“Well, when I saw the article, I waited until he was in the bathroom and then I tore out the pages of the more attractive women. I didn’t want him to be leafing through that thing and all of a sudden become smitten with some beautiful artist he thought would understand him in a way that I don’t.”

“Lauren, I know I can be a bit crazy . . . but that’s crazy!” I felt an embarrassing sense of triumph.

“I know.” She laughed. “But why put that temptation in front of him when I know it’s one of his ‘things’?” she asked, emphasizing “things” with her fingers. “Want to know how I keep him?” she asked.

I smiled. “How do you keep him?”

“Well, you know he eats guacamole every night, and he loves to mash up the avocados very precisely. It’s like some kind of therapy for him when he’s home after a hard day being an independent film-maker.”

I nodded.

“Well, every few days, I put a little crushed-up Viagra in there, and then we fuck like rabbits.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me with that one.” That was one for the record book. I thought Lauren was my Sane Friend.

“I know.” She grinned. “He thinks it’s all me . . . and I let him.” She finished pouring the wine.

“Cheers to that,” I said, and we touched glasses, then burst out laughing.

It was a fun night, but when I drove home my heart started racing as I approached the turn for Beachwood Canyon. Unable to resist, I turned right, following Beachwood as it wound up through the hill to Dave’s house. It was a moonless night, so I felt I wouldn’t be conspicuous—I’d do one quick pass in front of his house and be out of there. From the stop sign on the corner, I could see that his VW wasn’t in the covered driveway. Dave was out again, or maybe he was just shooting late that night. I allowed myself to drive past his house and make a U-turn a few houses down. Swinging back around, I slowed to just over five miles an hour as I cruised by the front of his place. The inside was dark, the way it had been before, but in the middle of the window I could make out a beautiful potted orchid, prominently set on a small table. Dave wasn’t into orchids, so I thought that was odd. Maybe it was a corporate gift someone from the network had sent him, or maybe it was a gift from a girl and he felt obligated to display it.

Giving the orchid one last look, I gunned the gas to go home.

TWELVE

TWELVE

It took another two weeks for me to be rewarded for putting myself “out there,” with a voice mail from Mr. Katz, the Simpsons writer.