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set.
    “Okay, Stan,” she said, pointing to the sink. “Hop in.”
    “Me? Why me?”
    “Because we need a man-sized butt. And when last I looked you were the only man in the room.”
    She shot him a look of steel. But surprisingly enough, Stan stood his ground.
    “I’m not getting in there. You know I’ve got a bad back. Why can’t one of the girls do it?”
    Audrey turned and looked at us appraisingly. Kandi, with her size 6 tush, was quickly eliminated. Audrey gave my derriere the once-over. Apparently, it met her standards for a man-sized butt.
    “Jaine,” she smiled icily, “would you mind?”
    “Of course I’d mind. That sink doesn’t look big enough to hold a crockpot. The last thing I want to do is humiliate myself by trying to jam my butt into it.”
    Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was, “No problem.”
    I hauled myself up onto the kitchen counter, beginning to wonder if that beach house in Malibu was worth it. Dear God, I prayed as I lowered my butt into the sink, please let it fit .
    And, I’m happy to report, it did.
    Thank you, God , I said wordlessly. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you—
    Then, somewhere around the seventh thank-you, I began to hear a faint groaning sound.
    “What’s that noise?” Audrey asked.
    Oh, good Lord. The sink was about to collapse. It would be all over the studio by tomorrow: Jaine Austen sat in Muffy’s sink and broke it! This would be the most humiliating event of my life. I could see the headlines in Variety . Big Butt Sinks Sink!
    The groaning grew louder now, and I scrambled to get out of the sink before any more damage was done.
    “It’s coming from over there,” Audrey said, pointing down to the other end of the stage.
    Flooded with relief, I realized Audrey was right. The groaning wasn’t coming from the sink, after all.
    I lowered myself back onto terra firma and followed the others as Audrey led the way to the other end of the stage.
    As we walked, the sounds of the salsa music grew louder. And it soon became clear that the groans were not coming from an inanimate object, but from a human being: A man, in the throes of passion. We walked past the living room set, down to where Muffy’s bedroom was nestled in a remote corner of the stage. As we got closer to the bedroom, we could hear the breathy whimpers of a woman in ecstasy.
    We peeked around the wall separating Muffy’s bedroom from the living room set.
    And there on top of the pink chenille bedspread, surrounded by an audience of stuffed animals, Quinn Kirkland was doing to Vanessa Duffy what the network was about to do to Dale Burton.

Chapter Five

    T alk about your embarrassing moments. What exactly are you supposed to do when you walk in on two people boffing like crazed rabbits? The only polite thing to do, I guess, is walk back out again. But we all just stood there, frozen, staring at Quinn’s tanned tush as it bobbed up and down on top of Vanessa like an overheated piston.
    Vanessa lay there, her long blond hair splayed out on the pillow, moaning in what I suspected was fake ecstasy. I don’t know about you, but the last time I was in the throes of passion (some time in the McKinley administration), I didn’t lie there with my eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Which is what Vanessa was doing. Oh, sure, she was moaning stuff like Oh, Quinn, baby, give it to me , but I had the feeling it was just another acting job, and not a very good one at that.
    Somewhere in the middle of her performance, her eyes wandered over in our direction.
    “Oh, shit,” she said. “We’ve got company.”
    Quinn looked over his shoulder and saw the four of us standing at the foot of the bed. He was uncomfortable for about a nanosecond; then he quickly regained his composure.
    “Guess that’s a wrap, Vanessa,” he said, climbing off her perfect body and reaching for his briefs, not the least bit perturbed.
    “Quinn!” Audrey gasped. “How could you?”
    There was