“You're going to win,” I said, pulling her toward me. “It isn’t even a contest.” “I might not. They might give it to Joy or to Ellen Mattson.” “They would no sooner give it to Ellen Mattson than throw it in the L.A. River. And Joy, bless her heart, is no you.” Celia blushed, put her head in her hands briefly, and then looked back at me. “Am I intolerable?” she said. “Obsessing over this? Making you talk to me about it? When you’re.. .” “On the skids?” “I was going to say blackballed.” “If you are intolerable, let me be the one to tolerate you,” I said, and then I kissed her and tasted the lemon juice on her lips. I checked my watch, knowing that hair and makeup would be there any moment, and grabbed my keys. She and I had been taking great pains not to be seen together. It was one thing when we really were just friends, but now that we had something to hide, we had to start hiding it. “T love you,” I said. “I believe in you. Break a leg.” When my hand turned the doorknob, she called to me. “If I don’t win,” she said, her wet hair dripping onto the spaghetti straps of her slip, “will you still love me?” I thought she was joking until I looked directly into her eyes. “You could be a nobody living in a cardboard box, and I'd still love you,” I said. I’d never said that before. I’d never meant it before. Celia smiled wide. “Me too. The cardboard box and all of it.” kk * HOURS LATER, BACK at the home I used to share with Don but now could say was entirely my own, I made myself a Cape Codder, sat on the couch, and tuned the TV to NBC, watching all my friends and the woman I loved walk the red carpet at the Pantages Theatre. It all seems much more glamorous on-screen. I hate to break it to you, but in person, the theater is smaller, the people are paler, and the stage is less imposing.