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wasn’t important enough to have a permanent notation in her mental date book.
    Mrs. Rosenthal led me down the hallway, past the decorator perfect formal living room, through the cavernous family room with state-of-the-art audio-visual system, and out to the party in the backyard. It was nice to know that all of my hard work had paid off for someone, although I would’ve preferred that someone be me.
    Mrs. Rosenthal pointed me in the direction of the bar and said, “Why don’t you get yourself a cocktail, honey, and mingle.”
    I turned around to thank her, but she’d already moved on.
    I waited at the bar for my cranberry martini and admired her handiwork. It really was impressive, especially since she’d pulled it together on such short notice. The theme was Casino Night and she’d created Vegas in L.A. under a huge, white tent. She’d placed a roulette wheel in the center, ringed by poker and blackjack tables, flanked by double rows of slot machines on both sides. All that was missing was the chain-smokers and the busloads of senior citizens.
    * * *
    I’d given my order to a female bartender, but it was a male bartender that handed me my drink. “Hi there,” he said.
    I said hello back. He was cute, but almost certainly a wannabe. All of the waiters and bartenders in L.A. were wannabes—want to be actors, writers, directors, or some combination of the three. After wasting six years with Scumbag, I’d sworn off wannabes. This time around I was only going to date “be’s.”
    “This outfit suits you much better than the last one,” the bartender continued.
    “Excuse me?” I replied.
    “You don’t remember me, do you?”
    I stared at the man in front of me. He was a head taller than me, with hair a shade lighter than black, and blue eyes that practically glowed in the dark. I would remember someone with eyes like those. He looked a little familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, “you’re going to have to give me a hint.”
    Before the bartender could respond, Rosenthal came up and put his arm around me. “C’mon,” he said, steering me towards the center of the tent where the hundred-plus guests were congregated. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
    “Bruce, I was talking to someone.”
    “You can flirt with the bartender later. I want you to meet Mark Parsons. He’s the general counsel for Rosebud Productions.”
    I knew the name. Rosebud was one of the largest independent production companies in Hollywood. Their last three films were big box-office hits and they were riding high, for the moment at least.
    “What do you want me to do?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Rosenthal wanted me to flirt with Mark Parsons. It was the only reason he ever introduced the female lawyers to his clients.
    * * *
    Mark Parsons looked like a younger version of Rosenthal. Medium height, medium build, and dark hair sprinkled with gray. I guessed he was in his mid-forties. He was standing next to a very tall, very pregnant blond woman who looked like she was in her mid-twenties.
    Rosenthal put his hand on Mark’s back. “This is Julia Burns,” Rosenthal said, “one of our senior associates.” Rosenthal was the only person besides my mother who ever called me Julia.
    Mark Parsons introduced himself and the blond standing next to him as his wife, Natasha. Rosenthal left us and I attempted to schmooze, but I’m just not that good at it. Mark dutifully answered all of my questions about Rosebud, their past successes, and what films they had in the pipeline, while scanning the room for faces he knew. Luckily, he found one at about the same time I ran out of things to say. Mark excused himself to greet someone else, leaving Natasha with me.
    I was relieved, although I must’ve looked concerned, because Natasha said, “Don’t worry, you did fine. He’s just working the room.”
    I nodded. I wanted to bolt too, but I felt obligated to stay and chat with the wife of