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therapy). SportsClub L.A. was the place for the rich and famous to get their workout on. A membership to one of the guilds might be the first thing the Hollywood hangers-on might buy when they started working, but a membership to SportsClub L.A. was the first thing they bought when they made it big. The high access fees essentially acted as a kind of prescreener for high-income dating, which was why Bijoux suggested they give it a go.
    Obviously crashing SportsClub L.A. on day passes was not something Bijoux was in the habit of doing herself, but luckily it was exactly the sort of thing Marianne got her kicks from. So there they were, grinding away on the old bicycles, trying to achieve the classic disinterested L.A. glaze of one who couldn’t be bothered. Of course, it was difficult to look disinterested when, in fact, one was keenly interested and having difficulty preventing oneself from blatantly gawking as known personages passed to and fro.
    Marianne had set her tension to something like a billion, which meant that while doing a loose interpretation of the Tour de France mountain-climb leg, her legs were hardly moving at all. Conversely, Bijoux had gone the opposite route, setting her tension to zero, which had her legs cycling practically out of control. Both methods allowed the girls to keep up pretenses while exerting as little physical activity as possible in lieu of focusing more on the mental activity of scoping out potential dates.
    â€œDon’t look right away,” Marianne hissed, “but I think that’s Jack Nicholson over there doing squats. About two o’clock.” Bijoux might be pretty much used to seeing A-list celebrities from her time on the benefit circuit, but Marianne was still a total fangirl.
    Bijoux took a casual peek. “That can’t be Jack Nicholson. If that’s really him . . . well, he’s so much . . . so much . . . wider than he used to be.” She shrugged and continued scoping the rest of the clientele.
    â€œThis place is unbelievable,” Marianne said, trying not to look like she was staring at Jack Nicholson’s gut. “Where’d you score the passes?”
    â€œI swapped a favor with Mrs. Keegan. I promised—oh, I think that’s Brooke Shields in the doorway, there—I promised I’d pet her new Persian for forty-five minutes while she’s out of town tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard correctly.” Bijoux rolled her eyes in a most world-weary way. “I’ve got to pet her cat. She says he’s skittish and needs a comforting human touch to help him acclimate.”
    â€œThat’s so L.A. Why doesn’t she just hire someone to do it?”
    â€œI don’t know, but I don’t plan to suggest it. I wouldn’t have anything to swap for the passes, would I? Do you realize a person could bask in a life of luxury in this place without ever having to go outside? I mean, they have it all here. Fine dining, hair-replacement therapy . . . I’m willing to bet we could get BOTOX shots at the smoothie bar—
    â€œOooh-oooh, five thirty, olive skin,” Marianne hissed.
    Bijoux perked up and swiveled around, her body swaying precariously as she began to pedal with even greater vigor. Within a few seconds, however, her shoulders sagged as she came back around and she gave Marianne a look. “Totally gay.”
    Marianne reexamined the prospect. “Oh. Oh, yeah. I guess the singlet is kind of a giveaway.”
    â€œUm, yeah. ”
    â€œOh! Oh! Nine forty-five!”
    Bijoux swiveled . . . and slumped. “Wedding ring . . . cute tracksuit, though.”
    â€œNoon o’clock. Quick!”
    Bijoux snapped her head up, squinted, and gave Marianne a horrified look. “TAG Heuer, yes, but gender category uncertain.”
    â€œJust testing you.”
    â€œNo more false alarms. My neck is killing me.”
    For