepper shakers, but I took his not canceling the entire date as a sign that he wanted to see me.

“I’ll drive, and we’ll only go for a little bit, I promise,” he said.

“It’s no problem. I bet it will be great,” I added, trying to be cheery. Maybe it was for the best that this was going to be a spur-of-the-moment kind of plan; I’d already worked myself up about the dinner date. Knowing I was going to a party would have sent me over the edge.

It wasn’t far from Santa Monica to the huge Palisades home of the Robinsons. Brian Robinson had made his mark producing commercial holiday movies and summer blockbusters as well as an Oscar-winning film the previous year. I’d seen him having lunch at the Ivy, at the number one table inside, the week after he won the Oscar. Well-wishers were lined up out the door to kiss the ring, Hollywood style.

In the Robinsons’ brightly lighted driveway Troy pulled up to the valet parking, which I saw was being handled by Valet of the Dolls, babes in shorts running up and down the hill parking cars. We got out and headed to the massive stacked-stone entranceway. Party talk buzzed from inside. Troy didn’t bother ringing the bell; he comfortably opened the front door.