Everyone was going to walk out of this theater talking about Celia St. James. It should have made me afraid or jealous or insecure. I should have been plotting to one-up her in some way by planting a story that she was a prude or sleeping around. That is the fastest way to ruin a woman’s reputation, after all—to imply that she has not adequately threaded the needle that is being sexually satisfying without ever appearing to desire sexual satisfaction. But instead of spending the next hour and forty-five minutes nursing my wounds, I spent the time holding back a smile. Celia was going to win an Oscar. It was as plain as the nose on her face. And it didn’t make me jealous. It made me happy. When Beth died, I cried. And then I reached over Robert’s and Don’s laps and squeezed her hand. Don rolled his eyes at me. And I thought, He’s going to find an excuse to hit me later. But it will be for this. kk * I WAS STANDING in the middle of Ari Sullivan’s mansion at the top of Benedict Canyon. Don and I had made it up the winding streets without saying much of anything to each other. I suspected he knew the same thing I did once he saw Celia in that movie. That no one cared about anything else. After our driver dropped us off and we made our way inside, Don said, “I need to find the john,” and disappeared. I looked for Celia but couldn’t find her. Instead, I was surrounded by brown-nosing losers, hoping to rub elbows with me while they drank their sugary cocktails and talked about Eisenhower. “Would you excuse me?” I said to a woman in a hideous bubble cut. She was waxing on about the Hope Diamond. Women who collected rare jewels seemed exactly the same as men who were desperate to have just one night with me. The world was about objects to them; all they wanted to do was possess.