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friendly smile, fighting down the sense of being the most unpopular girl in the playground. Would that she had the Gap T-shirt too.
    “Oh, we both work at—”
    “We’re actresses,” snapped the other. They, like the T-shirts, were almost spookily identical: big breasts, tiny hips, long blond hair, brown pencil outlining their glossed collagen pouts. The only difference was that one was much prettier than the other.
    “Actresses! Wow,” said Olivia.
    “I’m Demi,” said the less pretty one. “This is Kimberley. Where are you from?”
    “England.”
    “England. Is that London?” said Kimberley. “I want to go to London.”
    “You’re lucky, living here.”
    “We don’t live in Miami, we’re just visiting. We’re from LA. Well, not from LA.”
    “My family’s part Italian, part Romanian and part Cherokee,” explained Kimberley.
    “Olivia,” she said, shaking hands and feeling awfully English. “So you’re just visiting? Are you working here?”
    “No,” said Kimberley airily, pulling at her jeans. “Pierre just flew us over for the launch.”
    “Generous guy.”
    “Yes. Are you an actress?” said Kimberley suspiciously. “Do you know him from Paris?”
    “Can’t act for toffee. I only met him last night. I’m a journalist.”
    “Oh. My. God. Which magazine are you from?”
    “ Elan .”
    “ Elan? That’s British Elan, right? You should come to LA. You should give us a call. You could maybe do a profile on us.”
    “Okay,” Olivia said, taking her little book out of her bag, hiding the survival tin. “What’s the number?”
    The two girls looked at each other.
    “Actually we’re between addresses at the moment,” said Demi.
    p. 37 “But you can reach us through Melissa. You know, who does Pierre’s PR.”
    “Or you can ring us at work, at the Hilton.”
    Kimberley looked furiously at Demi. “We’re just working there temporarily,” she said sharply, “to keep us busy between auditions and rehearsals.”
    “Of course. Which Hilton?”
    “The Beverly Hilton?” said Demi eagerly. “On Santa Monica and Wilshire? Where they hold the Golden Globes? I usually get to host the ladies’ powder room during the Globes. It’s awesome: four makeup stations, every kind of perfume. All the big stars come in for touch-ups: Nicole Kidman, Courteney Cox, Jennifer Connelly, you get to meet them close up.”
    Oh, for God’s sake. Osama bin Ferramo indeed. He was just a playboy . . .
    “Wow. What’s Nicole Kidman like?” said Olivia.
    “Oh my God,” said Demi, hand to her heart.
    “But actually”—Kimberley leaned forward conspiratorially—“we’re going to be starring in the movie Pierre’s producing. You’ve heard about that . . .”
     . . . a cynical playboy, playboying on the dreams of innocent little wannabes.
    “May I interrupt you, ladies?”
    Olivia turned. A short man had joined them, dark chest hair protruding from a yellow polo shirt. The chest hair, like the hair on his head, was very tightly curled, like pubic hair. He smelled of nasty sweet perfume. He held out his hand, glancing at her breasts. “Hi, baby. Alfonso Perez. And you are . . .”
    “Olivia Joules,” she said coldly. “I met Pierre last night at the Devorée launch.”
    “Ah yes. And you are an actress too? Perhaps we can find a role for you?” He had a thickly accented voice with heavily rolled r s.
    “No, thanks. I can’t act my way out of a paper bag.”
    “That’s funny,” said Kimberley. Why did Americans say “That’s p. 38 funny?” They said it instead of laughing, as if funniness were something you observed from afar rather than something you participated in.
    “Really, Ms. Joules? You do not wish to be an actress?” It was Ferramo.
    There was a collective intake of breath from Demi and Kimberley. They gazed, lip-lined pouts momentarily ajar. Pierre Ferramo’s legs were encased in neatly pressed blue jeans. His shoulders looked broad in a soft gray cashmere