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the Stairmaster, with the latest issue of Absolutely Fabulous propped in front of me for reading material, and Eminem’s anger blasting into my ear through my headphones. I look up and see Chad Milan, a talent agent I met like my second day in L.A.
    “Got any plans for tonight?” Chad asks, and I shake my head and remove my headphones, accepting the intrusion.
    “I had a really late night last night,” I say when I realize that it’s Saturday and Chad is about to jump to conclusions about my pathetic lack of a social life. “What about you?”
    “Dinner with Sam and the guys and then we’re going to Doug’s party in the hills,” he says. He references the party like he assumes I know about it, so I act like I do. Chad continues to talk to me about where they’re going to dinner (Woo Lae Oak) and why Doug’s having the party (he was just made VP at Warner Brothers), and I’m so busy wondering why I get invited to so few parties that I barely notice that Chad’s stopped talking and his face wears the expectant look of someone who’s just asked a question.
    “I’m sorry?” I ask.
    “I just asked if you’d want to go to dinner next Saturday.”
    I feel unprepared for the question, and immediately conflicted. I couldn’t in a thousand years see myself hooking up with Chad, but how the hell do I work that into a casual conversation? How come other women seem to know how to say, “Actually, I don’t see us having a romantic connection” or some such?
    “I’d love to,” I say. “That sounds great.” It occurs to me that maybe being taken out by a nice but dull agent may be exactly what I need. I don’t even think I’m lying to myself when I tell him that I’m looking forward to it as I leave the gym a few minutes later. I mean, that’s seven whole days from now , I think. Who knows how I might feel then?
    Even though working out usually enlivens me, I’m still sluggish after the gym, so I decide to stop by Kings Road for a cup of the strongest coffee in town. I notice Brian sitting at one of the café’s outdoor wooden tables as I approach the coffee shop.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. Brian lives in the Valley.
    He gestures to a tall, lean, adorable man with dark brown hair sitting with him. “Amelia Stone, Tim Bromley,” he says, and then adds, “Tim’s the editor of Chat , in from New York. And Amelia,” he turns to Tim and smiles, “well, you’ve just been hearing all about Amelia.”
    “Indeed I have,” Tim says in an upper-crust English accent as he shakes my hand, and I try to look completely cavalier. Chat is a sort of combination of Vanity Fair and what Playboy used to be, and it wins national magazine awards while also managing to have millions of readers. I know exactly who Tim Bromley is, though inconceivably the fact that he looks like a male model had never been made clear. And I certainly didn’t know that Brian knew him, or that one day I’d stumble upon them having coffee and apparently discussing me.
    “Uh-oh,” I say with what I hope is a charming smile. “Should I be worried?”
    “Not at all,” Tim says, as he pushes one of the iron chairs toward me and I flop into it. “Brian was simply telling me that you’re constantly regaling him with outrageous stories about your personal life.”
    “Oh, was he now?” I ask, mock angry but secretly thrilled. I know that I probably should feel betrayed because God knows I’ve told Brian some incredibly intimate things that I never imagined him passing along in casual coffee conversation but something about Tim is making me too thrilled with the attention to care. “What can I say?” I shrug. “They’re all true.”
    Tim smiles. “So have you gotten up to anything interesting lately?” he asks, and I find myself launching into the story of last night and Truth or Dare, complete with the details about the dick that was shoved in my face repeatedly, the girl-on-girl kiss, and the out-of-work actor