bx GOING OUT ON A date with Mick Riva.” “Like hell you are.” When Celia was angry, her chest and her cheeks flushed. This time, they’d grown red faster than I’d ever seen. We were in the outdoor kitchen of her weekend home in Palm Springs. She was grilling us burgers for dinner. Ever since the article came out, I’d refused to be seen with her in Los Angeles. The rags didn’t yet know about her place in Palm Springs. So we would spend weekends there together and our weeks in L.A. apart. Celia went along with the plan like a put-upon spouse, agreeing to whatever I wanted because it was easier than fighting with me. But now, with the suggestion of going on a date, I’d gone too far. I knew I'd gone too far. That was the point, sort of. “You need to listen to me,” I said. “You need to listen to me.” She slammed the lid of the grill shut and gestured to me with a pair of silver tongs. “I'll go along with any of your little tricks that you want. But I’m not getting on board with either of us dating.” “We don’t have a choice.” “We have plenty of choices.” “Not if you want to keep your job. Not if you want to keep this house. Not if you want to keep any of our friends. Not to mention that the police could come after us.” “You are being paranoid.” ‘Tm not, Celia. And that’s what’s scary. But I’m telling you, they know.” “One article in one tiny paper thinks they know. That’s not the same thing.” “Youre right. This is still early enough that we can stop it.” “Or it will go away on its own.”