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one of her typical half-lies, but she just might get away with it if Selden didn’t get all excited and call her sister to congratulate her. And looking at his face, she saw that he did, indeed, appear to believe her . . .

“But that’s ridiculous,” he said, smiling tolerantly as he took a step toward her.

“She’s got months and months to be pregnant . . . You can go out there anytime.

We’ll
both
go . . . After we finish up this business . . .” Her face hardened in frustration and he must have caught her expression, because his eyes suddenly narrowed and he said: “Unless . . .”

“Unless, what?” she asked, keeping her attention on the pearls.

“Unless you’ve got something else in mind?”

“What on earth else could I have in mind?” she asked, frowning at him in anger. And then, unable to help herself, her glance automatically went to the invitation at her feet.

He saw it as well, and before she could get to it, he leapt forward and snatched it up in his hand.

Without saying a word, he looked at the cover and then opened it.

At first, the expression on his face registered incomprehension, and he stared back and forth from the invitation to Janey in confusion. Her only thought was that she must get that invitation, for at the bottom was written,
“Please present this invitation at the door. No exceptions”
; and if he ripped it up or threw it out the window, she wouldn’t have time to get another one, and then her whole life would be ruined.

Her entire future lay in that invitation, and looking at him she suddenly hated him with the fury of a small child toward a bigger, bullying sibling. She wished he were dead—she would have liked to kill him . . .

“Give it back!” she screamed.

He took a step away from her, holding the invitation aloft between his thumb and forefinger as if he were exhibiting the murder weapon before a jury. “An invitation?” he said roughly.

“What do you care?”

“You’d choose a party over our marriage?” he shouted threateningly.

“Why not?” Janey cried. “You were ready to choose your job over me . . .” For a moment, his eyes were wild with rage, and Janey let out a cry of fear, afraid of what he might do next. But then, as if he suddenly saw the truth in her words, his anger disappeared and he let out a heartbreaking moan of despair. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed like a puppet whose strings have suddenly been cut, his head sinking into his hands.

“An invitation,” he groaned mournfully, shaking his head. “An invitation to a party. It was only ever about that . . .”

Janey just looked at him.

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He raised his head and stared at her with damp eyes. “Everyone told me I should end it with you. But I didn’t want to. I still loved you . . .”

“Liar,” she hissed. And walking toward him, she held out her hand.

For a moment, he was confused. Was she making a conciliatory gesture? But then he saw that her eyes were on the invitation, that it was all she wanted from him now, and with a great, heaving sigh, he handed it to her.

She took it.

And with that gesture, he saw that he’d been completely wrong about her from the very beginning. She didn’t love him; she probably never had. It was always about the next best thing for her, and he’d been but a stepping-stone on her journey. If she had loved him, she would have stayed with him . . . She would have helped him and done what he’d asked and finished the screenplay. It was a test and she had failed . . .

And something inside him began to fight back. His pride rose up from the depths of his despair—and his proud male vanity finally kicked in. It was true what everybody said about her then, he thought—she was a whore—and he was lucky to be rid of her. And at last, with the understanding and relief that his own self-respect was bigger than hers was, he said: “It’s really over now, isn’t it.” His words were a statement rather than a question, and there was something so definitive in his tone that Janey turned back. No matter how terrible a marriage might be, no matter what egregious acts two people might perform upon each other, the fact remains that they once declared publicly that they loved each other.

Janey suddenly had a feeling of misgiving—as if now that he’d said it was over, she wasn’t sure that was exactly what she wanted. For a second, she hesitated. Was it really too late? Should she go to him and rip up the invitation herself, throw her arms around him and tell him she was wrong?

But as her eyes traveled over his face, she was consumed by a feeling of suffoca-tion. If she went to him, he would be all she had, and she knew that just he, alone, would never be enough. She would never be able to be her real self with him; he would always be judging her under the surface. He was pathetic and weak, he had nearly sold her out once, and certainly, he would do it again . . .

And in a voice that was so cold it chilled even herself, she said, “It was over a long time ago, Selden.”

She carefully placed the invitation in her jewel case. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was still sitting there, staring into space, and she gave him a look of annoyed disgust. Now that it was really over, she wished he would leave so that she could finish her packing—couldn’t he see that he was in the way?

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small, hard-sided Louis Vuitton carry-on. And as she did so, her eyes fell on the pink pages of her screenplay. In a moment of fury, she snatched them up, thinking that she might rip them in half.

But something stopped her. And pressing the pages flat, she placed them in the suitcase as well.

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“ what c an i get you?” the stewardess asked, leaning across the seat. “Champagne? Orange juice? Or something else?”

Janey was about to say “champagne,” but stopped herself. “Water please,” she said.

Instead of scurrying off to fetch her drink, however, the stewardess leaned in conspiratorially. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “I recognized you as soon as you came on board. And you don’t have to worry . . . ,” she said, glancing around as if photographers were about to jump out of the overhead compartments.

“I’ll make sure no one bothers you during the flight.”

“Thank you,” Janey said dismissively.

She buckled her seat belt and leaned her head back against the seat, exhaling a long sigh of relief.

She had just made the flight—the stewardess said she was the last one to board—and as she’d raced down the concourse, her big fear was that they might have given away her seat. But they hadn’t, and first class wasn’t nearly as full as she’d imagined it would be—she had the two seats next to the window to herself.

The explanation must be that most of the people who were going to the Academy Awards were already in Los Angeles, in order to attend the pre-Oscar parties. But that was okay, she thought, she’d be there next year, when she had more time to plan. And this way, her arrival at the
Vanity Fair
party would be a complete surprise, and wouldn’t jaws drop back in New York when they read the papers the next day . . .

“Here’s your water,” the stewardess said pleasantly, handing her a glass (and it 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 377

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was a real glass, too, she thought, because she was in first class) with the comforting logo of American Airlines etched on the side.

“Thank you,” Janey said politely.

She took a sip of water and carefully placed the glass on the little tray in the armrest. She would have preferred champagne, but she couldn’t take the chance of having her face swell up due to the combination of airtime and alcohol. She had to look absolutely stunning tomorrow night; she had to be a perfect beauty. Tomorrow night was her only chance now . . .

She took another sip of water and looked out the window at the men in orange uniforms loading the last pieces of luggage onto the plane. She should have had the champagne after all, she thought, especially as it was free. Or rather, she corrected herself,
especially
as she was paying for it.

She frowned and looked at her ticket, struck once again by the exorbitant fee for a one-way flight to Los Angeles: $5,000!

She would have flown business class to save $2,500, but she was too famous now. If someone on the plane reported back to the newspapers that she’d been seen in business, they would twitter with scorn.

Still, the cost of the ticket made her feel almost physically sick. Had she ever paid for her own plane ticket before? she wondered. This time she’d had no choice—while
Vanity Fair
had agreed to put her up at the Chateau Marmont for two nights, providing transportation to and from the airport and the party, they had refused to spring for airfare. She wouldn’t have minded so much if it weren’t for the fact that a week ago her Victoria’s Secret contract had been cancelled . . .

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the stewardess’s voice said over the loudspeaker.

“Captain has informed us that we’ve been cleared for departure. Please fasten your seat belts and turn your attention to the screen above you for some safety announcements.”

Janey glanced briefly at the flickering screen and yawned involuntarily. As if, she thought, anyone didn’t know how to fasten a seat belt . . .

And then she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, she suddenly jolted awake. And for a moment, she was uncertain as to her location . . .

And then she remembered: plane, Los Angeles,
Vanity Fair
Oscar party. She looked at her watch—four hours had passed! How had that happened? She usually could never sleep on a plane, but the last few weeks must have completely exhausted her.

Her throat was parched, and leaning across the aisle seat, she waved to the stewardess.

“Ah, you’re awake now,” the stewardess said, clucking over her like a mother hen. “You’ve missed the meal . . . I thought about waking you but I didn’t want to 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 378

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disturb you. Would you like something now? Cheese and biscuits perhaps, and maybe some red wine?”

“Just water, please,” Janey croaked.

And then, as the stewardess was handing her a bottle of Evian water and a glass, she heard the sound of a familiar male voice, coming from a few seats in front of her. “I want
Erin Brockovich,
” the voice demanded childishly—and Janey was suddenly struck by the incongruity of a man’s voice coupled with a child’s petulance.

It was really, she thought, incredibly unattractive.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the stewardess was saying, leaning over him. “But we only have three videocassettes and I’m afraid they’re all taken.”

“Well, search the plane!” the voice scolded, as if unable to comprehend why she hadn’t done this yet.

“I’m sorry, sir, but other passengers . . .”

“Tell one of them to give it back. Tell them it’s for
me
.” The stewardess sighed, and walked briskly to the back of first class, rolling her eyes in a huff. When she’d passed by, Janey rose slightly and peered over the top of her seat to the second row in front of her. Yes, she thought, she was right. She would recognize the top of that head with the three red hairs poking out anywhere: It was Comstock Dibble.

She sat back in her seat with a plop. Well! she thought. That was interesting.

He must be on his way to the Oscars, and undoubtedly he’d be at the
Vanity Fair
party afterward. It would take a lot more than paying women for sex and doctoring a few screenplays for him to be excluded from the party. He was a man, after all, and men in Hollywood could get away with anything . . .

He was even, she guessed, demanding
Erin Brockovich
to refresh his memory so that he would have something to talk about with Julia Roberts!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “We’re now flying over the Grand Canyon. And if you look to your right, you’ll see an amazing sunset . . .”

Janey was on the left side of the plane, so naturally, she couldn’t see it, she thought with some annoyance. She looked out the window anyway, but all she saw was a long stretch of red sand.

And then she heard, “Janey? Janey Wilcox?”

Oh Lord. What now? Janey thought. She turned and looked at the woman standing in the aisle next to her. The woman had somewhat the appearance of a transvestite, with a square mannish jaw and broad shoulders, coupled with excessively bleached hair and unnecessarily long red acrylic nails. “Don’t you remember me?” the woman rasped. Her voice sounded like she’d been up all night, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes.

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“Ah, Dodo,” Janey said, nodding coolly.

“Well!” Dodo exclaimed. “I have to say that I never expected to see you on this plane!”

Janey lifted her glass to her lips and gave Dodo a stiff smile. “Why shouldn’t I be on this plane?” she asked.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be,” Dodo said quickly, as if to cover up the implied insult. “Are you going to the Oscars?”

“Of course,” Janey said evenly. “Are you?”

“I’m covering it,” Dodo said, rolling her eyes. “But it’s such a pain—the network is making cutbacks, and they’ve eliminated first class from the budget. Which means that everyone, including the talking heads, has to fly business . . .”

“What a shame,” Janey said. Dodo, she thought, was such a bore. And in an effort to get rid of her, she said, “Well, I suppose I might see you at the
Vanity Fair
party then . . .”

“Oh!” Dodo said, raising her eyebrows. “Are you going to that, too?”

“Naturally,” Janey said. “I’ve been invited to the dinner.”

“Have you?” Dodo gasped. And then, as if this was too much to bear, she excused herself to go to the bathroom.