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fire.” Three takes of smoking, blackened bread, because Patrick was waxing poetic about his ex–mother-in-law and forgot to get the pan out of the oven.
    “What can I say; Dora means the world to me.” It’s true. Patrick’s ex-wife, Sharlene, would not piss on him if he were on fire. But her mom secretly stays in touch, and Patrick takes her to a special lunch once a year, and still sends her Mother’s Day cards, and fairly lavish birthday gifts, which I agonize over choosing for him. I think this has less to do with genuine affection for Dora and more with it being a wonderful way to send a big fat middle finger to his ex.
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Change of plans for the weekend. I’m going to head to New York to check in on the new place, and have some meetings.”
    Crap. I was so hoping to have a life this weekend, maybe brunch with the girls, some doggie-park time with Dumpling. My disappointment must show on my face.
    “No worries, pumpkin, going solo. You are off the hook for the next three days.”
    I can feel my entire spine relax. “Sure you don’t need me?” Please don’t need me please don’t need me …
    “I always need you, you are my right arm and my left lung and my middle testicle, but I’ll be okay for one little weekend in New York.” The little smirk playing around the corner of his mouth tells me all I need to know. In New York will be a new set of Legs, making my presence both unnecessary and unwelcome. Which is fine by me.
    “Well, you and your testicles behave yourself and leave the city standing. Stealth me if you need anything.” Patrick and I have a private instant-messaging system on both of our iPhones, which he calls “stealthing.” The messages don’t get stored on any system and cannot be hacked. It is almost CIA-presidential. But when you are a celeb and
Us Weekly
pays abundle for text messages and e-mails of a private nature, you get a little paranoid.
    Patrick wipes the last of the cream off his face, and stands up, with his traditional kissing of the top of my head. I know he thinks it is a big-brotherly type of affectionate display, but frankly it always feels a little condescending. And reminds me that I am only five three. It doesn’t bother me enough to ask him to stop, since I’ve experienced the alternative, which is his signature kiss on the inside of the wrist. He takes your hand and then turns it over, kissing you right where your hand meets your arm. It makes you all tingly in your girl parts, completely beyond your conscious control, which utterly wigs me out. It’s like having a random sex dream about Dick Cheney. You know consciously that it doesn’t mean you actually find him attractive in any way, but you still feel like you want to take a Silkwood shower when you wake up.
    “You put some weekend in your weekend, kitten. We have a big week next week.”
    “We always have a big week. Do you need me to make any arrangements?” Patrick’s executive assistant, Andrea, usually does travel booking, but she has been out all week with a horrible flu. The one unbreakable rule on Team Patrick is that the moment you feel like your health is going round the bend, you call in and stay away. We work too closely together, for too many hours, with too little ventilation to let anyone sick, even with just the sniffles, come in to work. If you are able to be available on computer and phone, great, but keep your in-person germs to yourself. There is an industrial-size pump jar of Purell around every corner, Airborne and Vitamin C lozenges and zinc tablets on the craft service table, and our crew washes hands like the set is anoperating theater. But with this kind of diligence, we have not had the kind of crud that so often sweeps through a whole team. And because Patrick insists on contracts being very generous about paid sick days, including days to take care of spouses or children who are sick, no one takes advantage.
    “I was a big boy and made my own